Attention: I DID NOT WRITE THIS STORY

TITLE: Same Game: Part XVII – Air Ball

(Part 1 of 2 parts)

NAME: Mik

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: When the ball misses the net, the backboard … everything.

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

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully 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.

Everyone thinks Moose and Squirrel are Mulder and Scully. This one is for my own personal Moose and Squirrel.

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.

Same Game XVII – Air Ball (part 1 of 2)

by Mik

"Fox Mulder played with G. I. Joe?"

I jerked around, guilt putting my heart in my throat even some twenty-five years later. Seeing him with the box in his hands, I gave him a goofy grin. "Ah, you found my secret stash."

"Secret?" He glanced up into my father’s nearly empty closet and then back to me, a brow cocked in curiosity.

I put the soapy rag down in the bucket and came to pull the box from his hands. Considering the plastic figurines and weapons, I felt a wave of nostalgia and then its companion unease. One of the worst beatings I ever got came after my dad caught me playing war with my illicit treasures. Yet he never did destroy them, as he vowed he would. They remained hidden in the cupboard of the summerhouse for a quarter of a century.

Something must have registered in my face because Skinner touched my shoulder and repeated gently, "Secret?"

"Yeah." I put the box on the trash pile very deliberately. "My dad was … weird. He was very pro Establishment but very anti-military. He told me repeatedly he didn’t raise me to be cannon fodder. War toys were expressly forbidden unless they were board games, requiring tactics and quick thinking, like Battleship or Stratego --" The word choked me slightly. Suddenly I could hear the wounded cry of an animal, rising in pitch until it was a young girl’s voice, calling out, ‘Help me, Fox.’

I dragged a hand across my eyes. "It’s hot up here. Let’s call it quits and get back to the hotel and the A/C."

"Come on, you wimp," he challenged, taking another tour of the closet. "We’re nearly done in here."

I gave him a quick look. He had worked incredibly hard all day, and was red-faced and perspiring profusely. I know why he wouldn’t quit. He felt he needed to prove he was a man. From where I stood, there was no doubting he was a man; bulging thighs barely contained in faded jeans, incredible guns exposed by a sleeveless tee shirt, and I have to admit, I liked that bandanna roped around his head. He looked sticky, dirty and very, very … hot.

Another shock for me. I got turned on by this he-man look. I suppose it makes sense, if you’re going to be attracted to a man, the manlier the better. This one was all man, even if his manhood continued to be reticent.

I picked up the bucket of soap and water and carried it to the bathroom to dump. "It’s too hot," I persisted, just short of a whine. "You saw all the storm watch flags along the cape when we went to lunch. Let’s get back to the hotel before it hits. I don’t relish being trapped in a car with you if visibility drops to zero in a gale. I don’t know if you’ve gotten downwind of yourself in the last couple of hours but you are getting a bit rank. If it blows through, we’ll come back and finish tomorrow." I passed by him and dropped a kiss to his frowning mouth.

At least I tried. He jerked away from me as if I was unclean on Yom Kippur. "Come on, Walt," I complained. "Just a fucking kiss."

I shouldn’t have said that. I know it. I have been trying so hard not to be judgmental or demanding, to be compassionate and consistent, just like we learned in Sexual Dysfunction 101. But I can’t always remember my training, damn it. Sometimes instinct kicks in.

He tugged his headband free and mopped at his face. "Yeah, let’s get back to the hotel. It’s too hot to breathe. And you’re not exactly a posy patch, yourself."

We packed up in silence. I was angry and I knew he could hear it in the way I slammed doors and threw things. I’m not sure still if I was angry at him or at myself. On one level, our relationship had never been so good. We talked. I mean, really talked. He opened up a couple of tightly sealed bags and spilled them for me, shaking them so that all the bits and pieces of his failed marriage and lost friends were scattered before me for my scrutiny. I’ve never had any trouble talking to anyone – anything; if so inclined, a tree would make a good partner. But I said meaningful things to him. I told him -- really told him -- about Samantha’s disappearance. I revealed my true feelings for Scully. I told him about a disastrous affair I had in college in England. It was amazing and cathartic, and even though I still feel a bit naked because of the things he knows, I’m glad he knows.

But on another level … I guess perhaps the significant level of this relationship, was sinking rapidly. I had originally surmised that his flag remained at half staff because he had presumed a little hanky panky with General Sean, (which still royally pisses me off), but the situation didn’t improve once he was assured that was not the case … unless he’s still not convinced.

