The Grey Zone, part 3: Melting
By Palinurus
May 22, 1998
Much as he tried to fight it, it seemed to Mulder like half of his life was spent either preparing for or recovering from the Thursday night rituals. On Fridays he usually couldn't concentrate; his attention would wander, jump this way and that without rhyme or reason. His weekends were spent in isolation, mulling over the events of the preceding Thursday night, endlessly going over the scene, and trying fruitlessly to get a rational handle on what was happening. On Monday, he'd almost be his usual self again, except for a slight tension in his stomach that reminded him that life was not normal at present. But he could function, reassure Scully that he wasn't going to crash, and get some work done.
On Thursday morning, the tension would start to rise. By lunchtime, he'd be high on adrenaline, not eating, trying hard to muster interest for whatever he was working on. After lunch the battle would be as good as lost, and he'd spend the remains of the working day trying to act normal, so as not to make Scully suspicious again. It was an exhausting routine. But he never questioned it; quitting was not an option. Instead, he tried to fold his life around it, to accommodate its awkward, bulky presence as well as he could.
This Thursday was no different. He was sitting at his desk, idly flipping through a report, playing with his pen, when he noticed that Scully was looking at him again. Any day now she would start asking questions, and he would not be able to lie, at least not well enough to satisfy her - he would make a few pathetic attempts that would piss her off, she would push a bit harder, then a bit harder yet, and he would crumble, and confess. And then what? It was imponderable. Like almost everything else at present. But he somehow couldn't move his mind beyond acknowledging that he was on a highway to disaster. It was going to end badly, it was inevitable, and that was the whole extent of his plans for the future.
On top of all that, there was still no word from Skinner. Usually Skinner would be in touch in the morning to announce the schedule for the night. There would be a phone call or an email, always short, to the point, stating the place and time he was expected. It was now almost three, and Mulder felt slighted, upset, humiliated because he was upset, and frustrated because he went around in the same ridiculous circles every week, dancing to the same tune, played with infinitely effective variations by his boss.
His computer beeped. Email - from Skinner. Relief flooded through him, followed by apprehension. His stomach contracted, and he started to sweat. He looked away, staring into the distance, trying to calm himself, and then to suppress his irritation at his reaction. It was so predictable. The same sequence of emotions, with the same intensity, again and again, every fucking week, as if he were a puppet on a string. It enraged him, but that didn't change anything. He forced himself to read three more pages of the report he was reading, before opening at Skinner's message. It was one line long, no greeting, no pleasantries, nothing but the barest essentials. It said, "Agent Mulder, please report to my office at 6 p.m."
Office. That was weird. It had been office once, but that was a while ago - these days it was usually home. Why would it be office this time? The possibilities there were severely limited. Things could break; things could get dirty; and lots of things simply weren't available in offices. Was it back to basics? That might be interesting, but it could also be done at home. And why 6? It was usually 8 or 9, better hours because the evening slipped seamlessly into the night, while at 6, there were so many pitfalls to avoid before night would finally take care of things. It didn't make sense.
He could think of only one plausible reason for 6 p.m. at the office: tonight was off. The thought was chilling. There had not yet been a single exception to the Thursday night schedule, but it had never been explicitly adopted. It could be broken at any time if Skinner decided it did not fit his plans. His dependence, his meek acceptance of whatever Skinner had planned, was part of the agreement. He kept his Thursday nights free and waited for a word from his boss.
And then - why not simply send no message at all? That would have been very bad for his nerves too, but it was more of a Skinner thing than to send for him at 6 just to tell him that tonight was off. There must be another reason for making him come over. And again, as far as he could see there could only be one plausible reason.
His mind churned away, walking winding paths, detours, following clues that he hardly realized were there. And trying to avoid the black hole sitting in the center of his universe. But he gravitated towards it anyway. He didn't seem to have any impulsion; he was drifting. He could briefly make himself believe he was changing course, by twisting this way and that, but in the end reaction canceled action, and it was futile. There was no way to escape the gaping emptiness that lay ahead.
It wasn't just off for tonight; it was off for good. And Skinner was going to tell him, today, at 6 p.m.
For several moments, he had difficulty breathing. He broke out in a sweat and began to feel sick. He got up quickly and made his way to the bathroom. His nausea had almost disappeared when he got there, but he felt weak and shaky. He sat on the toilet seat, taking deep breaths, trying to calm down, to think.
