Subj: Lessons V pt. 1

V

3:50 A.M.

"Come out, Mr. Mulder."
Mulder stepped into the doorway between his cell and a large outer chamber,
leather heels scraping the concrete. The little room behind him was bright,
but what lay ahead was dark and darker away from the spilled light of his
cell; darkest along the chamber's borders, where candle flames swam in
spaced isolation. The tall blond and short, black-haired man stood on each
side of the door, bookending but not touching him. Even so, reflex snapped
his arms close against his body. Decay's dry perfume intermingled with the
sweetness of beeswax, and his own sharp, stale scent. Strange shapes and
surfaces jostled together, making no sense to undilated eyes. In the middle
of the dim chaos, a man's shape resolved itself.
"I am the master here. Do you enter my sanctum of your own will?" The
accent was familiar as old, smoothed wood: British middle class, like his
mates at Oxford. Those voices had never held a threat, but this one did,
despite the overpolish of gentility. "Well? What do you say?"
The agent shrugged minimally, raised his chin a notch. "I suppose I'm here
by my own choice, but it doesn't feel that way."
"Do you wish to be corrected?"
"No."
"Then why have you come to me, Mr. Mulder?" Light footfalls brought the
man's tall, lean body closer.
Mulder wanted to step back but glued his feet in place. "You know why I'm
here, so just cut the crap. Nice set, by the way. What was it--'Addams
Family, the Movie' on back lot clearance?"
Mirth made the man's voice flute-like. "I assure you, Mr. Mulder, that
nothing in this room was made for Hollywood. Now--again--why are you here?"
"So you and your boys can kick the shit out of me."
"No." Mulder scowled as the Master shook his head. "You are not here to
trade a beating for information. You know that. You are here for
correction."
"Potato, patato." Mulder shrugged.
The Englishman lifted a gray eyebrow. "Then you agree to be corrected?"
"Whatever....You choose the word. Just hurry up."
Another careful, quiet step and the Master was standing in the lightfall of
the cell. Mulder's muscles tensed and lids narrowed as he scanned the pale,
thin face. Bushy brows above watery blue eyes, and--despite the thinness of
visage--flat cheekbones. He guessed the man about age forty-eight, although
his hair was entirely gray. Wore a sensible hunter green tee-shirt,
stone-washed blue jeans and black riding boots. "Funny," one corner of
Mulder's mouth twitched, "you don't look like someone who can make me
squeal."
A stiff finger fell across Mulder's lips, frosting his nervous system, but
his a polar expression stayed sharp and defiant. "You'd best lose your
insolence, Mr. Mulder," his captor warned. "You've put yourself in my hands
and you must obey my rules. This is the first: You do not speak unless
addressed, then you answer me without fail. Understand?" Mulder swallowed
and worked hard to nod.
"Good." Candlelight glinted in pale eyes and the finger remained, cold and
heavy. "My second rule: you will obey me as completely as you are
physically able. If you cannot obey because your body will not allow you,
you may tell me and I will help. If you cannot obey from fear, you may also
tell me, and I will help by binding you. If you fight me, I will order my
assistants to step in. You will be restrained during your lessons until I
believe you will cooperate."
Mulder's pupils widened. "You want to say something?" the Master asked him,
lifting the finger at last. "Go on. What is it?"
"Nothing." His lips scarcely moved. "Get this over with."
"Don't lie to me, boy."
Heat in his blood freed a snarl. "Listen, you sonofabitch, I'll keep quiet
and let you hurt me because I said I would--not because you or Lurch or
Uncle Fester here intimidate me--"
An Ice-water sigh doused hot words. "Mr. Mulder, I'm going to give you one
more chance to tell me what's troubling you."
"Noth--"
"Ah!" The finger hovered close to lips that pinched silent. Carefully
stressed words blew little puffs of warm breath on Mulder's cheek as the
Master leaned in to say, "You will not lie to me, boy, or you will suffer."
Mulder bit back indignation. Bit his cheek between his molars. But the
Master was waiting and the words wanted to come. "I'm going to fight you,"
he told the Englishman, even and low. "I'm a fighter."
A figure moved in his vision's far field. The Master gestured for it to
keep back, kept liquid eyes locked on Mulder's. "You agreed to this--to
being here and obeying me. If you want the information--"
"No. I--"
"Mr. Mulder, you will learn nothing if--"
He tossed his head, cast eyes upwards. "Goddamnit, let me talk! The
fighting--it's reflexive. I can't always control it!"
"Ahhh. I see....All right." Mulder heard the Englishman's smile. Wouldn't
look at him--no. "I'll remember what you've said as we work. By the time
we're finished, you will have learned. I will be able to handle any part of
your body and you will submit to it."
He couldn't stifle the sick shiver.
"You dislike being touched?" The question dragged his eyes down from the
ceiling joists to find the Master had retreated, was leaning against a
long, narrow table-dark shapes coiled at its head and foot. "Not too
surprising, really. Your father wasn't gentle with children."
Reflex raised his brows, popped his eyes wide again. "How do you know that?"
"I did not command you to speak. However, I do know about your father--his
life, his work, his recent untimely demise." Mulder saw the Master studying
him, watching him stamp down the need to run, to hit, to do something more
than squeeze his hands into impotent fists. "I know about your mother and
sister," the Englishman continued, head cocking to the left. "And I know
about you--more than that your father beat you into hospital a half dozen
times while your mother said nothing....You're phobic about fire, Mr.
Mulder--isn't that correct?"
Mulder swallowed hard. His face felt bloodless. It needed to sound calm but
it didn't: "Don't burn me."
"I won't have to. This dungeon isn't your Room One-Oh-One," The Master
straightened up and dropped his crossed arms to his sides. "I promise I
won't do that."
Mulder twitched, tried to hide mortal relief. Filled the empty space with a
question. "When will you tell me about Samantha?"