To that end, I’ve been very careful not to see much of Sean. I spend all my days trying to tie up loose ends at the Bureau, and all my nights trying to convince Skinner that everything’s okay. I’ve seen Hardy maybe twice; once to ask him to push back my start date a couple of weeks to let me finish a case Scully and I were assisting on, and once when Skinner invited him to dinner and then watched us both, as if looking for some sign of a hot and heavy romance. He didn’t see any.

I flicked him a glance as we climbed into the car. He looked like he could eat two-penny nails. I decided to stay out of his way for the rest of the evening.

At the hotel, I let him take a shower first, not even offering to get in with him. We’d had a lot of fun in showers; a lot of slippery, soapy sex and a couple of just tender post coitus moments that I wouldn’t trade for a peek inside the hangars in Area 51. But I don’t get in the shower with him these days. I don’t want to see him just hanging there, I don’t want him to see me not hanging there.

He came out, wrapped in a towel and paused at the foot of the bed, where I had collapsed. "I left some hot water, if you want it," he announced.

I opened my eyes and looked up at him. Shit, look at those eyes. They’re like dark flames that heat something inside me. I groped for his hand. "Thanks." I didn’t know what else to say, but I wanted to -- needed to say something. "How are you feeling?" Not profound but heartfelt.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and then went slowly over me, taking inventory of things he hadn’t needed or wanted in a while. "Fine." I felt his fingers squeeze mine. "You?"

Horny as hell. No, wrong thing to say. "Hot and tired." I used his grip on my hand to pull myself upward. "I’ll go take my shower. Why don’t you think about what you want to eat?" I stumbled wearily into the bathroom, already feeling myself stiffening with a need I hadn’t met in about four days.

The water felt good; hot as promised, and pounding on my weary shoulders and back. I fumbled around and found the tiny bottle of shampoo he had left basically undisturbed, tipped my head back to get my hair good and wet, and began working up a lather. Shampoo dripping into my eyes, I sought the microscopic bar of soap and started working up another sort of lather.

I was just getting into it, falling back on a recent fantasy; Skinner’s thick cock dueling with mine, his body pinning mine, his mouth possessing mine, his fingers locked in battle with mine, when I felt a hand on mine. I opened my eyes with a jerk and found him standing there, shower curtain pushed aside, holding my hand still. I started to get red all over. "I … uh … I …" I gave up.

"Save that for me," he said quietly.

I felt a little fire of hope race through me. "Oh?"

"Yeah." He reached past me and turned the water off. "I decided what I wanted to eat."

I swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." There was a dark glimmer in his eye. "You."

"Okay."

I let him hand me a towel, and then, stepping out of the shower, I let him help me towel off. He was diligent about making sure I was dry, especially between my legs. He even knelt and very thoroughly examined me for moisture. Any he found was removed with his tongue, even the moisture leaking from the tip of my painfully hard cock. Oh, it had been so long since he’d touched me like this …

I was beyond trembling at that point. I was full on shaking with need. I wanted him, and I didn’t care how I got him. I’d do whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, just so long as we connected somehow. He levered himself up from his knees and kissed me, leaning his body against mine, pressing me back against the clammy tiles of the wall. I didn’t care. I barely felt it. What I did feel was a warmth with the beginning of shape against my hip. I opened my eyes and searched his eyes.

"Let’s go to bed," he said huskily.

I was almost afraid to move. I didn’t want to endanger this fragile moment. But he was pushing at me and I turned and staggered out into the bedroom. He kept pushing me ‘til I landed on the bed with a grunt, and he was on top of me, kissing, pinching, stroking, squeezing.

I met him kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke. There was some life in my Frankenstein monster and I was going to nurture it any way I could.

_____

He was gone when I woke in the morning. I wasn’t really surprised. I think I almost expected it when I rolled away from him the night before. He had teased and tortured me ‘til I was ready to fuck a goat for him and then when I thought he was going to finally do what we both wanted him to do, he gave me a sad look and pulled away. He didn’t say a word. He just put his back to me and went silent.

I wanted to scream at him. I think I wanted to hit him. If you aren’t going to do anything don’t tease me that way! How could you get me all worked up and not follow through!

