We make our unsteady way out of the Arena, and back to our room. As soon as we get there, he collapses onto the bed.
"You stupid, crazy, bastard." I disappear into the bathroom and start filling the man-sized tub with hot water. "Playing dead like that. Nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack."
I return to his side and start easing his clothes off him gently, undressing him like he's a kid. I can't resist kissing him all over as I do so. He's so weak and pathetic right now that he can't protest, even if he wanted to.
"Well, I knew I wasn't going to beat him in a fair fight," he mutters, leaning against me as I undo his pants, his head heavy on my shoulder. "Matt's greedy and he's got a giant-sized ego. I knew that if I made it look like he'd floored me, he'd go straight over to claim you. I just had to time my recovery to make sure that I had the element of surprise. If I'd gotten the timing wrong, he would have had me."
"Well, he nearly had me instead," I mutter, pulling off his pants and his briefs so that he's naked. "Oh, shit, listen to me. I'm an ungrateful bastard. I was just so damn worried. I wasn't sure how badly you were injured. I couldn't even see if you were still breathing. Damn, I wish you'd let me in on your plan."
I pull him up and half walk, half carry him into the bathroom. I help him into the bath and take off his glasses as they steam up. He leans back, his eyes closed. I get my jeans off and slip in beside him, pulling him over so that he's reclining between my legs, his head resting on my chest while I kiss his scalp. I find the soap and gently rub it over his chest and down to his groin, and then run my fingers along his cock because, frankly, I can't resist.
"Yeah, like I have the energy for that," he mutters.
"I'm not asking you to do anything." I nibble at his ear. "I'm just playing. I have to make the most of it when I have you vulnerable and at my mercy, don't I? It doesn't happen that often."
"Good point." He smiles, his eyes still closed, his face etched with weariness.
I hold him, stroking him, whispering to him, and kissing the side of his face for nearly an hour until the water starts to get cold. He's like a baby in my arms, totally relaxed and zoned out, just enjoying the caressing and attention.
Finally, I haul him out of the tub, wrap him up in a towel, and walk him back into the other room where he lies down on the bed.
"I'm just tired. I'll be okay," he whispers, seeing the anxious look in my eyes as I hover over him.
"I'll put something on your injuries. God knows they've provided us with a big enough first aid kit."
I get the kit, return to the bedroom with it, and smooth some cold gel over the bruises and cuts on his body. His face isn't too badly marked, apart from that cut on the side of his jaw and a couple of bruises. I'm grateful for that much—and for the fact that he managed to duck out of the way of the couple of punches that would have damaged his eyes. His knuckles are grazed and bruised and look pretty painful so I put a light dressing on them. He submits to my clumsy medical attention and then rolls back under the sheets. I slip in beside him and cradle him to me, loving the feel of his ass against my thighs, my ankles draped over his, his muscular back pressed tight against my chest.
"Did I say thank you?" I murmur, feeling his breathing deepen and his body relax.
"Do you ever?" he answers.
"What do you mean? Of course I... What are you talking about?" I bristle.
"Well, there was getting beaten up in a stairwell over that stupid DAT tape. There was taking delivery of a known felon and storing him for you in my apartment—to say nothing of all the 'there goes the guy who likes handcuffed young men' gossip that abounds in my apartment block as a result. There was rescuing you from faraway locations—on more occasions that I can even begin to think of right now. There was deciding not to suspend you despite numerous instances where it was the only sane thing to do."
"Yes, all right, I get the point. Did I forget to thank you on all those occasions?"
"Mulder, you never thank me," he points out, his speech slurred and drowsy.
"I could make up for it now."
I disappear under the sheets and find his cock. I've never done this before, but how hard can it be? Yeah, I know he's tired, but too tired for a blow job? I know I never have been. I'm right—a few licks and nibbles and he hardens and starts thrusting into my waiting mouth, and I decide that Fox Mulder, slaveboy, does actually have some talents after all. This is fun! His cock tastes of bath water, salt and essence of Skinner, and I'm just dying to see what his come tastes like, which may be sick of me. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore—all my certainties are gone. Anyway, he comes soon enough under my expert mouth and tongue and I like the sensation of swallowing him down. Mmmm! Yep, finger-lickin' good, that's what he is. I don't allow so much as a single droplet to mess up the bed, and I lick him clean afterwards. Slut-Mulder, that's me, the fastest tongue in the west.
"How was that?" I ask, returning to my former position behind him and drawing him close again.
"Well, that took care of the DAT tape thing, but you still owe me for the rest of it. Somehow I think it's going to take you a long time to pay off your debt. Looks like indentured servitude is in your future for some time to come."
"Aw, shucks," I grin, nuzzling him shamelessly and he lets out a small barking laugh.
"What?" I ask.
"You. For the last five years, you've been dancing around like a prissy kid making me admire you from afar, always skipping just out of reach—and now you can't keep your hands off me."
