DEADLY LOVER, MINE...
Part 2

Skinner found Doggett's pants, a thing for which Doggett was 
eternally grateful. It was also a blessing that he left the agent to 
get dressed in private. 

Doggett was still rather shaky, and very sore and he tried hard not 
to think of the reasons why as he pulled on his charcoal dress 
slacks. He left the dress shirt and jacket off, and opted to wear 
the gray t-shirt instead, feeling that comfort was definitely a plus 
in this situation. 

He found himself having to take a few deep breaths to steady himself 
as he left the room and descended the stairs to the kitchen. Hand on 
the railing, he paused, listening. 

He could hear Skinner on the phone. 

" ---agent of mine who's in some trouble. Yes, that's correct. There 
may be a tie in with one of your cases up there, Detective." 

Doggett swore softly, hating Skinner for checking up on him. He took 
the stairs, slowly, wincing as each step jarred something, or pulled 
something...
He'd face the music, that was the only thing he could do.  


***

Down in the kitchen, the two sat down to tomato soup, French bread 
with a bit of cheese, and Doggett, sitting at the table across from 
Skinner, found himself barely able to touch it, though he really 
couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

Skinner was kind enough to keep conversation to a minimum, behaving 
as if his agent had lunch with him in his kitchen every other day.  
But, every now and again Doggett would catch Skinner casting that 
worried gaze upon him, and finally Doggett's nerves snapped. " I 
suppose you think I'm some kind of deviant." The words were out 
before he could stop them. 

But Skinner only regarded Doggett over his wirerims, and said as 
tolerantly as Doggett had ever heard him, " John... I just want to 
understand what happened. How you got here." His _expression was 
open, non-judgmental. 
"How did you ever meet this guy, John?" 

Doggett was surprised his reply came so easily. " I met him at the 
gym. I'd seen him around the Bureau headquarters before, he seemed 
nice enough.  " Doggett said, wondering just when they'd gotten on a 
first name basis.  Hours ago, he realized with a pang.

He took a deep breath and continued. "Whitechapel was lifting 
weights...and he asked me to spot'im." 

"I did, " Doggett said, " and it turned into a regular thing. And 
one day, afterwards... we.. ended up at his place, all full of Piss 
and Vinegar and full of Southern Comfort and I...I just needed 
somebody. Any. Body. God help me, I deserve what I got." 

He stopped to take a drink of the milk Skinner had poured for him, 
but his hands were shaking so badly, he feared he'd drop the glass 
and make a mess of Skinner's kitchen. He stared at the table. At his 
hands. Anywhere but at Skinner's face.  He felt himself slouching, 
waiting for the Assistant Director's condemnation.  

" So what happened?" Skinner asked, simply. 

Doggett looked up, and Skinner had the most peculiar look on his 
face... if he hadn't known better, that _expression could have been 
described as...sympathetic? 

Doggett swallowed hard, and continued. "  I... got what I needed from 
him... someone to pretend he loved me, and having him... helped me 
forget some of my own pain. But what he started giving me was the 
pain he needed me to feel... with his belt,  an extension cord, his.." 
Doggett's breath caught in his throat, but he choked the words 
out, " ..his fist.  And I actually thought I could love him anyway.  
Hell, I don't know... it's like I couldn't say no to him, even when I 
wanted him to stop. I just... let him do whatever he wanted to me." 

" But you managed to break it off with him," Skinner interjected, a 
little sharply. 

Doggett looked up again at that, looked into Skinner's eyes and  
realized that Skinner was actually pulling for him. It helped.  He 
found his voice again. 
"Yeah.  When Edward started talkin'  `bout having me be with...other... 
men so he could watch, I couldn't take it any more. It's like I woke 
up, or somethin'.  And he lost it, went crazy scary, and he tried to 
beat me again. This time I fought back."  He took another deep 
breath.  " This time, I won."  

