Chapter 6

I'm not sure what wakes me first, the bright beam of light directed into my left eye or the delicate touch of a finger that holds the eyelid open, firm and gentle at the same time. I can't see anything past the light, just a fuzzy shadow that could be anything. After a few seconds the light is withdrawn, though I continue to see it as an afterimage even after I close my eyes.

I try to turn onto my side to escape the bright light and probing fingers, only to discover that my arms are secured above my head with leather-covered manacles that burn as I struggle to free myself. My legs are similarly secured, the leather stiff and unforgiving.

"Krycek? What the hell's going on?" I lift my throbbing head and turn it towards the light source. I feel the blindfold around my throat and the hood still covering most of my head. Sweat running down my face suggests it has only just been removed.

It's not Krycek who answers my plea. A woman in a white lab coat hovers over me, her straight, reddish blonde hair held in a braid that lies over one shoulder, reaching almost to her waist. A few strands have come free and fall around her face. Behind simple, rimless glasses are clear blue eyes and long lashes.

"Who are you? Where's Krycek? Where am I?"

"Sshhhh. Be quiet or he will hear you." She removes the hood completely and runs her slender fingers through my hair, her face an unreadable mask that confirms my suspicion that she is a doctor or at least a nurse, though I'd lean towards the former at this stage because of the spotless white coat. "Do you have a headache or double vision?"

I ignore her questions, having too many of my own that I want answered.

"Good because there are a few things I want to say to him."

It's as she's running her hands over my chest and arms that I realize I'm naked or almost so except for the scrap of red Lycra at my groin that doesn't feel right somehow.

Her touch is totally professional and clinical, but still stirs up the typical feelings and reactions that have plagued men since the dawn of civilization when being touched so intimately by the opposite sex. I feel myself getting hard and accept the fact that there is no way I can hide my growing erection from her clinical eyes. I need not be concerned however for she just continues her examination, the expression on her face unchanged, giving me no clues as to what she is thinking.

"It's not Alex you have to be concerned about now. Besides he's tied up at the moment and if it's any consolation I can assure you he's not enjoying it at all."

"Oh, that makes it all better then doesn't it?" I ask sarcastically, not even trying to hide the bitterness in my voice. I regret my tone but not my words almost immediately as she pulls back and turns away from me. What the hell am I doing? Alienating someone who might be able to help me, someone who might just realize that I am here, chained to a bed dressed only in a pair of bathers, against my will.

I recall a voice from last night? The night before? Don't know how long I've been out but it's still dark in the room except for the light from a small lamp on a table next to the bed.

... "Sir requests you take the package directly to the second-floor guest-room. He is waiting for you in the parlor."...

I remember the man's icy cold tone and utter lack of concern. How many handcuffed and hooded people have been delivered to this place? It must have been something that occurred frequently or was it just the sign of a trusted and long-time servant to only perform those duties specific to his position, to not question those around or above him, to just follow orders.

It was as much an attack on my kidnapper as a non-verbal cry for help when I kicked out at Krycek at the first opportunity. The fact that no one came to my aid was just another nail in my coffin. I realize I can rely on no one but myself to get out of this. I know then that I can't just passively accept my captivity 'til Skinner notices I'm missing and comes to rescue me. On the other hand, I know how much it will devastate Walter if he rescues a corpse. He'll blame himself for not putting the pieces together quickly enough, for not divining my whereabouts instantaneously the second he discovers that I'm gone. Somehow I have to either make a clean escape or leave no clues that could earn me punishment and quite possibly death if I fail an attempt.

The woman faces me once again and I now see pity and concern on her face, but I fear she is just as immune to my plight as everyone else around me. She opens her mouth to say something and then closes it without uttering a word. She pulls the blindfold up over my eyes, retying it and I'm once again plunged into almost total darkness.

I can't help a desperate "Please. No." escaping my dry lips.

I feel a slight breeze against one ear and have to strain to hear her hurried whisper.

"I'll try to help. Just hang on."

