"I couldn't sleep. I was thinking," I murmur.
"And you do that better with a ball-gag on your head, do you?" he asks.
"Oh, that's what it is? Yeah, of course it is." I take it off hastily. "Call me naive, but I just don't have any idea what some of this stuff is used for. How do you know so much about it?" Did I really say that?
"I spent some time working in Vice," he says quickly. Too quickly? "What were you thinking about? Have you figured any of this out?" He comes into the bathroom and leans against the basin, looking at me intently.
"I'm not sure. It's something to do with the way those men were murdered. Maybe the blood loss. And something you said...but I can't quite put my finger on it. Damn—it's there if I could just get the picture straight in my head."
"You're tired," he says softly. "Look, Mulder, I said you should get some sleep and I meant it. I know you're tense about this—shit, I am, too—but we're safe for tonight, so I think we should make the most of it. Who knows what they've got planned for us tomorrow."
"I know. You're right. That armchair was hurting my shoulders and..."
"Shit. I'm sorry. I should have thought. Here." He goes over to the first aid kit and gets out some gel, then sits me down on the edge of the tub and soothes some onto my shoulders, making me jump as the cold liquid comes into contact with my hot skin. "Fucking sickos," he mutters to himself.
I wish I knew what to think or feel. I'm just aware that one of his hands is on my shoulder and the other is gently massaging that gel into my back, and it hurts, and is cold and hot and tingly all at the same time. And I don't want him to stop. I like the feel of his hand, of his gently caressing fingers. I wonder what it would be like to feel him lean down and kiss the back of my neck, and that makes my hair stand up on end and gives me goose-bumps.
"It's a huge bed," he remarks, totally without embarrassment. "We'll share, then both of us might get a good night's sleep. Don't worry—I promise your chastity will be safe with me," he grins.
He doesn't smile very often, and I'm not used to seeing him without his glasses, either. I stare at him, fascinated, but he doesn't notice. Instead he just ushers me back into the bedroom, slips down into the bed, waits for me to get in beside him, and then turns the light off.
I lie there rigidly still for several minutes, waiting for my heart to stop pounding inside me. I can sense that he's totally relaxed next to me, one arm slung across the bed, his body sprawled out. Probably another trick he learned in Vietnam; how to sleep next to men without giving any sexual signals or being remotely embarrassed by proximity. Then, on the other hand, of course, he hasn't got all these weird, lustful thoughts rampaging around in his skull. He's probably thinking through the details of the case, or running over the baseball league scores in his head. Finally I hear him snoring and start to relax.
I can't resist leaning over a little way to smell him—yeah, I know, but I'm going crazy here. I want to remember the way he smelt back in the library, the anger in his body. I wish I could rest my head on his shoulder and feel his arms go around me again. I want to feel the hardness of his chest as it presses against my back. Shit. I try and distract myself by thinking of women with enormous breasts, which usually works well enough, but not this time. Since when did I ever lust after men? Consciously, at least. Subconsciously? As all this goes around in my head, I finally fall asleep.
* * *
I wake up boiling hot and stiff. These jeans are far too tight to sleep in, but since the alternative was sleeping naked next to a man who's beginning to attract me in a powerful and disturbing way, it was by far the better option to keep the jeans on. The heat radiating from Skinner (the man is a furnace), combined with the heat from my sore shoulders, is too much for me to bear. I slip out from under the sheets, grab the blanket from the chair and then settle myself down at the foot of the bed. That's when Nick's words come back to me, about sleeping at the foot of your master's bed. Sick, Mulder. Sick! I don't move, though. Just getting into the role, like the boss ordered. That's my excuse, anyway, and I can't be bothered to fight it anymore. Skinner's right; we need to just concentrate on getting out of here alive and who cares if I let slip something I shouldn't, or if he finds out that I've spent the whole night sleeping next to him with a hard-on? I just hope that we both live long enough for me to be embarrassed about it when we get back to the office. I'll have plenty of time to worry about my sexuality then.
We didn't get to bed until after one, but all the same, we're both awake by seven.
"Comfortable night?" He looks surprised by my choice of sleeping location.
"Yeah, well…it got a bit hot," I mutter.
"Oh, shit. Sorry about that. Sharon used to make me sleep on the couch half the summer. She said that I had a metabolism most women would die for and made some dig about hooking me up to a generator to cut down on heating bills. I didn't notice her complaining on cold winter nights, though." He grins.
This is weird. Being locked up in this room all night with him, both of us half naked, him talking about something personal for maybe the first time ever without the threat of a murder charge being used as leverage against him. I guess I never really saw him as a fully rounded human being before. I wonder about Sharon. I know they're divorced and I wonder why. Not that I'm thinking it's even remotely possible that has anything to do with him having suddenly discovered that he's a bisexual top who wants to throw his most irritating special agent to the floor and screw him senseless. No way. Well, only slightly.