Then I wanted to scream at myself. How could I be so stupid? So … whatever I was that turned him off? How could I let things progress when we both knew he wasn’t going to finish? I can’t believe how slutty and dirty I felt laying there, feeling his weight on the bed behind me, and that painfully unrelieved cock in front of me. I finally got up, got back in the shower and finished what I had started. I know he was awake when I came back to bed, but he didn’t say anything and for the first time in all the months we had been together, we slept without touching each other.

I’ve been hurt enough times; and not just physically. My psyche has taken plenty of abuse, but I honestly think there have only been two other times in my life when I felt as lost and alone as I felt that morning. There was a night when I was thirteen, and it really came home to me that my parents were never going to forgive me for losing Samantha -- that they felt they lost both children that night. And there was the morning I came home to find my apartment totally trashed -- knowing I had missed my chance to face with deadly force the people who had killed Scully, and I hadn’t saved Scully either.

And now I knew Skinner had given up on me, on us.

I think I even thought about crying. I mean, who was there to see, after all? This thing was insane. Why did I ever let myself get involved with anyone, much less him? I mean … a man, for Heaven’s sake. And THAT man. I had experienced more incredible lows in the last five months than I had in all the rest of my miserable existence. Yet, I’d also experienced more incredible highs. Was that the deal? You had to have a running start to hit these highs, so you needed to start from a low? Who wrote these rules, anyway? Who said you had to deal with so much bitterness for a taste of the sweet? That’s bullshit. You should be allowed to flounder around and be miserable until you find that right one, and then everything should be smooth sailing after that.

Well, if nothing else, I’ve learned my lesson. Fox Mulder doesn’t get a love life. He doesn’t get that happily ever after. Rule number ten: Fox should know better.

I was kicking the blankets back when I heard a key in the lock. I turned toward the door, paralyzed -- by fear, shock, dread … hope. He came around the door and put his weight on it to shut it. He looked windblown and wet. I hadn’t even noticed the howling of the wind outside, or the crash of rain against the window.

His eyes came to me and registered surprise. "You’re awake."

"You’re back." Stupid, I know, but I was still stunned and -- and relieved.

"Yeah. I thought I’d better get breakfast while I could. It’s really blowing out there." He brought styrofoam cups and a white paper bag to the bed table, and began unpacking.

I scooted up in bed ‘til I could lean back against the headboard, dragging the sheets up to keep myself covered. I don’t know where this sudden sense of modesty came from, but I was intensely shy about revealing any more of myself to him. "What’s on the menu?" I asked, forcing myself to keep my voice light.

"The only thing open." He put an enormous cinnamon roll in my hands.

"Cool," I said politely. Well, no, there was enthusiasm in the mix. It isn’t everyday someone brings you a piping hot cinnamon roll the size of Nebraska. I licked icing from my fingers.

His eyes tracked the motion. A frown furrowed up his brow. "Fox, about last --"

"It’s okay," I lied. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to put a name on it, having it laying out there between us. Because once we named it, shared it, owned it, it became ours -- not his. And if it became ours … it could happen to me. That was it. I am so shallow that my fear is greater than my compassion for him. "You were tired. We worked hard yesterday." I took a large bite of the roll as if that would prevent any further conversation.

"You worked just as hard as I did," he pointed out. "I just want you to understand that --"

"Walt." I put sticky fingers on his wrist. "I do understand. We don’t need to make a big deal out of it. That’s part of the problem. We’re working too hard at it. Makes it worse. Let’s just let it go for a while. When it’s right, we’ll be ready."

He looked down at my hand, and the expression on his face was enough to make me cry. "You don’t understand, Fox. You don’t understand how frightening this is."

"I do understand," I interjected. "Everything about a man’s sense of self stems from his penis. We can’t help it. It’s the way we’re built."

His mouth twisted and he looked up. "No, that’s not it at all," he said, sounding faintly disgusted. "This happens. It’s a part of life. What’s frightening, is that I might lose you over this."

It took me a minute. I’m not kidding. Sixty seconds of deadly silence while the meaning of his words settled into my thick skull. And when I did fully comprehend his fear, I was at a loss for words to reassure him. All I could think of were Scully’s words a few weeks before. "You big … goof." I was reduced to a five year old on the playground. I slugged his shoulder. "How could you think that your plumbing is the only thing keeping me here? My God, Skinner, if it was about sex, I’d have been with a guy years ago, or had a lot more women than I’ve had. This is about you … and me," I conceded. "How we fit. How we fill in the gaps for one another. And I don’t mean sexually."

"Mulder."