Doggett wished he could have found any shred of self worth, of pride 
in himself at being able to utter that last sentence. But he 
couldn't. He was too tired, too exhausted... and he was broken and he 
knew it. He had remembered what Whitechapel and his hired goons had 
done to him... in his own house, where he would never feel safe again. 
And he knew how pathetic that sounded , even to him, and it just 
didn't seem to matter. He stared again at the table, doing his best 
to avoid Skinner's eyes. 

Suddenly he felt a warm, calloused hand enclose his own with gentle 
strength. He looked up at Skinner, surprised. 

" You fought him, John." Skinner murmured. " You fought him and took 
back your life; you *did* win." Skinner squeezed Doggett's hand, not 
gently. But it was comforting, nevertheless. 

Doggett dragged in a ragged breath, but managed a slight, teary 
grin. He squeezed Skinner's hand back, but did not withdraw it.  A 
long moment passed. 

"Assistant Director?" Scully's voice rang out. The sound of the 
front door closing jolted Skinner and Doggett back into mundanity; 
they parted, Doggett giving a self-deprecating chuckle, Skinner's 
face sliding back into bland professionalism. 

***

Edward Whitechapel reclined in his leather chair and smiled to 
himself as he looked at the picture of John, taken so very recently. 
It was amazing how delectable the man looked in restraints, ah... and  
very nicely marked. He picked up a snifter of brandy from the 
mahogany end table next to him, and raised it to his lips. He sipped 
it precisely, enjoying the mellow burn. 

The trappings of this rather small room were ornate, almost overdone...
a collection of Victorian rugs and paintings, Tudor furniture 
juxtaposed unabashedly with modern amenities. Not bad for a cellar 
hidden deep beneath a warehouse.  A bit over-furnished, and a little 
crowded, but it would do. He had John to thank for his present 
situation. John, and ... perhaps his own misjudgment of John's  
resilience. 

He'd sent a few  prints of this particular batch of photographs to 
John's Director at the FBI, hoping to put a scare into his 
ungrateful lover. Maybe he'd see sense after losing his job. Then 
he'd be dependent on Edward.. who would take care of him, after a 
few choice punishments.

He looked at the photo again, frowning a little. His plan should 
have worked. It had worked before.. with the others...

Edward remembered the night he'd taken this particular picture.  
Very nice, very hot.

That look of fear and pain on John's face... one tear shining in the 
corner of his eye.. mouth open and wet with his silent sobs... 
Whitechapel shivered a little as the sheer memory of that night's 
pleasure sent a pang of pleasure throughout his body. 

But he'd lost John, despite all his careful training, despite all 
his love. John had, during one of his training sessions, reverted 
back to the behavior of a novice--, become entirely disobedient.. 
and actually had dared to raise a hand to his Master. Had struck 
him!  Edward had forgotten just how strong the ex-Marine was,  and 
the resulting bruises he'd gotten from Doggett, though lovely and 
colorful, were entirely inappropriate. 

He'd punished John... and it had been... very enjoyable. 

Watching the four men he'd picked out especially for their cruelty 
have their way with his lover had been an electrifying experience. 
He'd drugged John to make sure he would not fight, but would be 
fully aware of what was happening to him. Yes. That was important.  
He's taken picture after picture, barely able to contain his own 
desire. 

But John had reacted very badly. Very badly, indeed. 

He'd been loathe to leave him there, alone as he did, but there 
really had been no alternative.  But he shouldn't have. 

Edward was worried that he might have broken John Doggett. And he 
loved the bright spirit of the man, that fire.  Had he dimmed it's 
light, forever? 

And now, John was gone... vanished.  No sign of him at home, and not 
at the FBI headquarters.  Had he pushed the man too hard? Maybe the 
pictures weren't such a good idea, after all. Well, Edward would 
simply have to get him back. And very carefully, for it seemed that 
Doggett's friends had found out about Edward Whitechapel...and were 
making inquiries into his life and whereabouts. His present 
sanctuary should serve for now, but he would eventually have to 
retrieve his lover and then disappear. 

Either that , or John Doggett would have to die. 

Like all the others.
***