A/N: I know, I know. I've promised to upload so much stuff and instead I upload this. But this is really old and I found it saved in forgotten folders. This doesn't belong to me at all; I gain nothing from writing this.

Whenever winter comes around, I'm sure the Master's gonna forget about me again. A whole season where I'm left to occupy myself, and the Master's fingers go reaching for the knob on the space heater instead. I've been working for the Master for years, and yet whenever I see him heading for the closet where he keeps his sweaters and coats, I know the off-season is coming and that stupid little box on the floor's gonna steal my spotlight.

Fuck that guy. Who needs a heater? It can't do anything that the blankets can't do. That's basically all it is. An expensive, glorified blanket. But my job, well, there's just nothing that can replace an air conditioner on a hot summer day. That's when the Master comes up to me, sometimes slippery with sweat and wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, other times with a towel wrapped around his waist and drenched in chlorinated water fresh from the swimming pool. He doesn't even have to touch my dials to get me worked up – just the site of him in ecstasy, standing half-dressed before me with his eyes closed, a hand in his hair, his lips parted just slightly so he can breathe in my cold, crisp air... A blanket can't do that, and a heater sure as Hell can't either.

So even though I'm a bit jealous when winter shows up – yeah, I admit it, I can be jealous sometimes – I just watch the Master all bundled up and shivering whenever he goes to that idiotic box, looking miserable and irritated. You can't even see his lithe frame under all those furs and layers. His skin doesn't have that sun-kissed glow anymore. The heater sure ain't gettin' a peep show like me, either. I should pity the little guy, I suppose.

I go through the cycle of trying to convince myself this stuff. But it doesn't change the fact that the Master wants the space heater sometimes. And that maybe, just maybe, he needs the space heater. So it worries me. Gets me worked up. And then I start thinking that maybe spring will never come, and maybe even when it does come, the Master won't use me again. If money got tight, would he keep me?

I'm musing on all this stuff one glum winter morning, staring across the room at the heater. He's not stuck into the wall like me, just sitting there on the carpet with his cord coiled around him. He's buzzing quietly, doing his job, making the room all warm and musty. And then... then the Master walks in. He's still got his pallid winter skin, but he's dressed in nothing but cotton pajama pants. He's damp with sweat, and I wonder if maybe it's my lucky day. Maybe spring has come early, even though I know just yesterday it was snowing like crazy.

He walks over to the heater, though. Of course. I relax again, going back into my reverie. Thinking about those great summer days when Master's bored with the heater, or the toaster, or the vacuum, and pulls up a chair just to sit by me. He'd have a tall glass filled to the brim with coca-cola or lemonade, and he'd be in nothing but a pair of boxers clinging softly to the curves of his thighs. And he'd just sit with me and read, letting my cool air caress his skin and ruffle his hair. And sometimes he would lean forward and touch my buttons in just the right way, and I'd tremble with passion, the dexterity of his fingers commanding me and I can't restrain myself.

Then I realize I'm not dreaming anymore. The Master is touching me. Fiddling with me. One hand pressed against my side for support, the other at my knobs, tweaking and pulling and twisting until I explode with wave after wave of cold air, eager to please, eager to bring a smile to his soft lips. He stands before me and I kiss his flesh, drying off his sweat.

He leaves my side too soon and I stare at the spot he was just in, imagining he's still there, still forcing my cool air into the room. He doesn't come back for a very, very long time. But when he does, he has a cup of steaming hot tea and a thermometer in his hand. It all makes sense now. He's sick. He has a fever. And he's relying on me to soothe his pain. Oh... I've waited so long for the day to prove my dedication and loyalty!

He pulls a chair up in front of me and sets his teacup down on the coffee table. Then he shoves the thermometer in his mouth, under his tongue. And to my horror, or perhaps my joy, he slowly slides his pants down to his ankles and leaves them a tangled pile of fabric on the floor. He settles down in the chair, his legs spread wide, and I can see everything. Everything.

The heater will never experience this. Neither will the toaster or the radio or the lamp. This is something I, the air conditioner, alone will witness. Something perhaps only the blankets of his bed have ever known before. I'm suddenly among the elite, participating in something glorious and splendid that ties me to the Master in so many ways.

I blow and blow and blow. I blow until his nipples are hard and his genitals are shrunk and shriveled. But they're signs I'm doing my job, so I continue blowing. And the smile creeps on my master's face, and the thermometer beeps, but he's in so much pleasure that he simply lets it drop onto his naked lap, and he leans back in his chair. It's just like the summer time. And I can feel the heater's jealous eyes on me.