I looked at him. "Yeah?"

He kissed me. Hard, almost desperate. He backed away from me and reached for his coffee. His hand was shaking. I guess that was his way of saying ‘Thank you’. Works for me.

_____

Cold fingers tripping down my neck. The stench of the afterworld, the stark stare of disbelief on Scully’s face. This was what I lived for. This was my work. I almost grinned at her. I’d seen enough unexplained horror and lived to tell the tale that instinctive fear had not surfaced yet, and I was reveling to be in the presence of what appeared to be a genuine haunting.

A brand new apartment building in Atlanta, Georgia, built on the site of a plane crash. Uninhabited. Sixteen units and not one of them had been rented. The owners couldn’t even keep a manager in the place. The complaints began with construction workers when the drywall went up. Sounds of roaring engines filling the skeletal rooms, making the flimsy dividers tremble, crack and disintegrate. Howls and screams of terror in hallways. Plumbing that leaked red liquid, and small fires erupting smelling of fuel.

Scully maintained it was sabotage; the new owners of the property had invoked a little used ordinance and purchased the site at a ridiculously low price in the wake of the disaster. I felt we had a genuine haunting on our hands. She had argued with me all the way, showing the pending court orders from the heirs of the victims trying to block the construction. Well, I just showed her the specter of a six year old girl, screaming in horror. Tiffany Tole, the only victim killed on the ground.

Of course, in the morning, Scully would claim it was an optical illusion, a reflection of a street lamp on the white walls. But tonight, she was touched, and frightened. And no street lamp in the world could have recreated the plaintive cry of a little girl wanting her mother in the final seconds of her life.

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t thrilled to have seen that. In fact, it hurt. What did thrill me was being on the road, on a real X File. My swan song with the Bureau was going to be memorable and meaningful. And Scully was here to witness it. Skinner had made it official when he signed our 302 that morning. "The last one, Agent Mulder. From here on out, administrative duties only."

I had to shake myself out of a momentary melancholy and trot after the vanishing image of Tiffany.

"Mulder," Scully protested. "Where are you going?"

"This way, unit 202. As near as I can tell from the project map, this is where her bedroom was. I think most of the activity stems from this unit."

"So, you think all of this is Tiffany?"

"Yes. I think we’re reliving the last few minutes of her life; the sounds she heard, the sensation of the house falling apart, the smells, the heat … everything Tiffany saw, felt, tasted, we’re seeing."

"And what do you think is in Unit 202?" One of the few times I heard genuine dread in Scully’s voice.

We never found out. They say the blast knocked us back nearly a hundred feet.

-END of part 1-

Attention: I DID NOT WRITE THIS STORY. I'm posting this for my friend, fellow author, and brother in arms, Mik. Please send all feedback to Mik at mikdok@hotmail.com Nope, nope, absolutely not responsible. Don't blame me. Honest. Take it up with him. - frogdoggie aka Jay Fox

TITLE: Same Game: Part XVII – Air Ball

(Part 2 of 2 parts)

NAME: Mik

E-MAIL: mikdok@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: When the ball misses the net, the backboard … everything.

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

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17

Everyone thinks Moose and Squirrel are Mulder and Scully. This one is for my own personal Moose and Squirrel.

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.

Same Game XVII – Air Ball (part 2 of 2)

by Mik

"Are you out of your mind?" He was absolutely wide-eyed with disbelief.

"Probably," I agreed evenly, trying not to laugh at his expression. "But I’m serious about my offer."

He rubbed at the white gauze around his brow. "I must have hit my head harder than I thought. I could have sworn you asked me to move in with you?"

"You hit your head plenty hard, but I did ask you. You can’t get around with a broken arm, Mulder, not when you’re right-handed."

"Skinner, did you hit YOUR head? OPR would have you for dinner."

I shrugged at him. "Based on what? You’re not my subordinate any longer. You’re out on disability until long after your resignation takes effect." He was scowling, and I know the irritation crept into my voice. "I’m not asking you to pick out furniture with me, Mulder. Just stay with me until you regain the use of your dominant hand."

"It’s a very nice offer, Skinner, but …" He stopped, the fingers of his left hand worrying at the straps of his sling.

"But?"

"How’s Scully?"

I barely reined in my exasperation. Mulder was changing subjects to avoid answering my question. "Scully’s fine. She was smart enough to be thrown into a stack of corrugated boxes and foam packing."

"Yeah, she’s a clever girl, our Scully."