"Quiet. We're done with discussion. You only speak when addressed from now
on."
He heard the snap in the man's voice, but need outweighed fear. Shook his
head and stepped forward, both heard and felt the determination in his
voice. "When?"
The Master's answering tone was firm. "At the conclusion of your
correction, Mr. Mulder. Now be quiet."
He shifted, unclenched and clenched fists again. "When you're done hurting
me? No crumbs to keep me going? That seems pretty mean. I don't suppose you
and I will be agreeing on a safe word, either, will we?"
"No, we will not." The Master's voice sounded dry and flat, then inflected
with what seemed like compassion. "You're going to have to trust me to
judge your limits. But don't worry. I'll recognize them. I'm not here to
kill you. You're entirely too valuable to waste."
"Valuable to whom? You?"
"No, no. Not another sound," the Master chided. "I have humored you enough.
I warn you, Mr. Mulder, this isn't going to be easy and we're all going to
need patience. All right, then--remove all your clothing and step back into
the cell where I can see you better. I need to examine you. This is a
delicate procedure and I must plan my approach."
A flush slowly lighted Mulder's cheekbones.
"Remove your clothing, Mr. Mulder."
Fingers fluttered on thighs. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing.
Saw the Master look aside to his assistants. "He's going to need your help."
Mulder found his voice as the two men reached for him. Twisted to avoid
their grasp. "No! I'll do it myself!"
"Jim, William...." The Master waved them away. "Let him try."
Mulder closed his eyes and kept them closed. Nervous fingers undid the
smooth silk tie and pulled it off, then shrugged out of his suit jacket and
let it follow to the floor. He untucked shirt tails, reached for the collar
button, then froze again in the self-inflicted dark, stunned by his
revulsion.
"Mr. Mulder?" The Master's voice came closer. "Can you go on?" Mulder
forced jittery fingers to fumble with smooth shell buttons and peeled off
his shirt. With eyes squeezed tight, he bent to unlace polished shoes--to
shed them and his sweat-damp socks. Toes recoiled from the chilly concrete
as bare feet touched the floor; his chest trembled as he straightened,
opened his eyes, and stared without blinking at the wavering glow of a
nearby candle. The buckle jangled as he unhooked his belt and unbuttoned
the waistband of his pants, but seized up again as his fingers traced the
zipper to its small pull.
"Mr. Mulder?"
He couldn't move. Fear made him so still.
The flame flickered and he heard steps then the Master was there. Mulder
stared through him, flinched at the grasp of firm, rough hands over his
own, guiding him to unzip and push trousers off his hips so they slid to
the floor--keys and change in the pockets hitting ground with a
cloth-muffled clink. As fingers slipped under the elastic band of his
boxers, his breathing went loud and sharp. Goosebumps stippled bare skin as
the silk was eased down past his ass.
He didn't know he had bucked until their hands reached and grabbed for a
stranger who flailed and kicked and struck out, howling hate. Fingers
caught in that man's hair, yanked his head back as an arm encircled a
throat that was his and not his--crushed off air. It was his body. It was
his air. "Well, children," the Master sounded short of breath himself as
his other sinewy arm wrapped around Mulder's ribs, squeezing tight,
squeezing bones, squeezing him into submission...."We knew we'd have to do
it the hard way the first time."
Mulder felt the blood pound in his temples as he twisted against the
Master's embrace and the biting grip of the small, dark man's fingers
around his wrists.
"Finish stripping him, Bill," he heard Master order. "Then we'll strap him
down."
Mulder's lungs screamed as the Master's chokehold tightened and the blond
man bent to disentangle kicking feet from his boxers. Arms wrapped around
sweat-slick skin, pressing his thighs and knees together and lifting him.
He flexed and kicked and struck against them--a gurgle from his throat, not
a roar. Heard grunts of exertion as they heaved him onto the table and his
bare skin shrieked at the touch of cold enamel over steel. A few, fast
gulps of air, then leveraged arms and callused hands--one on his forehead
and the other around his throat--renewed the pressure, choking, holding him
still. The world began to gray, as with fading wildcat fury, he battled
their attempts to keep him down, to confound the small, dark assistant
trying to force his arm up above his head.
Faintness lost the fight. White and gray dots flickered as something firm
was wrapped around his wrist and pinched as it tightened, locking the limb
down. The Master's strangling grip finally left his airway and he drew in
deep, reflex breaths, filling his chest with musty air. But it was too late
as his strength returned. They had his other wrist encircled by the strap
and it was pulling tight against skin and bone. Hurting. He shouted out
pain and fear as the three men grabbed at thrashing legs, caught them by
the ankles, and pulled them taut. Fastened the stiff leather cuffs, leaving
him held locked-joint. Helpless.
No, not completely helpless-there were still words. His wits, maybe, if he
rode out the panic. It would go; it must; it always ended. Mulder made tiny
whimpers as his eyes flitted from once source of motion to another, cold
sweat beading on a livid face. The Master was behind him now, talking, and
he knew he needed to listen. Stop goddamn stop, he shouted at his body.
Stop! At last, the wave crested and his muscles loosened in a sudden wash
over enamel, leaving him spread flat and staring dully upward.
"That's it," the Master smoothed back Mulder's disheveled hair. "Give up
the control. Let it go....Jim, go open the hall door to let some light in,"
he ordered, petting and petting--his strokes threatening to start the
goddamned panic all over. "You tried to obey, Mr. Mulder. I do recognize
that. You did well. I was not expecting so much. Now, let's take a look at
you, shall we?"
-Lisby
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"Somebody back East is wonderin' 'Why don't she write?'"
-wagon driver, 'Dances with Wolves'
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