TITLE: Dendrite - Chapter Nine - Secret Touch

NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. Not suitable for children, Baptists or Republicans.

SUMMARY: First time M/Sk. Do you need any more information? Well, I guess you do. I know what this story appears to be...but please, please bear with me. It's gonna' be okay. They promised.

ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Okay...hmmm...no specific spoilers for specific eps. Back in the good old days when Skinner was still their boss, nothing had been burnt and no one's best friends had died needlessly for the sake of ratings or to jump sharks.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20^th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I personally think Chris Carter, et al, should just give them to me, since they're not using them anymore, and anyway, I treat them much, much better, but there you are.

Author's notes: See Chapter One for assorted notes, credits and ramblings. They will be omitted henceforth to save virtual trees.

If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

Dendrite - Chapter Nine - Secret Touch

by Mik

If people ever stopped to think about what their loved ones would discover in what they left behind, I wonder how many secret lives would come to an end, or never start. My video collection was a good example. The male/male sex was merely a matter of curiosity, research into human relations. Okay, that's what I always told myself, but it would quite probably kill my mother to have discovered it while she was dealing with my effects. Knowing my mother's fear of anyone finding even the slightest unsavory detail about her family, she probably would be going through every drawer, shelf and box personally, and alone. Finding my little trove of backdoor passion would surely cause her to kick off, and she wouldn't be found for weeks, putrefying around a box of gay porn.

Ironic as it might be, I found very little comfort in the image.

Equally ironic was waiting 'til I was dead to face the possibility that I was gay, or at the least, bisexual. I'd never let myself actually experience orgasm while watching the man on man stuff, but I'd definitely get aroused. And when Skinner betrayed his own curiosity, I was far more willing than I thought I could be.

I didn't mean to expose a nerve, but clearly I had. He banished me. I don't quite know how he did it, but he shut me down, shut me off. For the last twenty-four hours I'd been cruising along in the ethereal edges of his consciousness, knowing what he was going to think, say or do almost before he did. Suddenly, however, I was out in the cold. Well, as out as I could be. I was in the study, staring at fish who were staring back at me as if only just recognizing me. And he was out in the great room, pacing.

Funny that the fish recognized me and Scully didn't. In fact, except for that moment at my front door, she didn't even seem to see me. I could see her, though. I could see her loneliness and pain. She missed me, more than I would have expected. It didn't seem fair that I was stuck with Skinner, who resented me highly, and Scully, who really seemed to need me, couldn't even see me.

"Afterlife sucks," I told the fish in confidence.

I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud 'til I heard his pacing stop. There was a pause, a hesitation, then he came to the open door of the study. "Did you call me?"

I looked at him. Why couldn't he just admit he wanted me? I wondered. "No, just talking to the fish. They're great listeners, which is pretty impressive, given they don't have actual ears."

He looked into his glass. It was empty. "I have ears. If you need to talk, and I would think you do."

"Would you?" I drawled.

"As much of a shock as this has been for me," he said and it was obvious he had practiced this speech, "if you're not a hallucination of mine, this has to be twice as big a surprise for you. I don't suppose there is such thing as a..." he stopped to look for an appropriate term, "psychic psychologist?"

"If there are, they aren't advertising," I told him, and stood. "Look, what I said earlier..."

He stiffened, putting a hand up, like a door between us. "No need to apologize."

"Okay." I shoved my hands into my pockets. "Hey, look, I guess I can change clothes." The jeans were still there.

"Now, that's interesting." He seized upon the topic so quickly I would have laughed if I didn't want to antagonize him again. "Wouldn't you think you'd be stuck in the clothes you were wearing when you died," his voice faltered, "you know...that reliving the moment thing?"

"If I were reliving the moment, you'd be spending your retirement fund on carpet cleaning," I said with a grim laugh.

"Mulder," he reproached, "really."

"Haven't you ever heard of gallows humor?"

He looked into his glass and saw it was still empty.

"You buying?" I prompted.

He nodded and backed up from the door. "I think you really disturbed Agent Scully this afternoon."

"Well, that's a hell of an opening gambit for bar chat," I responded. "Have you heard from her?"

"No." He went through his ritual at the bar and brought me a glass. "But there was something about her expression as she left. It's..." his face got a little pink.

"Haunting you?" I took the glass. "I know the feeling." We saluted, sipped and took seats, all part of the ritual. Ritual is part of life, from fish to fowl, but only humans can be so self conscious about it. There we were, feeling one another out about our sexuality, yet cloaking the dance in obscenely light banter about a mutual friend's pain. "Do you think there's any way to help her?"

He shook his head settling in his chair. "She's a strong woman, she'll work through this, but until she does, I'm wondering if she ought to be placed on leave. FMLA?"

"Oh, was I family? Do I qualify?" I perched on the arm of the sofa, as close as I dare get to him.

"I could make a strong argument for it. You're her...you were her partner."

"And you?" I whispered into my glass, "What about you?"