"Mulder, what’s the problem? Why don’t you want to let me help until your arm is healed?"

He avoided my eyes, and suddenly I didn’t need to hear the answer. He didn’t want to be there with me, every night, dealing with the awkwardness of our less than satisfactory love-life. It would be impossible to avoid me, living in my house. I reached past him and gathered up his coat and other belongings. "Come on."

He sat there, looking at me.

"I have a hotel room. It’s a lot cheaper than spending the night in a hospital. The Bureau can’t say anything about that." I went to the door and opened it with a jerk.

He slid down from the exam table and just for a moment, his legs were wobbly. I almost thought maybe he should be spending the night in the hospital. Then he straightened, gave me a wobbly smile and murmured, "Ta da."

Scully was downstairs, in sickly green scrubs since the worst damage to her had been the destruction of her suit. She had butterfly sutures on her chin, and her hair was a greasy, streaky mess, but other than that she looked healthy, whole and shaken. She twisted toward us as we came out of the elevator and asked a thousand questions with her eyes.

Mulder came to her, caressed her shoulder in that possessive, pointless manner of his. She said something to him and considered the wrist protruding from the sling. Then she turned to me. "Sir?"

"I’m at the Embassy Suites," I said, herding them both toward the pneumatic doors at the end of the corridor. "Plenty of beds for everyone."

"What about the case?" Mulder argued.

I shook my head. "We’ll have additional agents in the morning, Mulder. We can discuss it then. Come on. It’s late and you’ve both been injured."

"Oh, sir," Scully began. "I’m fine."

"Bed, Agent," I said gruffly. I glanced over her head at Mulder who was looking everywhere but at me.

At the hotel, there was a brief albeit awkward moment, trying to decide who would sleep where. The choices were a king-sized bed in the bedroom and a double pull-out in the sitting room. Scully, blushing and stammering, insisted on the pull-out and pushed us toward the bedroom. "Just, please," she whispered to Mulder. "Not too loud." Then she shut the door and left us.

And there we were, alone in a hotel room, a bed before us in silent mockery. Although my ability to keep up with his ever-raging hormones had been debilitated by age, stress and fear of loss, my desire for him had never wavered. That, however, was not enough for him, and consequently, on the rare occasion that he had been in town, we had been avoiding one another’s bed.

Mulder swallowed and shrugged off the overcoat that he’d had draped over his shoulders like a cape. "I … uh … could use a shower," he said.

"How are you going to take a shower with that cast on your arm?" I challenged, roughly.

He looked down at his arm. "I don’t know. I’ll figure it out." He moved toward the bathroom door.

I stopped him. "Don’t."

He flicked me a startled look.

"Don’t shut me out, Mulder."

"I’m not," he insisted quickly. "I’m … not." He surprised me then, turning into my arms, his free hand working up around my neck. "I’m not. Walt, I just don’t … I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to hurt you but I …" He pulled away. "Never mind."

"What?" I tried to grab for him but he was already out of my reach. He shut the door to the bathroom behind him. I waited to hear him flip the lock, but he didn’t. I went to the edge of the bed and waited. ‘I don’t want to hurt you but …’ What was the ‘but’? What was coming? Oh, I already knew. I don’t want to hurt you but I can’t take this anymore? I don’t want to hurt you but I need more than you’re giving me? I don’t want to hurt you but I want a whole man? Just what I’d been expecting. I’m grateful he didn’t have the heart to finish the sentence.

I heard the water come on. I heard the shower curtain go back. I heard him slip and curse. Without thinking, I jumped up and pushed the door open.

He was standing beside the shower, rubbing his head. "I guess I can’t do it by myself," he admitted ruefully.

"I’ll help you --"

The door pushed open again, hitting me in the back. "Mulder, I heard --"

I turned and looked down at her. She was blushing. She had acted on instinct and even she knew she shouldn’t be there. "I … heard him …"

"He’s fine. He didn’t realize how much he needed both arms for balance." I turned her out the door gently. "I’ve got things under control, Agent. Go on to bed."

Waiting until I heard her shut the bedroom door behind her, I turned to him. He was leaning against the bathroom wall, his head cocked to one side. "You have it all under control?" he said.

"This part of it." I pointed at the tub. "Sit."

I held his arm and helped him down into the tub. I got a towel and wound it around his cast and rested it on the edge of the tub. Setting the temperature of the water, I began to run the shower-head over him and then knelt at the edge of the tub.