"Why stop at hands?" I stick my tongue in his ear, and he waves me off, feebly.
"Mulder, let me sleep. Please," he says beseechingly, and with some reluctance, I do as I'm told. See, I can be obedient. Sometimes.
I don't go to sleep. Instead I wait until I'm sure he is sleeping, and find myself gazing down on him. He looks like a battle-scarred lion, bloody, bruised and unbowed. I suppose I know what I'm going to do. Maybe I've known since my conversation with Nick earlier this evening, when he told me that there's been another challenge scheduled for tomorrow evening. How long can Skinner keep taking this kind of punishment? I know he said to stay put, to find out what's going on and wait for the team to rescue us, but I don't have a lot of faith in the prowess of the team. I guess I'm just used to relying on myself.
I get up and get dressed quietly, borrowing a pair of black pants and one of his black shirts from the wardrobe, put on his sneakers, and then slip over to the door. I try the handle, but somebody has clearly visited while we were in the bathroom because it's locked. I get a wire coat hanger and twist it around before inserting it into the keyhole. This is a talent I picked up during my misspent youth, and that's all you need to know about it.
It takes about five minutes to pick the lock, and all the time I'm holding my breath in case he wakes up. Somehow, I know he won't approve of this—maybe I'm psychic. When the lock finally gives up the ghost, I go back to the bed and kiss him gently. With any luck, I'll be back with help before they even notice I'm missing. I slip out into the corridor and head off in the direction of the Bat Cave, but I'm soon lost. When I was there last, I had more important things on my mind than the layout of the place, so my memories are hazy at best.
Unsurprisingly, somewhere along the line, I take a wrong turn and end up outside the slave-pen. I tiptoe past as quietly as I can, head down to the end, and turn into yet another corridor. Damn, but they all look the same.
I hear someone laughing and duck into a side passage, holding my breath as one of the tops walks by, his arms loosely wrapped around a giggling sub. When they've passed, I edge out into the main corridor again, and along to another dimly lit passage. The corridors are becoming more rough-hewn now, which is how I remember it. Finally I end up in a dark cavern, completely unlit. I remember the musty smell – it’s the Bat Cave! I feel my way along and then slip, tumbling head first down some roughly hewn stairs carved out of rock. I make one hell of a racket, and hold my breath as well as I can, considering that I'm winded, but nobody comes to investigate. I manage to find where the cars are stored—there are about 10 cars here, all big limos, neatly parked. The exit is covered by a solid metal sheet and I run my fingers all over it, trying to find the garage door opener. At last I locate a switch mechanism to one side, and press it and…holy shit! All hell breaks loose. A bright light comes on, a siren begins to sound, and literally, within five seconds, I find myself face to face with a guy holding a gun.
My stomach is churning as I'm pushed along the corridor at gunpoint. The guard stops outside a door and knocks on it. It's opened by Nick, who takes one look at me and then his eyes pop out of his head. He opens the door wider, and goes to wake Saunders. It's fair to say that I'm starting to quake by this time. Saunders is definitely not a happy camper about being woken up at this hour. He gets up, allows Nick to help him into his robe, and then comes over to look at me. He grimaces at me as though I'm something he's stepped in.
"So, Fox. Trying to abscond? And after we showed you such hospitality as well," he murmurs.
"Yeah, right. You're a bunch of frigging fruitcakes," I splutter. Call me unwise—it's been done before and not as politely, so I'm used to it. Saunders is clearly torn between hitting me and laughing. Luckily, for me he does the latter.
"This is what always amuses me about you, Fox," he says. "No matter how bad your situation, you still try to fight it. Nobody could ever accuse you of being a quitter."
"Oh, I'd be happy to quit. Believe me," I tell him.
His mood changes abruptly. "Does your master know that you're loose?" he asks.
"No. He's still asleep," I reply quickly, desperately hoping that we can keep Skinner out of this.
"Well, let's take this conversation to him, shall we?" Saunders smiles. That forlorn hope of mine is therefore dead in the water.
Saunders and the guard usher me along the corridor and back to our room. Saunders politely knocks on the door, and then enters when there is no reply. He turns on the light, and Skinner sits up blearily. He runs his hand over his eyes as he takes in the situation.
"Oh, shit," he mutters.
"It would seem," Saunders smiles, "that we have a little discipline problem, Mr. Skinner."
"Yes. I'll take care of it." Skinner gets out of bed wearily and pulls on his robe.
"That isn't acceptable," Saunders says. "Community rules have been broken. We take the matter of runaway slaves very seriously. The punishment is quite severe." He gives me a gleeful look of anticipation, and I close my eyes, remembering the Zone.
"He isn't a runaway," Skinner tells Saunders urgently. "It's part of our game. Isn't it, Fox?"
"What? Yeah." I've lost the plot. All I can think of is that poor bastard in the Zone with all those goddamn attachments on his body.
"Your game?" Saunders questions.