Skinner had probably started it as a game. Maybe not even that; maybe he had just wanted to vent his frustration, his anger at being forced to take risks to protect his wayward agent. But the unexpectedly enthusiastic response had taken him by surprise. Skinner had been charmed, tempted, and before he had time to come to his senses, what he had intended to be a one-time quirk had turned into a shared, ritualized madness. An addictive madness, growing stronger and more intense with every new encounter, almost an obsession. A powerful, dangerous dance, breaking new ground, bringing new heights every week.
Or so Mulder had thought.
The six o'clock office message put everything in a radically different light.
He had never stopped to consider that he might be the only one who had played the game whole-heartedly, who had allowed himself to be swept up, swept away by its dark, heady charm. Never realized that Skinner might have different feelings about it, could have regarded it as an increasing burden, a responsibility that he had to bear alone. Skinner had always been the director of the show. Mulder had only been an actor. A willing instrument. Not even that; he'd just been himself.
Himself. Sometimes it made him afraid to look in the mirror. He was sure he knew exactly what had finally put Skinner off.
It had felt so right, so perfect, so completely fulfilling. But through another set of eyes, it would probably look like a scene from a bad porn movie. His abandon, his total surrender, his yielding to Skinner's every whim - it was obscene. Undignified. He was sure Skinner had not expected it, had not been prepared for it, and by now probably regretted ever having started the whole thing. He must be looking for a way out that would leave them both a vestige of dignity.
He pictured the scene in Skinner's office. Skinner would look at him, very sincere, concerned, his bad news face. He would patiently go over the past, explain why things could not go on, even though they had both very much - no, he wouldn't lie about it, that wasn't like him. He would come up with very good reasons for stopping the liaison. And there were many, many very good reasons. But none of the very good reasons he would mention would be the true reason: Skinner had lost interest, and by now was probably disgusted by the whole thing.
And Mulder would want to go down on his knees, like a bitch, his ass up in the air, and beg Skinner to fuck him.
A new adrenaline rush swept through him, making him groan out loud. The sound reverberated against the tile walls. He held his head in his hands. You idiot. You blind, twisted fool.
It has to stop. Look what it's doing to me.
But the thought made him want to wail with misery.
After a long time, he left the stall. He washed his face, drank some water, and tried not to look at himself in the mirror. He didn't know what he looked like, but he felt like death. Hopelessly, he went back to the cramped office. Scully was looking at some slides on the viewer. She looked up when he came in, the concern so obvious that she didn't even bother asking.
"Um, Scully, I'm not feeling too good, I think I'll go home for a while and try to sleep some. I guess I must have eaten something wrong." Excuses.
After a brief silence, she asked, "Do you want me to give you a ride?"
"Nono, it's not that bad, just bad enough to make me useless here. I'll manage."
She was going to insist, but he was wound up enough to rebuff her, even raising his voice - he felt bad doing it, but there was no other way.
He did go home. There was enough time to shower and take a couple of pills against his headache. By then, his mind had become almost blank - there was only a dim feeling of unease, vague but threatening, a black, looming presence that he tried to ignore. He had some hope that he might be able to accept the verdict without collapsing, to manage a dignified exit. And, from time to time, a tiny little flicker of hope that things might go differently.
He parked the car away from the building, not wanting to risk meeting Scully or have her spot his car. The building was almost deserted, which was a good thing - he was quite sure he didn't look very normal, and people would either ask questions or gossip. Kim had left. He knocked on Skinner's door, and opened it almost before he had heard the familiar reply. Afraid he'd lose his nerve in the interval.
Skinner looked up when he entered.
Mulder's mind worked at double speed. He doesn't look very tense. He looks surprised. Must be because I'm early. But... now he's starting to look concerned; what...
"Are you feeling OK, Mulder?"
"Eh, sir, I eh... in fact, I'm... eh, yes, I'm OK." He should have expected that question, of course; it was the most obvious introductory question for a bad news talk.
"You don't look OK. You look like you've seen a ghost. Sit down."
Maybe I have, Mulder thought, and sat.
Skinner got him a glass of water, then leaned back against his desk. "Better?"
"Eh, yes, thank you..."
Skinner looked at him inquisitively for several moments. "If you'd rather bail out tonight, I won't hold it against you."
Mulder looked at him, not comprehending. Bail out? What did that mean? His mind had been in overdrive a minute ago; now it appeared to have stopped working altogether.
"I mean, if you're not feeling up to it, we can postpone the whole thing until next week," Skinner elaborated.
