TITLE: Mr. Mulder Makes a Mess

NAME: Mik

E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: SRA

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.

SUMMARY: Spoil the rod and spare the child … no, wait! Is that how it goes?

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder 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 …

For my Beta-Kitten at the foot of the mountain. Don’t look back, love. You’ll make it to the top.

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.

Mr. Mulder Makes a Mess

by Mik

I don’t know when he left. I fell asleep after he sucked the life out of me and when I woke, I was neatly tucked in and alone.

It was a blow. A sucker punch. Wrap me in purple and call me Tootsie. I thought he was going to leave when he stayed and I thought he was going to stay when he left.

And I knew he was gone. I woke up with an unexpected ache. I stayed in bed for several minutes, thinking about it, reliving every moment from him crossing my sill last night to that mind-blowing (among other things) performance this morning. He had me fooled … completely. All that insecurity, all that endearing doubt, all that tenderness, all that passion. Yeah, he was, as they say, all that. And then he was gone.

He was tidy about it. My kitchen’s never looked so neat. Breakfast dishes rinsed, coffeepot cleaned. No errant pieces of paper laying about. Not a single scrap of paper that could say ‘Gee, Mulder, that was swell, but let’s get real here, okay?’ No ‘Thanks for the most wonderful night of my life’ written in the dust of my dining room table. Nothing.

It’s stupid to be hurt. I’m a grown man -- emphasis on man. I’m not some schoolgirl with a crush. I’m not some lonely virgin who gave it up to the stranger who chatted her up in a bar. I am a man who’s been around, knows the rules, made the choice. I am a man, alone in an apartment too clean to be my own.

Damn it, Skinner, why did you have to stay this morning? Why did you have to smile and kiss me and do all those things you did? You had me last night. Why didn’t you just go this morning? Why bury the hook in my side and then rip it out, leaving the blood and gore of disappointment and disbelief?

It is pointless to lash out, toss all of the papers and photographs and evidence from my coffee-table with a loud grunt and a ferocious sweep of my arms. Pointless … but satisfying.

Almost as satisfying as kicking that stack of magazines until they scattered halfway down the hall. Almost as satisfying as pulling an entire row of books from the shelves with a yelp. I begin to tear savagely at the newspaper, imagining Skinner’s face, the flesh on his chest … his broad, strong, bronzed … damn it. Damn you! Damn you, Skinner, how could you do this to me?

The kitchen he straightened up is somehow offensive to me. As if this was his ‘payment’ for the sex. He might as well have left a stack of twenties tucked under the coffee canister, underneath the coupon for toothpaste that I’ll never redeem. All right, maybe one twenty. I had to at least be as good as a twenty dollar twink.

I tug the coupon free and it knocks the canister over, splashing coffee grounds across the counter, and into the empty sink. I start to scrape them toward my open palm, in an absent-minded attempt to clean it up, and yet, at the last moment, I merely scoop them over the edge to the floor. I remember him standing here last night, watching me make coffee, trying to convince me that he felt something for me. Well, he got a good feel, didn’t he, damn him.

Angrily, I push the canister back into place. It hits the sugar bowl, sending it careening toward the fridge, where it shatters and sends sugar spraying everywhere. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

I yank open the closet to get the broom, and the mop, the bucket and the can of cleanser come tumbling down, the bucket hitting my foot, the mop hitting my cheek and the cleanser just hitting the floor and adding blue to the brown and white theme I’ve been creating there. At least that’s what it looks like through the stars I’m now seeing.

"Shit, fuck, damn!" I yelp, hopping on the -- as yet -- uninjured foot, scrambling for balance. One of my flailing hands hits the dish rack, and I pull it down with me as I tumble, ass over teacup, into coffee, sugar and Comet. Oh, yes, and broken crockery. "That’s it!" I announce angrily. "I have had it." Dragging myself up, I storm out of the kitchen, hit the slick surface of magazine pages on hardwood floor and start sailing the opposite direction. In desperation, I grab for something, anything to keep me upright. My fingernails drag against the wallpaper and all I succeed in doing is adding really ugly peeling patches to my already really ugly wallpaper.

And I still end up on my ass.