He was silent as I took my time shampooing his hair. He always surprised me with his thick, soft hair. I liked it the way it was now, just a bit longer than that spiky, geeky look he’d sported recently. After I rinsed his hair, I took soap and worked it across his shoulders and over his chest. It was comforting to see him naked, and be certain he’d added no new scars to his collection. He sat there as I let my hands slide over his hard skin, his head tipped back, his eyes closed. I could feel tension easing out of him as I worked over his muscles.

Then I worked my way down to his groin. His cock was already stiffening and actually jerked up at my first touch. He said nothing as I ran soapy fingers up and down his shaft. He hadn’t let me touch him this way in a while. Everything had been focused on whether or not I was going to get it up, and when it would become obvious I wasn’t, he would remove himself. It felt good to touch him, it warmed me, hell, it heated parts of me. Impulsively, I kissed him. "Feels good, baby," I whispered against his lips.

He opened his eyes and I’m not sure if it was the shower, or if there were tears in his eyes. He tried to frown. "Will you please stop calling me baby?"

I smiled at him, and pinched his glans. "No." I felt the smile drain from my face. "You don’t want to hurt me, but …" I prompted.

He reached down, at last, and stilled my hand. "It’s not important."

"It is," I snapped. "If you’re going to leave me because --"

"Leave you?" His eyes popped open, round and incredulous. "Who said anything about leaving you?"

"You did, you said --"

"No." He turned his head, avoiding my eyes.

"Mulder." I caught his chin and turned his face to me. "Fox."

"It isn’t you, it’s me."

"What do you mean?"

"I can’t … I hate the …" He swallowed. "I hate being rejected."

"I’m not rejecting YOU." I stared at him. "Good God, I am NOT rejecting you."

"When you can’t …" His eyes flickered over me. "When you don’t, when you pull away … it feels like rejection." He sighed, hard. "Look, I know what’s going on. I’ve studied sexual dysfunction. It’s part and parcel with my professional expertise. I understand it … in here." He tapped his forehead. "But, when it happens between us …" He shrugged, helplessly. "I can’t help it. I take it personally."

"So, you’ve been pulling away first," I concluded.

He looked up at me, mortified. "Have I?"

I reached in and gathered him against me. "Oh, God, Mulder, I never even thought how it must feel to you." I kissed his wet hair. "I’m not rejecting you. Never. I’ve told you this before, and I still mean it: even if we never made love again … I still couldn’t reject you."

He squirmed like a cat. "Walt, you’re getting soaked. Let go."

I backed away, only a fraction, suddenly afraid he could elude me in that narrow tub stall. "Fox, let me make this very, VERY clear. What’s going on … there are a million reasons for it. As you said, you understand it. You know the factors that cause it; stress, fatigue, age. I work hard. I’m in a difficult relationship -- one which I am not willing to opt out of. I think it can work itself out, but only if I can be sure you’re going to be there with me. You’re the only reason I’d care if it worked itself out."

"I am?"

He sounded almost childlike. I couldn’t help it. I smiled indulgently. "You’d better believe it, baby. In here." I tapped my forehead. "I want to make you scream."

He smirked at me. "If anyone could …"

"Come on." I stood up. "Come to bed. Let me at least make you whimper a little."

_____

"Mulder?" I put the keys and my briefcase on the foyer table, flicked a quick glance at the mail piled there and went into the living room. Well, it wasn’t much of a mess today. He was trying. "Mulder?" I checked the kitchen. Something was in the oven. Lasagna. I think from the freezer section of the grocery, but at least I wasn’t cooking tonight. And he’d made an attempt to wash dishes.

I pulled a beer from the fridge, noting that there was a new six pack of Sam Adams. Evidently, Mulder had been shopping today. Made a nice change from spending the day watching soaps and talk shows as he had been doing for the last week.

Hard to believe I’d had him here a week already. I’d had such great plans. I was going to make him scream some how, some way, some place in this condo. But all I had managed to do was come home late, grumble about the mess and barely undo the damage in time to coax him into bed to sleep.

He had been petulant and difficult. When shattered fuselage had been found in the fiery remains of the complex in Atlanta, he had crowed, proving it was a haunting. Numbers on the cockpit door, however, traced the wreckage to a plane that had been recently taken out of service and had been slated for scrap. The Toles eventually confessed.

