I love the way he says my name.
Soft. Low. Lazy. As if he liked the way it tasted. He used to use that
tone years ago (two and a half years ago) when he wanted something from
me. He knew the effect it had on me. He knew that I knew that he knew.
It was a little game we'd play; see how well you know me, how easy it
is for you to push my buttons...dangerous. Far too dangerous.
I have always loved danger.
I let him under my skin too quickly. He learned how to play me, and I
learned how to let him. Oh, sure, I found some buttons too, some notes
easily produced; I know the way he likes to be touched and the noises
he makes when he comes—or, sweeter still, when he's nearly there,
so close to the edge he can taste it, but I won't let him go over
until I'm good and ready.
Sweet Jesus, I can hear him now; not begging, not quite, but wanting
to, only some perverse notion of dignity preventing him.
Or was that a lie, along with all the rest of it?
There are some things you can't fake, though. I'm sure of that. Maybe
those little nothings I liked to think significant were calculated
touches; the morning coffee, the concerned looks, the way he always
asked if he could stay the night (and I always said yes, my skin cold
and itchy where it wasn't touching his, how could I refuse it? To give
what I most wanted to give?). But oh, those sounds he made when he
just couldn't help it...I can't believe they were put on, too.
But maybe I'm fooling myself. Maybe that was just part of the bait.
I turn, unwilling, unable to stop myself. I want to walk away and
never see him again. I want to send him to jail with the rest of the
scum and read about his "suicide" in the Post. And yeah, I know that
means that my hand's one of the ones on the trigger. Do you think that
bothers me? I've never had a decent chance before. Maybe this time I
really will kill him.
I know that look on his face. The bait he's offered me so far has been
pathetic, and he knows it. But he has another card up his sleeve.
I don't want him to reel me in. Not again, please God, not again. But
my stomach twists suddenly in self-disgust and I realise that whatever
he offers me, I'll have no choice but to take it. He knows me too well.
Triumph glitters in his eyes. He knows that I know that he knows.
"This is just one bomb I'm sitting on. You didn't ask me how many more
I know about..."
And that's not what this is about, and he knows, and I know, even if I
don't know what he's hiding behind the bombs and the militiamen.
But I'll bite.
I always do.
The End
I'll Bite
by Katherine F
"Mulder..."
