Work Text:
John Carter heard an annoying ringing sound and it seemed to be right next to his left ear. It was one of those chirping kind of rings, electronic, irritating. He batted at the noise with his hand but it didn't stop. He opened one eye and rolled his head. A cellular phone was on the bed next to him and it was, indeed, ringing. He picked it up and answered it with as close to speaking as he could manage. "Wha…"
"John Carter."
John rolled onto his side, cradling the phone next to his ear. He smiled. "Hi."
"You've got to get up. You'll miss your plane. You didn't even hear the alarm, did you?"
"You set an alarm?"
Walter's laugh was soft.
"Are you at work?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you wake me up before you left?"
"A bomb going off couldn't have waked you up. Besides, I like watching you sleep."
John groaned. "I don't want to get up. I want to stay here. I'll go back to sleep and wait for you. Wouldn't you like that?"
There was a pause and then Walter's deep sigh. "I'd love that. But you have to go home. You've got work."
John groaned again, more insistently. "Fuck work."
Walter laughed, then suppressed the noise quickly. "Get up, John Carter. I have to go back to work. I've got people waiting for me."
"Okay. Walter?"
"Yes."
"Love you."
There was a long pause and for a moment John thought they'd been disconnected. Then he heard Walter's voice, almost a whisper, "Oh, John Carter."
John smiled. "I'll call you tonight."
The line went dead and John turned the phone off. He set it on the night stand and rolled himself off the bed, staggering for a moment before he gained his feet and stood up. God, he was tired. He wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but it wasn't long enough. He'd be able to catch a couple of hours more sleep on the plane and then he'd have to be in serious work mode.
He washed his face, brushed his teeth and put on a clean shirt and clean underwear. It would have to do. Higher levels of hygiene were just not possible in his present state of awareness, or lack thereof.
Downstairs he found his coat and his backpack. Walter had left both lying on the couch. The letter he'd seen last night on the desk was lying on top of the backpack. He stopped, touching the envelope, thinking about how he'd felt when he'd seen it last night. He shook his head, took a deep breath and reminded himself, not lies. The letters were not lies. Walter had written from the heart. He'd just neglected to mention that heart had stopped beating recently. A sin of omission not deception.
He put on the coat and slung the backpack across his shoulder. He needed to get downstairs and grab a cab and he needed to do it now. Traffic would be hellacious at this time of the day, and he had a plane to catch. There would be no end to the shit if he missed it. Kerry would have his head. She was covering for him as it was.
He stepped out into the hall and turned to lock the deadbolt with his key. He didn't see the man who slipped up behind him as he secured the door. He felt the sting at his neck and dropped his backpack to grab at it. Then he felt the body behind him, pressing him against the door.
"We're going bye-bye."
John Carter tried to call out for help, but the words stopped in his throat as he felt himself sinking down, dropping out of the light into darkness.
***
Something stabbed up his nose into his brain. John Carter jerked his head back to escape the pain and slammed the back of his head against something hard. It hurt. It hurt and his head was already pounding, throbbing with his pulse. The stabbing pain again and he recognized it. Fumes. Ammonia. Fuck he hated that stuff.
"Wakey, wakey."
The voice was right next to his face. He could feel the man's breath. He groaned and tried to get his eyes to open, but they stubbornly refused.
"Come on, wake up sleepy head."
"Fuck you." John's voice sounded thin to himself. His mouth was like cotton. He tried to swallow but he couldn't get any saliva. Everything hurt. He tried to move and felt his hands bound. He was tied to something. Something big and cold. A column? A concrete column maybe. It had rough edges that bit into his bare wrists. It was certainly hard enough. His head could attest to that.
He was sitting flat, feet straight out in front of him. He couldn't get them apart. They must be tied, too. He leaned his head back. His eyes were covered. That's why he couldn't see. His eyes were covered.
"Good. You're awake. Let's talk."
He heard the man move away, the scraping of something against the floor. A chair maybe? He couldn't be sure. His head hurt so much and he was so dry. So thirsty.
Something hit the bottoms of his shoes, driving his legs and hips back against the column he was tied to. He cried out as much with surprise as from the jarring pain.
"Pay attention. You're drifting on me. Listen."
"Okay." He said it aloud, but his voice was soft. Too soft. He was having trouble speaking.
"So you're Walter Skinner's boy-toy."
John could feel his heart begin to race. Oh, no. Oh, God, no.
"I would never have thought old Walt was a rump ranger. What were you doing with Mulder? Why did he bring you to D.C.?"
John closed his mouth. Nothing. He couldn't give this man a thing.
"Don't be stupid. I can make you very miserable, John Truman Carter. You will tell me no matter what, so just make it easier on yourself and talk now. What were you doing with Mulder?"
John clenched his teeth. Oh, fuck, this was going to be bad. He would let himself scream. He would let himself make noise. But he wouldn't say anything. Nothing. Nothing. He'd lived through Lucy reducing his dislocated shoulder. Nothing for pain then. It had hurt so much, but he'd done it. Talked her through it. He could do this. He could. He had to.