I started up the stairs. "Mulder?" I started toward the bedroom, starting to be concerned, but heard a sound from the den. He was in the dark, in front of the computer, in nothing but a pair of denim cut-offs. Even in the dark he looked flushed, sweaty. "Mulder, are you all right?"

He looked up at me, his eyes slightly glazed. "Walt, have you ever heard of slash fiction?"

"Sounds right up your alley. What is it, serial killers?" I offered him the beer.

He shook his head as he took a sip and handed it back. "It’s a form of fan fiction. You know, about television and movie characters?"

"Oh, yeah, that’s gone on for years. Even Shakespeare was, in his own way, writing fan fiction." I tugged at my tie. Looking at Mulder in nothing but a pair of shorts was making me feel flushed and sweaty.

"Shakespeare never wrote anything like this." Mulder flicked a hand toward the screen. "Slash fiction is where the fans write scenarios pairing the males with the males or the females with the females."

"You mean …" I swallowed and tried to sound matter of fact. "Gay erotica."

"Yeah. Star Trek seems to be the favorite. You once told me you thought Janeway was a babe. I found a story pairing her with Uhura from TOS." He scrolled the pages. "This stuff’s pretty hot. Spock and Kirk, Starsky and Hutch, Simon and Simon -- of course, that’s both slash and incest, but there are some major kinks out there. The ones I think are really kinky are the ones from Law and Order …" He grinned at me, knowing that was one of my favorite shows.

I leaned over his chair, to nuzzle his neck. "What are you reading about now?" I scanned the screen. "Mulder, I don’t think that’s physiologically possible."

He chuckled at me. "Whatsamotta U? You don’t think Moose and Squirrel could do it? What amazes me is how Rocky tops Bullwinkle."

"Mulder, I’ve always known you were sick, but this …"

"Come on … haven’t you always wondered why Boris and Natasha hate them so much? That’s some serious transference and denial going on there. Kinda’ gives a whole new meaning to the Fractured Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?"

"Come on, Rocky, I think your lasagna’s burning." I tugged at his arm.

He came up and into my arms, six feet plus of hot, sweaty hard skin flavored with Mulder’s particular scent. He was aroused. If thinking about cartoon characters could do this to him … impulsively, I pushed him against the wall, and began sucking on his neck, pinching his nipples with one hand, pressing the cold beer bottle to his chest with the other.

He let out an almost unearthly sound of pleasure, and began tearing at my shirt.

In another moment, he was naked and my shirt was gone and my slacks were around my ankles. I had him hard against the wall, grinding my body against his erection. I wasn’t hard but I didn’t care. It felt good. He felt good. His entire body had become an erogenous zone. Everywhere I touched made him twitch and moan. His mouth was fixed on mine like a leech and it would have taken a nuclear holocaust at that moment to pry us apart.

We had one, between us. He jerked and groaned, stiffening, snapping his head back until it banged against the wall. I felt the hot flood between our writhing bodies and I wanted to cry in my relief. It had been so damned long. "Yes," I sighed. "Yes."

For a moment, we just stood there, letting waves of aftershocks ripple over us. Then I felt him shake beneath me. I opened my eyes. He was laughing. "Was it good for you, Moose?" he cackled.

"You are an asshole," I told him, prying myself away from the sticky mess. "An incredibly sexy asshole."

He reached for the box of tissues on my desk. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

"You should." I took a wad of them from his hand and began to wipe at my stomach and thighs.

"Hey, I’m gonna’ write my own slash fiction and post it," he announced, groping for his cut-offs. "I’ve been inspired."

I picked up my tie. "Oh? Who?"

"Tom Slick and Super Chicken."

I shuddered and started for the door. I stopped and turned back. "Just so we’re clear on this … which one is which?"

He grinned at me. "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it."

"I am NOT going to be Super Chicken."

That destroyed him. He dropped onto the chair, laughing helplessly. I had never seen him so happy before. Never. To see that open, happy, carefree joy on his face again, I just might rent a chicken costume and seduce him. Might.

He wiped tears from his eyes. "Whatever you say, Moose."

"Stop that."

"Yes, Moose."

I dropped the clothes and came back to the chair, caught his hair and forced his head back. "Now, listen to me."

"Another rule, Moose?" He was still laughing.

"Yes." I released his hair and stroked his cheek. "Remember that I love you. You know that, don’t you?"

He stopped laughing. His expression was soft. "Yeah. I know that." He sighed, satisfied. "I know that."

-THE END-