I hear her words but I don't dare believe them. Would she really be here if she didn't condone the actions of her employer?

But she's a doctor or a nurse and they take an oath to preserve and protect life, don't they?

Maybe she's only here to prevent me from dying, not for my benefit but because I'm no good dead to whomever she works for?

Would you prefer to have no one on your side just so...

"How is Fox doing?"

This back and forth arguing inside my mind is interrupted by the entrance of yet another player into this drama and if I loathed him before for orchestrating my kidnapping (don't ask me how I know he's the boss, I just do) I positively detest him now.

I turn my face toward his voice and feel the cloth over my eyes shift a little, giving me hope that I might be able to dislodge it without the use of my hands.

My captor's voice is deep and accented. It's not a natural accent like one gained in childhood, but something only recently learnt and not yet mastered. It's definitely British, a touch snobbish but beyond that I can't narrow it down any further.

I sense him move closer, the woman by his side. Her breathing has quickened slightly and it sounds like a hurricane in the otherwise perfectly silent room. I pray he doesn't detect anything out of the ordinary that may cause her to be replaced by someone less concerned with keeping me alive.

"The patient is doing as well as can be expected. No sign of concussion or head trauma that I can detect."

"Splendid."

The bed dips as he sits beside me and I soon feel an obviously male hand stroke the side of my face starting at the blindfold and not stopping 'til he reaches the only other piece of material. I'd shift away from him but the shackles allow me no escape.

"I have waited so long for this moment I can hardly believe it is real." A thumb and finger trace the outline of my erection, obviously giving him the idea that I'm turned on by being chained up and molested by a person I can't see and don't know from Adam. "I see you have missed me as much as I have missed you."

Just as I'm about to launch into a barrage of curses that would make a sailor blush, he covers my mouth with his. I expect the attack to be hard and brutal, but it's the exact opposite, light and almost chaste and, thank God, very brief.

"That will be all, Doctor. I'll need you to check on Alex in the morning." He may be addressing her but I know he is staring at me for I feel his eyes caressing my body just as I feel his hand cup my groin.

"Listen, you sick fuck. I don't know who the hell you are but..."

"Of course you know me, Fox. You never forget your first lover."

How much more delusional can this guy get?

I twist and squirm in an effort to get away from him and his sick fantasies. I can't escape of course, but that doesn't stop him from gripping my arms tight enough to really hurt and slapping me across the face as if I'm hysterical and need to be brought to my senses. Well, I'm not hysterical yet, but soon will be if this bastard doesn't get the hell away from me.

"Can I offer some professional advice?" Never have I been so glad to listen to anything a doctor says. She could recite Gray's Anatomy in Latin if it'll get this guy's attention on her and off me.

Her tone reveals that she is going to give it whether he wants to hear it or not. Go, Doc!

"Of course." His grip loosens but he doesn't let go completely and I relax only slightly, knowing I'm far from being safe.

"I suggest you restrain the patient better, perhaps four point but definitely in softer straps. When he fully wakes up he is going to be quite disorientated and very distressed, more so because of the blindfold. In his confusion he could injure himself quite badly."

She slightly emphasizes the "fully" part for what I'm sure is my benefit. A warning? A subtle suggestion to act in a certain way? Decoding her words takes my mind off the hand that is fondling my balls. I also detect discomfort verging on disgust.

And all the pieces fall into place. Her boss is molesting her injured, defenseless patient right in front of her and she knows there is nothing she can do to stop it. She wants me to play dead or at least unconscious in the hopes that this will stop him ripping my Speedo off and raping me.

Ok. I can play my part as I'm pretty certain I haven't given any clues as to how awake and aware I really am. My words and actions so far could be attributed to my head injury. At least I hope that's how he'll interpret my struggles and denial. Disorientation and temporary amnesia can be symptoms of concussion and without the proper equipment to check, the doctor can't be certain that I'm not in worse shape.

