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"Does it involve us both being naked?" I ask hopefully.
"No. It doesn't," he tells me firmly.
"Oh. Does it involve one of us being naked, then?" I press.
"Possibly." He shrugs.
"Does it involve..."
"Mulder," he says warningly.
"All right. I agree," I tell him, making a face. "Fuck, we're about to face a fate worse than death. You'd think that, under the circumstances, even you could lighten up."
"That's such crap. I've been dead before, Mulder. There is no such thing as a fate worse than death. At least not on this occasion. Understand me?"
"No," I pout. "And, anyway, what is it that you just had me agree to?"
"This." He holds my shoulders in a vice-like grip. "If I lose, you don't hang around. You don't throw one of your tantrums, you don't struggle and fight and mouth off. You leave the Arena with Saunders without looking back, you go to his room, and you do whatever he tells you to."
"You bastard." I draw back from him and he lets me go.
"Yeah. That's right. I am," he sighs. "We're way out of our depth here, Fox. We've just been getting in deeper and deeper since we got here. I warned you back in D.C. what might happen to you if you ended up here—hell, even Lenny warned you. You're no shy young virgin, so..."
"Thanks to you," I murmur.
"I didn't hear you complaining at the time," he snaps. "I seem to recall the words 'just fucking fuck me'."
"That was different. I wanted you. I don't want him. The way I see it, I have two choices. I can make it easy for the sick bastard, or I can make it hard for him. I don't see why."
"Mulder, you're wrong," he states flatly. "The only person you'll make it hard for is yourself."
"No, he'll see that—"
"Mulder." He takes hold of my head again and makes me look into his eyes once more. "Listen to me," he says urgently. "If you go along with him, if you just close your eyes and go along with whatever it is he wants to do to you, then you'll get out the other side in one piece. It won't be nice, but you'll be okay. If you fight him, he'll still do what he wants to you, only it'll hurt more—a lot more. You don't need to struggle to prove anything to yourself, or to me. I've just told you what I want you to do, and I expect you to do it. You promised."
"Okay, okay." I lean my head against his, wretchedly, not sure if I can do as he asks, promise or not. "Fuck, but I wish I was being chased by 9-foot-high aliens wanting to take me back to their mothership right now," I murmur.
"Yeah. Me, too. If I believed in aliens," he snorts.
"We have so much in common." I give a wry laugh.
"Sometimes it's good to be with people who are different from you. I probably need someone crazy to make me laugh, God help me. You sure as hell need someone sane to drag you back down to earth."
"The dragging part sounds fun. Want to try some of that now?" I lean forward hopefully.
"No." He reaches for his bowl again, and continues eating. "I want to conserve my strength. Maybe you should, too—you don't know what might be expected of you later."
Somehow that comment wrecks my appetite. I watch him eat, bring him some more water, insisting that he drinks all of it, then lie face down next to him, wondering how I could have known him for five or more years and never once noticed how good he smells. We both lie there, watching the hands on the clock move around, slow second by inexorably slow second. His fingers are absently stroking my hair in time to the ticking clock.
"Do you suppose Kendall watches westerns?" I murmur at five minutes to eleven. "You know, the cavalry always arrives just in time, doesn't it?"
"This is Real Life," he shrugs and I can't help but see the sickly pallor on his face because even that small movement pains him. "In my experience, there's no such thing as last-minute rescues. You have to rely on yourself."
I don't even have that option. Everything in my future hangs on other people. I'm helpless, in the thrall of fate, chance, luck, my lover's state of health and the whims of a bunch of crazies. Welcome to Mulderworld—the ultimate sick fantasy theme park. Everything here is out of your control—you're a helpless victim of chance, your whole life hanging in the balance.
The Arena looks the same as last night, although I notice that the bloodstained sand has been replenished by new, pristine supplies. Skinner removes his shirt before the challenge has even been made, and we begin the oiling up process all over again. This time Saunders doesn't bother with preliminaries. He just strides over to Skinner and smiles.
"You and me, I think. Yes?" he murmurs.
"If you insist," Skinner grinds out from between gritted teeth.
Saunders's smirk widens. "Oh, I rather think I do."
He returns to the center of the Arena and announces the challenge before leaving to undress and prepare for it.
"He's good, but probably too sure of himself. He'll have a weakness. He's older than you, probably doesn't have your stamina. He..." I ramble on forcefully, trying to convince the pair of us. Skinner nods at each of my points. When I finally finish, he takes a deep breath and holds me close. I can feel his oily body shaking against my bare flesh.