"Oh no, sir, I just, eh, I'm a little tired, that's all, but it's not serious, I'm sure I can... I'll be fine, I just need a minute..." He was breathless.
"Agent Scully called me a while ago and told me that you had gone home, feeling sick."
Scully... why the hell... Oh Christ, the email. He had left the note open on the screen, and she had apparently seen it. He was angry with himself for the oversight, already forgetting how close to death he'd felt earlier that day. "I did go home, and I slept a little. I feel better now." Lame, lame, lame, but it didn't matter anymore. His stomach fluttered with excitement, with elation.
Skinner looked at him closely for what seemed like minutes, making him squirm in his chair. Finally, he appeared to be satisfied. Then he sighed softly and said, "Well, I guess I'll just just have to take your word for it." Straightening, he walked around the desk and turned to face Mulder again. In a stronger voice, he continued, "Agent Mulder, the reason I asked you to come here at this hour is that I have an appointment later tonight, so our time is limited. Please undress."
It took some time before the words registered, then a few more before he became convinced that he had not misheard them. He waited a few seconds before getting to his feet; even so, he swayed slightly. But the dizziness passed quickly, and he began to undress.
Skinner watched, his doubtful look slowly dissipating. "Stand in front of the desk and face the window," he said, moving away from it.
Mulder stood, too overwhelmed to be nervous, to anticipate the coming events, to think about anything at all. The noise inside his head baffled him and unnerved him slightly. He looked at his reflection in the dark window, his erection just visible above the surface of the desk, slightly warped by irregularities in the glass. He watched the mirror image of Skinner take off his jacket and hang it over the back of the chair, then walk over to him.
At the first touch, his knees nearly buckled, and he suddenly came back to the present. Skinner's hands roamed over his shoulder blades, pushed him slightly forward over the desk, until he had to lean on his hands. The hands felt cold to his heated skin, raising gooseflesh. He shivered slightly. They ran over his back, lightly, slowing in places, gently caressing him. For a while, he looked in wonder at the distorted reflection of his boss in the window, abstractly thinking that Skinner looked like he was concentrating on a complicated case. Then he let his head fall down, gradually relaxing, warming up under the massage. All thoughts began to slow down, grow dim, lose their urgency as he stood, swaying slightly with the pressure of the hands, moving with them.
The hands suddenly disappeared, though he thought he could still feel the radiated warmth of Skinner's body behind him, very close. There was the sound of a zipper, followed by motionless silence. He very much wanted to lean back, but did not. He also resisted the temptation to look over his shoulder, looked at his hands on the desktop instead. Good hands, nice to look at, very functional. He dimly realized that this was a rather strange thought for the occasion, that his brain still wasn't working as it should. He looked back on the window, looked at his reflection staring back at him inscrutably. He saw Skinner standing behind him, looking down. Still silent, not moving, fully dressed. He was cold, a slight uncontrollable tremor in his arms and shoulders. The situation felt so unreal that it made him dizzy. He focused on the impressive display of city lights outside in a semi-conscious effort to escape from the surreal office space.
At last, the hands resumed their slow, calming touches. The cold receded, and he allowed himself to be lulled back into his waking dream, not thinking, aware only of the touches and the need to stay upright. The warming touches again began to exert their numbing, relaxing influence. Still focused on the city lights outside, he began to feel almost as if he would float out the window, comfortable, comforted, supported by two disembodied hands that would caress him, stroke him, keep him warm and safe on his flight above the Washington skies.
The strong hands enclosed his hips, steadying him, holding him in place. Mulder fell back into his body, his heart skipping a beat, then pumping at double speed, supplying too much blood. The trance was shattered, anticipation and apprehension were back. He stood stock-still. Skinner's hands were the only point of contact between the two bodies until he slowly leaned forward, his cock invading Mulder's anal cleft, spreading the flesh of the buttocks, until the slippery head came to a stop against his anus.
Mulder tensed up, breathing rapidly. It was too soon, this was going to hurt badly. He remembered how much he had wanted this to happen - but he suddenly couldn't remember what was supposed to be the good part. He tried to relax again, but his body was not listening. It must have become numb from the rapid succession of contradictory commands. Mutiny would probably be next, and no wonder. He pushed his hips forward against the desk, as far away from the threat as he could, and braced himself against the impending pain.
But the pressure didn't change. Skinner just waited, moving with the body in front of him, exerting slight pressure to stay in place, barely noticeable. His hands went to Mulder's back again, now teasing rather than soothing. He touched lightly, following the outlines of the muscles, tracing the ribs all the way to the front, then back again. His cock maintained steady contact.
