TITLE: Deck the Halls With Boughs of Folly
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL:
ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if
you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is
forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you
can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: Post post Holiday melancholia
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No specific time frame ... just back in the
days when Mulder existed in more than our memories, Skinner was his
boss, and the world was slashy and good.
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 20th
Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and
no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they
really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I
become king ...
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Actually, this little follow up to Fast Away the Old
Year Passes was meant as a birthday pressie to my most amazing beta
and friend, Susan, but it sat around on her desk because we couldn't
get our act together to beta, what with work and colouring and Harry
Potter and sick cats....Anyway, a person such as she should be
celebrated all year long, right? So...Happy Birthday, Susan C. G.
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.
Deck the Halls With Boughs of Folly
by Mik
This is insane. I mean ... I'm standing here in the embrace of
another man. And not just any other man, mind you. Oh, no ... Mulder
the Magnificent decides to go for the brass ring, the top of the
line, the ultimate in other men ... my boss.
All right, I will admit that he did make the first move. Hell. And what a move. He kissed me! On the lips. Full lippal contact. And me, I just stood there like a dead fish. Did nothing. Okay, unless you count nearly wetting myself in surprise. But nearly soiled shorts aside, I have to also admit that ... I kind of liked it.
I didn't want to go to the party. I nearly didn't. I had gone home, stripped off, made myself a sandwich and settled down to prepare a really convincing cough if called upon to explain my absence. If it hadn't been for Scully, The Terrifyingly Tiny One, I wouldn't have done. She showed up on my doorstep, and assured me she was not above pulling her service weapon on me. I showered and threw on another suit, and signed the card she thrust in my hands. I'm not sure what it said ... for all I know, I might have signed a card that said `Wishing you a flaming enema at this special time ...'
It was everything I expected. All the usual suck ups standing around sucking up. And such a gracious host. Greeting us at the door with a snarl that looked faintly like ...'Have a Merry Christmas ... or else!' Ho ho ho, indeed. The only thing that got me through the night was that it was so obvious he was as miserable as I was. His personal space was being invaded by people he really didn't like, and he was being force-fed jolly holly and goodwill to men, with tinsel. Frankly, I think he would have preferred the flaming enema.
By the time it was blessedly over, his house looked as if it had been looted by rioting elves. And he looked really miserable about that. I've always suspected he's a neat freak. So I volunteered to stay and clean up. I could tell he wasn't exactly comfortable about me hovering around his house after hours, but I figured if he could be a hard ass about making me come to the damned thing, I could be a hard ass about staying to clean up. Besides, where the hell was I going? Back to an empty apartment? No rush there. And all this decking the halls crap just had me very depressed. If I was going to be bored and depressed anyway, why not at least do something that might possibly reduce my boss's irritability? Maybe I could cash this good deed in sometime when I really needed it, like with an improperly filed 302.
My intention was to finish up and get out, maybe hit an after hours club I knew of between his place and mine, just to get the taste of holly out of my mouth, but he offered me a drink. What was I suppose to do? I accepted and sat there like a lump while we made lame conversation about New Year's resolutions and what a great party it was ... not.
It was pretty obvious he was as uncomfortable as I was, but something else was obvious as well. He was just as lonely and depressed as I was. I would have felt sorry for him if I hadn't been so busy feeling sorry for myself.
When he had taken all the small talk he could tolerate, he bounced up and basically, in that very diplomatic way he has, told me the party was over. Made it very clear my train was departing the station in a matter of minutes. He left to take trash down. I turned on his dishwasher, picked up my coat and waited.
I'm not exactly sure what happened, or how it happened, or why it happened. I only know it did happen, and I'm really happy about it. When he got back to walk me to my car, he asked me my professional opinion on why Christmastime sucks. Okay, he didn't put it that way, but that was the question. The funny thing is, he's the one who had the answer. And he had an antidote to it ... hope. Hope. A silly word, a word I always say I don't believe in, and yet, my entire life has been centered around it in one way or another. And then ...
And then he kissed me.
I have to give us credit for not acting like teenagers or actors in some silly movie ... you know ... kiss, cut, next scene ... the bedroom. He kissed me. We stood there for a few minutes. Not feeling foolish, which surprised me. Just sort of taking each other in. Trying to grasp the meaning. There was no awkward attempt at explanations, no redundant questions, I didn't even giggle. We just stood there, still in a loose embrace, moonlight and Christmas lights illuminating the moment. The silence was surprisingly comforting. But I think that's just him. He's got that kind of demeanor, that `everything's all right now' sort of presence.
At last he broke the embrace, but kept a hand on my shoulder. "Do you want to stay the night?" he asked quietly. "No expectations."
I wasn't worried about that, because I didn't know what to expect. And I knew I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to go home, wake up and find myself in my sweats with a half eaten sandwich on my chest, and find out this whole Hallmark moment was a dream. "Yes," I answered.
I think he expected me to make some kind of smart remark, or a long speech, so the one word kind of caught him off guard. He had to give me a second look, but then he nodded. "In my bed," he added.
"Yes."
His big arm slid across my shoulders. "Come with me, then," he said. It wasn't exactly a command, but it wasn't a statement I might argue with, either.