I do a good job of not watching him get up and go into the bathroom, and of not listening to him having a shower, and of not wondering what it would be like to get in beside him. Then it's back to not watching him again as he prowls into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, the water glistening in his chest hair. I have to move fast when he starts to take off his towel to dry himself, though.
Not watching him being totally naked would be beyond my endurance. So I disappear into the bathroom to get washed myself, throwing myself under ice-cold water and attempting to jerk myself off at the same time—an exquisite form of self-torture. Maybe I am a masochist, after all.
Waiting for 10 a.m. is like waiting for an execution. We sit there, he on the end of the bed, me in the chair, counting the minutes. He clears his throat and looks at me.
"Remember what I told you, Mulder," he says in a low, soft voice. We've already been through this twice in the past hour.
"Sure." I shrug and make a face as my shoulders remind me how they're feeling.
"No, really. I know what you're like. Do as I say, keep your eyes down, and for God's sake, don't provoke anybody." He gets up as we hear footsteps in the corridor, but they pass by and he sits back down.
"I can do that." I shrug a second time and then make a mental note not to shrug again for the next few days.
"Good. It's just an act. Remember that. We're playing a part. It's not real. It doesn't matter what they say to you. Just keep your eyes down and do as you're told. For once." He gives me a warning look.
"I will, I will!" I flare.
He rolls his eyes. "See. You can't even manage to keep hold of your temper in here, without any provocation. Out there is plenty of provocation, Mulder. Now just keep yourself under control. Remember what you are to these people."
"I'm a goddamn amoeba to these people," I fume. "I don't think I'll forget that, and if I do, I'm sure they'll remind me pretty damn fast."
"Or I will," he sighs, and then he glares at me. "You have my apologies in advance for anything I might do or say, Mulder. But if you look like you're going to fuck up, then I'm going to behave exactly as they expect. Our lives are on the line here and even if you forget that, I certainly won't."
"How reassuring," I murmur.
"Yeah. Ain't that the truth," he laughs - then his face becomes serious again. "It's just for show, Mulder. We're just playing along," he says.
If that's the case, how come he's so good at it? I wonder to myself as a key is turned in the door and we're allowed out.
The dining hall is just another big cave, like the library, but it also has that same air of rough-hewn elegance. There's another huge oak table and several of the tops are already seated. I wonder who owns this place, and where it can be, but before I go any further with that contemplation, I'm distracted by the sight of the slaves waiting on their masters. There's a side table covered in the most mouth-watering food, and a few young men in jeans are hanging around waiting for orders. I'm starving, and wonder if I'll be allowed to eat here, or whether I have to go back to the slave pen for that.
Saunders gets to his feet and beckons Skinner over, pointing him to a spare chair.
"Please, Mr. Skinner. Do join us." He smiles that creepy smile of his. Nick appears with a plate full of food and sets it down in front of Saunders, then pours him a glass of orange juice. "Nick—show Fox what to do." Saunders waves me away, and turns his attention back to Skinner. I can't hear what they're saying—something polite about sleeping well and the comfort of the room I think. Nothing heavy just yet.
"He's your master?" Nick stares at Skinner with considerable interest.
"Yes." I find myself staring at Skinner as well.
He's dressed in yesterday's clothing, but he looks as cool and neat as ever. The tiny fringe of hair at the back of his scalp is still wet from his shower. He seems to be relaxed, but I can tell that he isn't. His muscles are poised, tensed, like a cat about to pounce. He's on edge.
"Aaron told me about how you struggled with Matt," Nick whispers. "I can see why now. No wonder you wanted to keep yourself for such a master."
"Um. Yeah." Which at least means I'm not a total pervert. I mean, all these sub men are attracted to Skinner so he must exude pheromones.
"Did he punish you for running off and coming here?" Nick looks at the welts on my shoulders.
"Um, no. Not yet." I struggle with the two levels I'm living on—three if you count the one in my head. "Matt did that to me. I think my master was just pleased to have me back. He did threaten to punish me later, though." That's no more than the truth!
"Aaron said he missed me while he was away." Nick smiles. "I was worried he'd brought you back to replace me when he brought you in yesterday. You're just the sort of sub he likes, and I keep thinking he'll get bored with me. He's such a good master, so strong." Poor Nick. He's really got it bad. "I'm glad you've got someone of your own, someone powerful, just like Aaron," Nick tells me. "Now, what would your master like to eat?"
"Eat?" I repeat stupidly, looking at the table of food.
"Yeah—what does he normally have for breakfast?" Nick is looking at me expectantly. How the hell should I know what Skinner's eating habits are? I reason that I might as well take him something of everything, just to be safe. I pile a plate full of food, bring it over and put it in front of him. He ignores me, continuing his conversation with Saunders, some of which I catch.
"I don't take kindly to being locked in against my will," Skinner is saying, his tone reasonable but firm.
"Just a precaution. We don't know you that well yet, but you're our guest. I'm sure we'll be able to dispense with locks and keys soon," Saunders replies, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. I retreat and find a jug of orange juice, then return with it, and pour my 'master' a glass.