John was so busy focusing on being calm he didn't hear the man move. It wasn't until the stinging blow bloodied his mouth that he realized the man had gotten up, come back to his side. The voice was right next to his ear.
"Don't piss me off. It's not smart. I don't have time to fuck with you. Tell me now or I hurt you."
John could taste the blood from his split lip. It was salty, a funny metallic taste. He calmed himself, focused on his breathing. This was going to hurt. It was going to hurt a lot, but he could do it. He could.
Nothing he could do prepared him for what came next. He'd been hit before, but the rain of blows, the steady pounding of a fist against his face, the side of his head, into his chest and ribs. It took on a rhythm, a cadence. Twice to the body, once to the face. Twice to the face, once to the body.
He couldn't even scream. It hurt so much it took his voice away and all he could do was try to keep breathing, spit the blood out of his mouth and try to keep breathing. He was surprised at how hard that was. He kept holding his breath as he was struck across the ribs and in the chest. He would suddenly explode with breath, gasping trying to get air into his lungs, and the pain went on and on.
John Carter wasn't sure when it started, but when the blows stopped coming, he realized he was crying. His head rested back against the cold stone and he sobbed and gasped, each breath a ragged agony as ribs expanded against bruised flesh.
"Why did Mulder bring you to see Skinner?"
The voice was next to his ear. He spoke softly against John's ear as though afraid John wouldn't be able to hear him over the sound of his sobbing. John knew he wasn't anywhere near dead. The human body could take so much and still survive. This was going to be so hard. It was so hard.
John heard the scraping sound again. Then a zipper. He swallowed, tasting blood, almost grateful for it because his mouth was still so dry. He choked back his sobs, grew as quiet as he could. Clenched his teeth.
"Jesus, you're a stubborn bastard." He heard rustling, then the sound of paper. "What is this? Oh, my God. Fucking love letters. You must be some piece of ass, John Truman Carter."
"Leave those alone." John shocked even himself by speaking. He knew he was thinking that, but hearing his voice, even as scratchy as it was, was not expected.
"Dear John Carter." Laughter. "I have so many snapshots of you in my head. You standing by the lake with that freezing wind blowing. Coat open, scarf flapping, face red with the chill and a smile as broad as lake is big. You were showing me Chicago. Showing me your city. And all I could think of was how you had looked to me that morning. Your body stretched out on the bed beneath me. Your eyes closed, your back arched, heat rising off you in waves as I played you like a fine instrument. You make music when you come. The sounds you make are music to me. And it's a song I want to hear over and over. It haunts my days. It plays in my head at night when I lie down to sleep. If tomorrow I could no longer hear, it is the sound I would miss the most. Yes, I'd miss your laughter, and your voice, but it would be the sounds of your pleasure that I would miss the most."
John didn't recognize the words. It must have been a letter he hadn't read, yet. Maybe the one that Walter had written him just last night.
"Poor Walt's got it bad." Laughter.
John heard a noise and suddenly something tapped the side of his face. It was the letter.
"Why did Mulder bring you here? What are they trying to do?"
John tried to hear Walter's voice saying those words. Tried to focus in on the sound of Walter's voice.
"You'd let me kill you." The words were soft. A hand patted his shoulder. "You are a stupid bastard."
He heard steps as the man walked away. John listened and heard a door open somewhere in the distance. Was he leaving? Was it over? Then he heard steps returning. Something warm touched his face. It was hard, not flesh, but warm.
"This machine killed Skinner once. It can do it again. If you don't talk to me, I'll let it."
John Carter felt the sob rise from his chest up through his throat. It came out in a burst of pain. "No, please."
"Why did Mulder bring you to D.C.?"
"He didn't know about me. All he had was a name. He thought I could help him save Walter."
"Why would he think that?"
John shook his head. "He didn't know who I was. Walter gave him my name when he was dying. He thought I knew something, was somehow connected with what happened."
"Huh."
John heard the man move away.
"So Mulder's investigating."
John shook his head. "No. No. Walter won't let him. Please, please don't hurt him anymore."
There was a long silence. John could hear the man walking, pacing maybe? Moving back and forth. He could hear something tapping as he walked. Like plastic against plastic. The pacing stopped and John felt fingers touching his hair, trailing down the side of his face.
"I don't know what to do with you."
"Let me go. I don't know anything."
"Yeah, but you're important to dear, old Skinner. That could be good."
John felt the man set something in his lap, pressed against his groin. It was warm.
"I'm going to leave this with you. Don't move too much, the controls are very sensitive. You wiggle around and you might kill Skinner."
John heard the man walking away. The door in the distance closed and John knew he was alone. He could feel the heat from the machine in his lap. He tried to breath slowly and evenly. He had no idea how it worked, if indeed he could set it off by moving, but he could not take a chance. He couldn't do anything that might kill Walter.
John Carter sat very, very still.