We went up the stairs together, a cozy move that looked more romantic than it was ... the stairs weren't meant for two men to go abreast. But we got up the stairs without breaking anything, and then he took me into his bedroom.
His bedroom. First of all, I never thought of him sleeping. Second of all, I never, ever thought about sleeping with him. And here we were, in this vast white on whitewash room, with that big bed right in the middle. He was pointing while I was staring. "Bathroom is through there. I'll find you something to sleep in."
I must have had some kind of deer in the headlights look about me, because he came back to my side and, in a manner so tender as to seem alien to him, brushed my hair back and said, "It's going to be okay. We're going to take it as it comes." Realizing what he said, he blushed a little, but then smiled. A genuine smile, a non `forced by protocol to smile at you, bastards' smile. "You know what I mean."
I answered with a nod and barely contained smile of my own. He gave me sweats and a tee shirt. I went into the bathroom and changed. For a moment, I stood there, naked, my familiar suit on a hanger beside me, holding the sweats in my hand. I was about to put on his clothes. My boss's clothing. The raiment of another man. I actually sniffed at the cotton tee shirt after I pulled it over my head. It smelled clean. Soft. Cottony. It wasn't a scent I could say categorically reminded me of him, but I had a feeling laundry was about to become a whole new experience in sensory response. I had to pull the sweats up high and tie them pretty tight, but I was warm, and the tee shirt was long enough to hide a burgeoning erection.
Okay, I admit it. Once one crosses the threshold of the bedroom, it is permissible not only to think about sex, but to assume sex is imminent. My thinking and assuming gears were starting to smoke.
I stalled at the bathroom door, my mouth open.
He, my newfound fellow soldier in the war on loneliness, was in nothing more than a tasty looking pair of tighty whities, and a white cotton tee shirt, pulling back bedclothes, fluffing up pillows. I caught myself pulling up the neckline of my tee shirt to sniff it again. Yes ... a fine addition to my olfactory memory book. He sent me a glance. "Everything all right?"
I answered with a nod and moved to the bedside. I don't have a lot of experience with overnight etiquette with either gender, so I wasn't really sure what was expected of me. "Umm ... which side do you prefer?" Actually, that was a stupid question. All I had to do was look to see which side of the bed his alarm clock and book were on.
I was proved right when he pointed. "Is that all right with you? Which side do you prefer?"
I smiled grimly. "A futon doesn't come with `sides'."
He shook his head and pulled the bedclothes high. "Slide in. Make yourself at home."
I started to move, but just as my knee pressed into the firmness of his mattress, I smiled again. I couldn't help it. Suddenly, conversational English was fraught with double meaning. Someday, I thought, moving into the bed, and finding `my' spot, he's going to say that to me and mean something completely different.
He moved in next to me, and was not at all shy about shifting up close. He kissed my brow, and the corner of my mouth. It was interesting to see his face up close, without his glasses. He has such intense eyes. Like looking at coffee ... no, like looking at a river at night ... dark, undetermined depth. I shivered.
"We'll work this out," he said softly, and kissed me again. "Together."
It finally occurred to me to kiss back. I worked an arm up around him, and held on tight, opening my mouth, inviting him inside. I think it startled him a little, but in a pleased way, because he was right back at me with equal fervor. Within a couple of moments we were wriggling around like worms after the rain, and somehow clothes got rearranged, and more flesh exposed and rubbed and then there was that moment ... you know the one ... total brain lock. Total body lock. Hips thrust up and fix into place at an angle that makes you look like an inverted U. Fingers digging into whatever is within their grasp. Language becomes more than a challenge, and you are reduced to guttural imprecations and high, wheezy gasps. Legs are so rigid they shake. And it feels as if it will last forever, and yet feels as if it can't last long enough.
And then ... a puddle. A helpless, panting puddle. Cum and sweat and disbelief pooled together on my belly. His eyes washing over me, full of heat. His arms still locked in place around me, his thighs still quivering slightly between mine. "Oh." It was all I could manage.
It seemed to be enough for him. He kissed me again. I was surprised to feel that my lips were a little tender, even swollen. He kissed the corner of my eye. I think we were both surprised to find a tear there. "Are you okay with this?"
It took me a moment to find my tongue and form something similar to words. "As long as ..." I think I giggled again. "As long as you don't morph into my sister or that black lunged bastard or Carrot Top."
He stared at me, perplexed. "Where do you get some of your ideas?" he asked.
"Just promise you'll still be you in the morning," I finished with more longing than I meant to reveal.
He kissed me again. "Tomorrow morning. And the morning after that. And every morning."
I closed my eyes. "This is insane."
"Regrets?" Was that a tinge of anxiety?
I laughed, eyes still closed. "None. And that is insane."
"Is it?" He lifted himself off me and I could feel him react to the mess. "Don't move. I'll be right back."
"I couldn't move if I wanted to," I promised.
"Well," he inched to the edge of the bed, trying not to let anything drip on the sheets. "When you get to the point where you can move ... don't."
"Yes, sir," I mumbled drowsily. "No moving." I don't remember him coming back to the bed.
But when I woke the next morning, he was there. Just as he promised.
- END -