Mulder was breathing shallowly, his jaws clenched, still prepared for a sudden penetration. But Skinner's hands made it difficult to keep his guard up. His concentration was fading again, his mind wandering. He decided that there might be a good part to this after all. He stretched his back, mentally following the hands, trying to inhabit only the parts of his back that were warmed by them. His body couldn't decide between tension and relaxation, and his mind had no say in the matter. He was sagging forward, the weight on his hands was getting heavier. His wrists were beginning to hurt. He wanted to collapse onto the surface of the desk, to let go, to just await what was going to happen, to leave everything to Skinner. To stop thinking.
The pressure point between his buttocks was slowly warming up.
Skinner pulled him upright against his chest and held him up, with one arm wrapped around his stomach. He kissed Mulder's neck, gently, with great concentration.
Mulder's knees were getting weak. He leaned back against Skinner, and though he tried to keep his head up, it was getting too heavy. He let it roll backwards, onto Skinner's shoulder. He was grateful for the supporting arm. The warm spot around his anus was expanding, and getting warmer from the constant gentle pressure. Small concentric circles of pleasure were emanating from that spot. His bones slowly turned to jelly.
Skinner's free hand roamed Mulder's chest, pausing at a nipple, gently pulling, scratching it with a nail. It traveled down, circling his navel, then up again to the other nipple. His mouth was kissing and sucking Mulder's shoulder, his neck, his ear. His cock was still pushing gently but insistently against the warm spot, which was beginning to soften.
The room felt very warm now, and Mulder was melting. His knees had already turned liquid, his shoulders were slumping, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. His anus was melting, the sphincter loosening up. His blood felt like it was about to boil. He tried to keep his head up, but it didn't want to stay up. The tongue caressing his neck, the hand playing with his nipples, the steady pressure against his ass, the increasing heat - his mind was getting foggy. He closed his eyes and began to moan softly.
The hand moved down, gingerly. It touched Mulder's throbbing cock, a light touch, but it made him gasp. His hips would have bucked if the hand hadn't been there to stop the movement. He forced himself to stay still, not wanting to break the magical contact. It took all he had not to follow Skinner's hand as it slowly moved up and down the shaft, collecting moisture. It was an exquisite torture. Mulder stood very still, panting, praying he would be able to control himself.
Skinner's fingers were everywhere, teasing, taunting, testing his limits, daring him to move. The world had receded to a yellow-white line on the horizon. The heat was almost unbearable now. Mulder tried to keep still with all his might. He was so aroused that he felt something might snap at any moment, like an over-stretched piano wire. A trickle of sweat ran down his spine, into the crack of his ass. The sound of his heartbeat, the noise of his own harsh breathing tainted the stillness, the glass-like perfection of the moment. Fingers were stroking his hip, his thigh, moving inside, slowly up and down. A muscle began to twitch. He shifted slightly, but the involuntary movement continued. His anus, sensitized by the constant pressure, had turned into a gaping hole, a desperate vacuum, wide open, itching, aching for penetration.
Unable to wait longer, panting like a packhorse, he began to push back slowly, impaling himself on Skinner's cock.
It felt cool, like marble, a sharp contrast to the fire it had created earlier. His flesh parted easily, welcoming Skinner, embracing him, wrapping itself tightly around him. He cried out at the sensation. The sound came out as a breathy "Ohhh...", as if he was about to swoon; Skinner's arm tightened around him. A column of soothing, smooth stone entered him, filled the aching void to perfection. He pushed back further, as far as he could, then stood back-to-chest, leaning back against Skinner, trembling, heaving. Light-headedness forced him to pause for a moment. Then he moved forward slowly and impaled himself again, this time with more force, biting his lip to keep the desperate, strangled sounds inside that were trying to fight their way out.
Skinner's breathing became labored. He placed a hand on the desk surface for support and leaned against Mulder's back, pushing him forward. He began a slow, deep, steady thrusting that immediately set Mulder on edge. His free hand trailed idly along the length of his cock, stroking it, feeling it pulse strongly in response. He enclosed it with his full hand and pumped several times.
Mulder cried out and started to come. And was immediately cut off by a strong, almost painful grip around the base of his cock. The cry stuck in the back of his throat, his loins burning with a slow, devastating fire. He slumped down on the table, whimpering, "Oh Christ... oh no..." Skinner's hand came up and closed over his mouth.