Okay, now I’m angry. Now I’m pissed as hell. This is all that bastard’s fault. He should have left me alone in the first place. He had no right to come in, fuck with me, body and soul, and then clean up the scene of the crime on his way out. If my foot didn’t hurt so much, I’d kick something, anything. I opt for hitting instead. And add a two by two inch hole in the drywall under the shredded wallpaper.

And now my fist hurts.

Adrenaline coursing through me, I race to the bedroom and claw at the bedclothes until they are in a heap on the floor. He slept on those sheets, that pillow. I can never use them again. For one horrific, frenzied moment, I fantasize soaking the whole damn bed in gasoline and setting it alight.

Oh, grow up, Mulder. So he got a freebie off you. So he played on your feelings. So what. Didn’t you ever do that to a woman? No? Sure you did. All men do. So what makes you so bloody special?

Special? No, that’s the problem. I’m not special. But he is. He was. That’s it. I made a hero out of him. I’m not sure when I did it but somewhere along the way I put him on a fucking pedestal. And guess what? The great god Skinner has a cock of clay. Damn him.

Well, fine. I won’t set the bed on fire. But … I’ve got to do something. I grab the pillow and with every ounce of strength in me bash it against the closet door, until the seams burst and the feathers fly. That’s not enough. I can feel my rage boiling up inside me. I can still feel his touch, I can still smell him. I have to … rip the pillowcase. Yes. That’s good. That felt good. The sheets. I’ll never use them anyway. I’ll rip them to shreds just the way I’d like to rip his face to shreds. His face. That sweet, astounded, incredibly tender face. That … oh, dear God, that smile.

The sheet won’t give as easily as the pillowcase did. Impulsively, I rip at the edge with my teeth, trying to get a good rent started. Suddenly, I’m aware of something. I’m not alone anymore.

I look up. He’s standing there, staring at me. Why is he there? Why is he holding a brown paper bag in one hand and his gun in the other. Why is he there?

Then I realize what he sees. He’s coming into an apartment that must look like the scene of a terrific and violent struggle. Bursting into my bedroom, expecting to find my bloody, lifeless corpse, he instead finds me. Naked, in a feather flurry, coffee grounds stuck to my ass, tearing at a sheet like a feral dog. I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or jump out my bedroom window.

The expression on his face has shifted from fear to incredulity. Slowly, he holsters his gun at his back. "I went for Thai," he says, holding up the bag.

Lunch. He went for fucking lunch. I just trashed my house over pad thai chicken and smoky noodles.

"I …" I look down at the sheet in my hands. "I …" I let it go. "Never mind." I look up, try to smile. "Let me get dressed and we’ll eat, if we can find a couple of plates I didn’t break."

He nods and backs out of the room.

I drag on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt and come into the kitchen to find he’s sweeping up the mess. I gesture weakly. "Thanks for cleaning up earlier. Sorry it was for naught."

He strokes the broom across the floor slowly. "You thought I left, didn’t you?" he asks quietly.

Busted. I bite my lip and glance away.

I’m surprised by his fingertips on my chin, forcing me to look at him. "I won’t go like that, Mulder."

Damn it. When did he climb back up on the pedestal? "I …" I swallow. Who would believe words would fail me twice in one day? I shake my head, pulling free. "If you were half as smart as I’ve always thought you were, you would get the hell out, now." I make a sweeping motion toward the floor. "I’m prone to tantrums."

"That’s all right," he says in an unexpectedly cheerful voice. "I’ve seen your ass. I think I’d have a lot of fun putting you over my knee."

I know the look I give him is one of horror.

He laughs at me. "Relax, Mulder. I’m here. You aren’t going to change that. Okay?"

"Stupid," I mutter before I can stop myself.

"I know," he agrees easily. "Live with it."

Something inside me swells up, cuts off my breath. It’s a good feeling. Pride and hope and pleasure and … I don’t know … happiness? I sigh.

"Hungry?"

I eye him, meaningfully. "Yeah, but let’s eat first."

He swings the broom at my butt, playfully. "Give an old man a break, Mulder."

"Old?" I snort. "You managed twice in twelve hours."

"Let’s just say I was inspired."

I grin at him. "Okay, let’s." I open a cupboard and find two plates. When I look back, he’s eyeing the living room, doubtfully. "That’s a hell of a mess you made, Mulder."

I wait until he turns to meet my eyes and I tell him, seriously, "Let’s just say I was inspired."

-THE END-