"If I lose, it won't be because I didn't damn well try to beat the shit out of that sick bastard," he mutters into my ear. "Remember your promise, Fox. If you only obey one goddamn order I give you in your entire life, make it this one." And then he pushes me away towards the post.
Matt takes great delight in acting as ringmaster for the evening, grabbing my wrist and fastening me to the post alongside Nick.
"This isn't fair," I whine at Nick, which is pointless because there's nothing he can do about it. "Skinner's ill. He took too much of a pounding last night. Saunders is fresh. What sort of a fight is this, anyway?"
"It'll be fun." Nick is smiling at me. "I love the Arena. People don't challenge Saunders very often so no one fights over me much." His pupils are dilated and he's got a stupid expression on his face. "Can you smell it? The sand and oil? I just love that smell! Come on, Fox. Aren't you flattered? Just look at who's fighting over us. They're the toughest men here. Oh, God, look at their muscles!" He groans slightly and I notice a suspicious bulge in his jeans. Christ, what the fuck is he on? Whatever it is, I wish I had a dose of it right now. It might stop the sweaty shivers that keep washing over me.
Matt prances around in the center of the Arena for a while, his broken nose bruised and swollen after his encounter with Skinner last night. Finally the contenders step into the circle. Saunders is a compact man, neat beside Skinner's long-limbed body. He has a dangerous, elegant ease to his movements, like the born predator he is. I realize, without surprise, that he does not expect to lose. There's a long, slow build-up as each man gauges the other's strength. Skinner gives no sign that he might be hurt, and I know just what it must be costing him to move so freely, without wincing in pain, but it's crucial that Saunders has no inkling that his opponent has a weakness. We both know that if he did, he'd home in on it like the vulture he is. Saunders isn't particularly fast, but he has a good eye.
After several minor skirmishes, lasting in total 15 or so minutes, they have sized each other up. Then Saunders lands a couple of easy punches before Skinner finds a chink in his armor. Saunders is good with his fists, but not so good at close quarters. He's less of a wrestler than Skinner, lacking his upper body bulk.
Soon Skinner has him on the floor. He pounds Saunders onto his back, tosses him down into the sand and punches him firmly several times. I breathe a sigh of relief, but Saunders isn't finished off so quickly. The oil on his body makes it easier for him to slide out from under Skinner, and he gets to his feet quickly, before Skinner can react, and swings around to deliver a kick to my lover's chin, and a karate chop to his neck. Skinner falls into the sand and Saunders descends on him, beating at him mercilessly with cutting punches from his fists. I close my eyes, but I can still hear Skinner's rasping breathing and the sounds of Saunders' blows as they connect. When I open my eyes again, Skinner is struggling to break free of Saunders, twisting beneath him. He's pale, and so obviously ill that for the first time I change the silent prayer I've been sending to a God who has never given any sign of listening to me before. Instead of praying for my lover to win the fight, I pray to have him give up before he takes any more of this punishment.
"Please, just end the fucking challenge," I whisper over and over again. "Just say it. Give in." And I know he won't. I know he won't say those words. Not now, not ever. He'll fight until either Saunders kills him, or he loses consciousness. "Fuck you. Fuck." I'm tearing at the cuff around my wrist, going half-crazy with worry for him as he takes blow after blow. "Stop this!" I yell. "Just fucking stop." But nobody is listening to me.
The crowd is baying its appreciation of Saunders's savagery, combined with a grudging acknowledgement of Skinner's bravery for continuing the fight. Nick glances at me with a sick smile of delight and Saunders pauses in his assault for a moment, kneeling on Skinner's shoulders and holding him in the sand.
"Anytime you want to say the words, Mr. Skinner," he murmurs silkily.
"Not in this goddamn lifetime, fucker," Skinner throws back between gasps of pain.
"Very well. But perhaps I should just put you out of your misery." Saunders backhands my man hard across the face, and again the other way, and I can see Skinner's eyes begin to lose their focus. The fight has been going on for 45 minutes.
"What happens after an hour?" I ask Nick. "Does it stop then?"
"No." Nick shakes his head. "It just goes on until it's over. One way or another."
Oh, shit. A thought occurs to me. Is this how those tops died? The ones who were dumped in the Potomac? Scully said they'd been castrated, but all of them had been badly bruised as well—as if they'd been fighting.
"What happens if Skinner loses?" I whisper anxiously to Nick.