The slow, relentless thrusting went on.
Mulder scrambled back up. He caught another look of himself in the window, his body moving with the rhythm of Skinner's thrusts, his eyes half closed, his face flushed and strained. He looked like a survivor of a major disaster, stunned, shell-shocked. For a second, he was shocked by the image, but the new waves of arousal quickly washed the shame out of his mind. He felt like a small piece of driftwood, pushed around by Skinner's unpredictable hands, yearning for the shore, but knowing he had no say in when he would get there. The tension again began to rise slowly. He opened his mouth to make breathing easier and did his best to stifle the small sounds rising up from his throat.
In a flash, he realized that Skinner was staring at him fixedly. He stood still for a second, staring back, transfixed, fascinated. Then he began to push back again; and again, he immediately felt Skinner's hand on his cock. He thrust into it, desperately, gritting his teeth against another mind-shattering orgasm just out of his reach. When it came, he tried to writhe out of Skinner's grip, unable to control himself. It didn't work. He was almost sobbing in frustration, now leaning on his lower arms, his head in his hands.
Skinner's thrusting never faltered.
Once again the slow approach began. His cock, helpless in Skinner's knowing hands. His rectum being stretched, filled, his prostate sending electric shocks to his brain with every thrust. He couldn't bear a third time. His heart would give up. He would turn around and strangle Skinner. The waves came faster and faster, and he closed his eyes, tensed up completely. He moaned with every breath and couldn't stop himself. He felt the pressure of Skinner's hand on his cock increase again, felt a clump of hot rage gather in his stomach, and was about to plant an elbow in Skinner's stomach.
Then, suddenly, he exploded inward, a tremor no less intense than an orgasm but totally unfamiliar, slow, rippling, curling around inside, making his heart skip. His abdomen had become liquid. Melting. He curled up, then stretched out again, gasping like a drowning man, until the waves receded, leaving nothing behind but a pleasant warmth.
He was dimly aware that Skinner came almost immediately after that, felt his boss' weight ease down on top of him, flattening him against the desk. The weight immediately caused a pang of anxiety - it was over, they would separate, another week would have to pass. Not yet, not yet, please, just a few more minutes, until I can stand on my own legs again, and think about facing the world...
But the weight stayed in place, heavy, sweaty, motionless. Then it lightened it bit. He felt his sides encased by Skinner's upper arms, and then a tiny warm tickle on the side of his neck, just below his ear. At first, it was only warm breath. The intimacy of the feeling was overwhelming. Mulder tried not to breathe, for fear of destroying it. It made him acutely aware of the rest of his skin, pleasantly warm where his body was enclosed between Skinner's body and the desk, superficially cold everywhere else. The cold couldn't really touch him - not yet.
The almost imperceptible breath was followed by the warm wetness of Skinner's lips and tongue. Mulder clenched his teeth to keep silent; the only sound he would be capable of making now would be something like - crooning. The unexpected sweetness made him so happy it was almost impossible to keep still. His face flushed, he balled his hands into fists, but he didn't move.
One of Skinner's hands pushed against his stomach. He sucked it in to make room, and Skinner slid the hand, palm up, between his body and the surface of the desk. For a few moments he kept it still, then one finger began to move, creating another exquisite sensation. This time, Mulder was too late to prevent the escape of a small, strangled moan; but it didn't seem to scare the sensations away, and beyond that, he was too overjoyed to care. These touches went beyond mere sex. They had no function, no purpose. They felt like affection.
They were gifts falling from heaven.
Skinner's other hand moved to his thigh, lingered there for a while, then slowly traveled up to his hip. There he grabbed it with his, pressed it against his skin, held it in place for as long as it would stay. Skinner kissed his neck, his ears, thoughtfully and very softly, and Mulder felt like he would disintegrate into a small, salty puddle of happiness, of euphoria.
It couldn't last. He sensed the change, and tried to make his stupefied mind retract into his own body before part of it would come loose with the separation. Skinner appeared to wait until the process was completed, then got up and arranged his clothing. "I have to go now," he said, getting his jacket, and Mulder looked at him as if he were an apparition from another world. Go now... "What was that? What happened to me?" he asked stupidly.
"That was a retrograde ejaculation. Very convenient for office use." Skinner replied, "You'll notice that you have some reserve left, but I'm sure we'll find some use for that some time later. I'm very sorry that I have to leave, Mulder. Please lock the door behind you." And he left.
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