He didn't answer right away. Not with words. His face took on color and then lost it just as quick. His tongue slipped between his lips, and disappeared. There was the smallest quiver to the hand which held his glass. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling in small, measured movements. I couldn't see his eyes; the lamp made a white hot glint of his glasses, and all the emotion, all the smoldering feeling, was hidden from me. Finally, he said, "I'm fine. You're here." He emptied his glass.

I leaned a little closer. "What does that mean?"

He wouldn't look up. His fingers worked at the glass, turning it slowly in his hand and it seemed fascinating to him. "That means you're here. You didn't leave."

"Did you want me to?"

That made him look up. "Of course not!"

"I was hardly your favorite person. Aren't you sure that there wasn't a tiny bit..." I held up two fingers, measuring a fraction of space, "just the smallest part of you that was relieved that I was gone?"

He was struggling with something that wanted out of him, something he'd rather take to his own grave. "No."

"No?" I prodded. "Then...what do you feel? Sorry? Are you sorry I died?"

His lips were pressed together so tightly, I knew any moment blood would seep from between them.

I pounded my fist against the arm of his chair. "Damn it, Skinner, let it out. Someone in this world needs to feel...something because I'm not in it. My mother's acting righteously indignant, Scully's got herself wrapped up in regulations and procedure. You, you're so wound up you can't-"

His hand snaked out, grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me forward. He kissed me. Hard. Then released me, letting me fall backward 'til I hit the floor in an ungainly lump. When I looked up, brains still bouncing in my skull, his eyes were shut tight.

"Are you still there?" he whispered.

I pulled myself up against the arm of the sofa, and groped for my glass, which had rolled under the table. Oh, was that it? "Yeah. Sorry."

He opened his eyes and looked at me. His face got a little redder. "Sorry, that was out of line."

"Now, now...wait a minute...maybe it wasn't." I reassumed my perch. "Did you do it to get rid of me or because you wanted to kiss me?"

He did a full body shrug. "I don't know. Both, probably."

I smiled, feeling...triumphant, I suppose. "Are you sorry I'm still here?"

He looked up again. "I don't know." He pulled himself out of his chair. At first I thought he wanted to get away from me, and I was about to remind him that wasn't possible, but then I realized he just needed to pace because he's the kind of guy who thinks best on his feet. "I can't imagine spending the rest of my life like this, but I can't imagine spending the rest of my life without you in it."

That was quite a little speech. Straightforward and unemotional. I didn't know how to respond. "I don't know if I'm going to stay. No one's given me an itinerary, but I do know once I'm gone, I'll be gone for good." I looked away, feeling almost coy. "So, I suppose you have to ask yourself what you're going to regret when that happens?"

"I don't know. What are you going to regret?"

"Who knows there will be someone left to do any regretting?" I countered. "When I'm gone, I'll probably be...gone."

"You'd like to think that, I know." He turned his attention to the carpet at my feet. If I was only a figment of his imagination, I was a messy one. He left me, I could hear him moving around in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. When he returned, he had carpet cleaner and a sponge. "I don't believe souls simply dissipate into nothingness at death. Your body may..." he moved closer, waited a moment and sighed, "your body may be in my way right now."

I moved back, pulling my feet up, wrapping my arms around my knees.

He knelt. "Your body might cease to exist, to break down and become part of the biological process, but your soul, your...essence," he grunted, scrubbing at the spot where I'd dumped my drink when he kissed me, "will always exist somewhere. If not with me, then somewhere."

"Heaven?" I sneered.

"Or hell," he said, but said it very sadly.

"Hell's easier to believe in," I told him.

"Unfortunately, I suppose it is." He sat back on his heels to consider the spot. "But I believe in Heaven anyway."

"Explain it to me. How is it possible, with all you've seen, all you've done, all you've experienced, that you can still believe in a place of peace and joy and angel wings and harps?"

"That's not what Heaven is." He drew in a deep breath, and I expected another sad sigh. "Heaven is peace, yes. And not so much joy as the absence of sorrow. And being with those who matter to us. Communing with God, and with our loved ones."

"What if your loved ones don't go to Heaven?" I challenged.

That's when the sigh came. "Then I won't see them, but since there is no sorrow in Heaven, I guess I won't be aware of their absence."

"In other words, you forget them," I concluded darkly.

"No, I don't think so. I just think that my awareness of them will be...dampened. My loved ones will always be a part of me, a part of who I am. But since there can be no sorrow in Heaven, then perhaps all that's good about them will remain with me." He stood. "It's complicated."

"And yet, you accept it. You don't question it?" I jeered. "I thought you were smarter than that."

"You're a fine one to talk," he pointed the sponge at me, "you're dead and you still don't know what's going on. I don't have to be anxious or worry about what comes after death."

"What if you're wrong? What if death is the end?"

The bastard actually chuckled. "Then you obviously didn't get the memo." He took the cleaning supplies back to the kitchen.

I looked around the room, so full of the things that made him who he was. Pictures of his family, his career achievements, his friends, his trophies, his music, his videos, his scotch and cigars, his...his place in the world. I couldn't imagine another place I wanted to be. Maybe this was my Heaven.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The bedroom ritual was even more awkward given my offer and his various reactions. He turned the bed down and went in to take a shower, leaving the door open a fraction. The implication was that he expected me to undress and go to sleep before he came to bed. Yeah, right, like that was going to take place. I wanted to see what happened next.