Please, God. Don't let this bastard be one of those sick necrophiliacs. My stomach heaves just thinking that, but luckily doesn't go any further, though I would love nothing better than to throw up all over the fucking bastard. At least he might leave me alone to change his expensive clothes. I know the feel of fine cloth that covers my abuser; silk and satin, what all the best-dressed sexual predators are wearing around town these days.

I allow my body to go limp and jello-like in his arms and concentrate on slowing down my breathing. It's a meditation technique that Dr Werber taught me. It allows me to put my body into a deep state of relaxation while leaving me fully aware of my surroundings.

It must be working because he drops me like a hot potato and in a tone just short of panic turns on the doctor.

"What's wrong with him?"

She gestures him aside with a very convincing, "I don't know. He was fine before you came in." She basically accuses him of being responsible for my sudden relapse.

"God, I love this woman." I scream in my mind.

She takes my pulse and listens to my heart, before making a half-hearted attempt to remove my blindfold.

"Leave that on him."

This guy is a freak. He wants the Doc to find out what's wrong with me but won't let her uncover my eyes to do so.

"Give him something to wake him up." He orders her, his voice getting even deeper, the angrier he gets.

"I can't. It could do more damage. Besides I don't know what your delivery-boy injected him with to transport him. It could put him in a coma, perhaps even kill him."

I sense her standing guard over me, protecting me with a body not much bigger than Scully's. She is one brave and gutsy lady and I just hope we both survive so that I can tell her that some day.

"I have waited ten years to be with him again and I won't wait another day."

Ten years? Again? I don't know this creep from a bar of soap and yet he knows me or thinks he knows me, that we were lovers for Christ's sake. This could be even worse than I imagined to begin with. My mind is flooding with horror stories from Quantico and VCS about psychopaths getting out of prison, tracking down the agents who sent them there and then doing unmentionable things to them. I had nightmares for a month after a visit to the Academy from John Douglas, the pioneer and master of profiling. The tales he told of monsters disguised as humans and his own physical and mental breakdown that lead to his retirement had most of the trainees sprinting to the toilets before class was over.

I frantically search my memories for any clue as to who this guy might be, but come up blank when I realize that 10 years ago I was at Oxford studying, not investigating and putting away one sicko after another, my desk just a conveyor belt of past and present case-files.

I had no close friends or acquaintances during that time, except for Phoebe, but she didn't fit into either category. I was merely an accessory for her to show off, less valuable than her Rolls convertible from Daddy or her fox-fur coat. I'm sure if she could have skinned me to sling around her shoulders to ward off the bitterly cold English winter, she wouldn't have wasted a second doing so.

So while I have no idea who my captor is or how he knows me, I am only too clear about how he wishes to celebrate our apparent reunion.

"How long until he wakes, Doctor?"

"It's impossible to say. Given that his eyes reacted properly to light stimulus earlier, I would hope that he regains consciousness within in the next 12 hours or so."

This seems to lessen his anger and I feel his weight rise from the bed and move away.

"I hope for his sake and yours that your prognosis proves correct." The threat in his voice is unmistakable and I vow here and now to be personally responsible for removing this piece of scum from the face of the earth. It's a real effort to maintain this illusion of sleep when all I want to do is break the chains that bind me and rip him to shreds.

I sense them moving towards the door and yet the panic and fear doesn't subside. Drawers are opening and closing in different locations around the room and I don't want to imagine what sort of items are being extracted.

I can feel genuine drowsiness over taking me now and it's a fight to stay alert enough to hear what is being said.

"I'll consider your advice, Doctor. Good evening." The Doc's dismissal is final and direct and I know my angel is walking out the door even though I can't hear her footsteps due to a thick Persian rug on the floor of my prison. I remember it underfoot when Krycek was leading me inside here. The investigator in me is automatically saving every scrap of information, no matter how minute, that may aid my escape.

His words are the last I hear before giving into my body and mind's need to rest, to recharge the batteries for the long fight for freedom that lies ahead.

"Welcome home, Billy. Welcome home, my love."

END OF CHAPTER 6