*Five*
He was going through my wallet.
"What kind of a name is Fox?"
"Shut up."
"I'm just making conversation."
"Could we have a conversation about what you've done with Scully?"
"I told you, she's fine. Now stop worrying."
"I'll stop worrying about Scully when I know she's safe."
"Fair enough. When will you stop worrying about everything else?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I've had hundreds of years to get inside people's heads. But it would only take me a minute to know you've got a lot to sort out with yourself."
Sigh. "It's been done, you know. The psychoanalyst bit? Surely you're aware that originality is the essence of most effective scare tactics."
Whatever you say.
"What the fuck was that?!"
Never let them get your handcuffs. No good will come of it. I was now sitting with my hands chained behind the back of my chair, with Darren standing ten feet in front of me, stationary and refusing to focus his gaze anywhere but on me. His words – Whatever you say – did not reach my ears in any form of recognisable sound. Instead it was an echo I felt, a tremor through my veins, like he was speaking from inside my body. I was paralysed.
How do you want to do this, Fox?
His thoughts. My thoughts. He's reading my mind. He's in my mind. In my fucking mind. And he thinks with an Australian accent. Jesus.
I could still see him, though, ten feet in front of me, now closer. Now approaching me like a hunter, or a zombie, and I wondered if I should avert my eyes. Now leaning over me, one hand on my chest. Softly – too softly – I managed to interject, "Is this where you bite my neck?"
If you like. He pressed his lips to my neck and slowly opened his mouth, just enough so that his teeth grazed my skin. I held my breath in mute panic. He stood up and began to pace deliberately.
"You make inferences about your partner to make up for the aspects she keeps from you. The gaps which, I'm sure, you'd rather were filled properly – with intimacy – but you dismiss that so as not to get your hopes up." He was talking again, out loud, with his voice. "I heard you earlier, wondering what Scully thought of me. Is that a projection of your unconscious desires in your psyche?" He leaned closer. "Or are you just happy to see me?"
It took me a minute to realise what he was saying. Even then, I protested. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Yes you do. Watch. He moved behind me and unlocked the handcuffs. I jumped out of the chair, convinced I was going to run away, but instead I found myself facing him again, unable to take another step. Unable, or unwilling. He smiled condescendingly, and closed in. His mouth was on mine, his hands clinging to my leather jacket, and the mute panic in my mind grew deafening. The more he pushed himself on me, the more I felt able to excuse what was happening as just another feature of some big ... hard ... unimaginable delusion.
I kissed him back until my mouth hurt.
carry on