I didn't expect him to pounce on me in unbridled lust or anything like that. That wasn't his way. That's not to say Skinner was incapable of taking charge in an aggressive manner. It's just that when circumstances allowed for it he liked to consider all the options, approaches, and outcomes. He'd want to know my level of interest, if the offer was still on the table, what my reservations, if any, might be, and if I had any suggestions. Once all that had been explored, then he'd pounce.

I was trying to remember if he'd ever given me the slightest indication that his pendulum swung in that direction. No, this was the über male, the soldier, the athlete, the paternal ass kicker, the giver of the law, the strong shoulders, the voice that cut like a sword. That, in itself, should have been a clue, except unlike most men who overcompensate for their sexual confusion, the bright red cape and superpowers seemed to rest comfortably on his back.

Having decided that, I wondered if I'd ever given him some signal, unaware, unintentional, but unmistakable. There have been a lot of new terms for sexual preference since I went to school, but I can't think if any of them actually applied to me. I can't say I was exclusively heterosexual because I definitely had some curiosity about the other guys. I wasn't homosexual because my curiosity was never strong enough for me to act upon it. Pansexual was right out because my sexual urges were never that strong for either sex. I guess I could be best described as manusexual. Like every other aspect of my pursuits, I preferred doing it myself.

"You asleep?" I don't know if the hope in his voice was for a night of unbroken rest, or a night of breaking new ground.

Since I couldn't guess I couldn't base my answer on what I thought he wanted to hear. I decided to go with honesty. "No."

He flicked the bathroom light off and stepped into the darkness. "This has been a rough day," he said, drawing bedclothes back.

I stared up into the blackness, feeling him move into a comfortable position. "Yeah."

He settled onto his back. "Are you all right?" he asked after a moment.

"You mean, aside from being dead? Aside from seeing my best friend broken apart and making a fool of myself with my boss? Oh, yeah, I'm dandy."

"You didn't make a fool of yourself," he said quietly. "I'm the one who reacted badly. I was embarrassed."

I risked a glance toward him in the darkness. "You discovered my secret stash of gay porn and you were embarrassed?" I chuckled grimly. "I never took you for the sensitive type."

He didn't take offense. "I was embarrassed that you learned my...uh...interest in that sort of thing."

"You learned mine," I countered.

I felt him shrug slightly. "That's different."

"You'll have to explain the difference to me, because I don't see it."

He rolled to his side, and beneath the bedclothes I felt his hand rest so gently on my chest. "No heartbeat," he said, and I'm not sure if it was awe, sadness or concern that colored his voice

For the first time I realized there had been a profound silence within me. My heart wasn't pounding as it should have been, given the fact I was in bed with my former boss. "Does that bother you?"

"I don't know." He shifted closer, his cheek against my shoulder. "It should. But somehow I think your heart still works, just not in its anatomical capacity. You still care about things, about people. So, in a way, your heart is still beating."

Did I mention his superpowers?

He kissed me at some point, I'm not entirely sure how it progressed. One moment, we were lying there talking about things; a potpourri of topics, from heartbeats to drumbeats to marching to war, and he kissed me. It wasn't related to any particular topic. I think he just wanted to talk 'til he felt ready to kiss me again. Doesn't matter, really. All that matters is he kissed me.

His beard was rough on my chin. His tongue was minty, his breath tentative. After the first kiss, he let his hand slide down over my body, my chest, my belly, my thigh, and he kissed me again.

I wasn't sure what he wanted of me. Did he want a passive lover or an aggressive partner? I kept trying to ask, but the words wouldn't come out, so I stayed still, except for the trembling, and let him touch me, kiss me, sniff me, acquire me...in that same sense as when artillery acquires a target.

I will give him this; once he made up his mind, he was thorough. He did everything but count my teeth. By then I'd figured out he was in his own place, and he did not want to be intruded upon. His Heaven alone knew what was going on behind those closed eyes. Perhaps he was busy photoshopping me out of his romantic scene and replacing me with some beautiful little redhead, or some strapping footballer...who could say? But I didn't want to speak and destroy the fantasy.

To be fair, I don't think the fantastical redhead theory would hold up once he took my cock all the way down his throat. He didn't seem shocked or surprised by my orgasm. He actually seemed satisfied. And he did seem to know where he was going with his equipment. He might have been slightly hesitant at first, but once he breached me, I definitely sensed some confidence.

It was uncomfortable, that penetration, but not unpleasant. Once he was fully inside, and lying against me, breathing shallow but steady, it actually felt good. And the sound he made when I shifted beneath him felt very good. I could feel his heart beating inside me. His big hands came around me, holding me still, and he made soft, unintelligible promises with every thrust.

And then he came and I felt hot inside, a great, roiling victory. I had given him something he'd never believed he could have. I almost expected, in that instant, to vanish in a puff of happy smoke.

End 09