The Voice

By Palinurus

Novermber 1997

In the car, he was almost overcome by exhaustion. He needed to sleep. His eyes felt gritty and wouldn't focus, he had a headache, his throat hurt. He wanted to sleep. But he knew he couldn't sleep, couldn't calm down, couldn't stop the gears grinding. Another endless night awaited him.

Maybe he would never sleep again.

He knew something about sleep deprivation. Images of horror case histories drifted around in his mind. FFI, fatal familial insomnia - a rare and mysterious disease, resulting in untreatable insomnia that led to disorientation, memory loss, psychosis, death. Cold war quality black-and-white film fragments, showing experimental studies of sleep deprivation in domestic cats, kept awake for 60 days or more, finally by constant prodding, until they died of exhaustion. Lack of sleep could be lethal, and it was not a good way to die.

Gradually, he became aware that they did not seem to be heading towards his apartment. "Where are we going?"

"To my place," Skinner replied evenly.

Mulder glanced at him sideways.

"You're in no shape to be alone right now," Skinner added.

That was true. He had never felt so awful, so unsettled, so helpless. Except, maybe, on that haunting day twenty years ago.

Scully had disappeared, and that was it. There didn't seem to be anything he could do about it.

He hadn't slept at all in the past two nights. His agitation had successfully counteracted three sleeping pills. He was sweaty, feverish, hyperactive. He felt unable to cope with it anymore. And he didn't have any other place to go. So he relented, closed his eyes, and tried to close his mind.

Getting out of the car in the underground parking, he stumbled and almost fell. The lack of coordination was another familiar effect of exhaustion. Skinner took his elbow and walked him to the elevators, as if he were supporting a frail, elderly person. Mulder felt rather ridiculous, but also secretly relieved. The simplest things were rapidly becoming insurmountable obstacles.

And in the background was the relentless voice in his mind. You let her go. Again. They took her and you didn't stop them. You could have saved her. You let her go, and you won't get her back. She's gone. You've lost her. Again.

There was no way to silence that voice. It kept at him constantly, urgently, in a low, menacing tone. Relentlessly reminding him of everything he tried to forget, of his guilt, his failures, his weakness. And laughing at his silent attempts to argue.

In the elevator, Skinner looked at him inquisitively. Mulder smiled weakly at him, knew it didn't have the reassuring effect he'd aimed for. He couldn't keep this up much longer. Part of him wanted to be alone. If he fell apart in Skinner's presence... it was too embarrassing to even think about. But he knew he couldn't bear being alone. Another night in the cramped apartment, on the couch where he'd tried out all positions and all were equally uncomfortable, listening to one neighbor's late night tv, then another's early morning rituals, envying all of them their ordinary, straightforward existence. Listening to the voice in his head, the voice from the other side, screaming now, shouting threats, predicting hell and damnation if he'd dare to let go, to close his eyes, to drift off... He knew from past experience that the threats were not idle.

Skinner let them in, locked the door, and walked Mulder to the sofa, where he sat him down, still treating him like someone three time his age. Mulder didn't object. He sat and stared vacantly at the wall. He started when Skinner touched his shoulder and handed him a glass of something. He took it, and noticed his hand was shaking. He drank it, barely noticing it was scotch, not caring.

Skinner sat next to him and watched, waited. Waited until Mulder looked at him. Then he said, "You won't last much longer if you go on like this."

It's not as if I have a lot of options, Mulder thought, but he didn't say it. Just the thought of having to explain all that made him want to curl up in despair. Scully might have understood, although it would have taken a lot of empathy. If he had told her half of his problems, Skinner wasn't even aware of ten percent. And no-one knew about the voice. There was no way to explain. He sighed and hung his head.

Skinner poured him another drink and sat back, quiet, gazing into the distance.

Mulder immediately felt absurdly alone, abandoned, left to his fate. What's the bastard doing there, having neat philosophical thoughts about the nature of suffering, the nature of desertion, the nature of betrayal? First he tells me I'll probably die of this, then he's off into higher spheres, contemplating the human condition. Mulder felt like crying. His eyes burned. Oh no. I won't do that. Not here. Not now.

Locked in a cage of your own making. A cage of shame, of incomprehension, of horror. Growling at everyone who comes near, then falling into total despair when they back off.

He started again, violently, when Skinner suddenly moved over and put an arm around his shoulders. For a moment, he grew very stiff, his shoulders almost creaking from the tension. Then he made a conscious decision and let himself slump against Skinner's side. The conflict was so familiar it was almost like watching a re-run of an old show. The fear of rejection, of being found out, of reality catching up with him; and the matching fear of self-imposed isolation, of total, black, icy loneliness, of being left alone to cope with forces that he knew were too strong for him. A typical avoid-avoid conflict, the tendency to flee growing stronger as he got closer to either alternative. Stuck in the middle for all eternity, wavering, never able to resolve the dilemma.

Skinner pulled him closer, forcing him into a half-lying position. Mulder had to put his legs on the seat of the couch to avoid sliding down to the floor. He lay, Skinner's arm now across his chest, awkwardly at first, then slowly relaxing. Skinner seemed to have no further movements planned. After holding his head up until his neck muscles ached, Mulder finally let it rest against Skinner's ribs. There was no reaction. Skinner's hand absently stroked his arm, as if it were a cat. Mulder almost giggled when he noticed. Then he closed his eyes and tried to stop anticipating the end of this peaceful interlude, to relax, to trust.

He woke up when Skinner moved. "It's 3 a.m., I would like to get myself to bed. I don't want to end up looking like you did today."

The end of his brief respite. Immediately he was back in the war zone, the voice in his head screeching, his stomach knotted. Mulder got up, feeling very groggy. "Um, I guess I should call a taxi..."

"Mulder, it's not going to be any different if you go home now."

He knew it wasn't going to be any different. The demons were still waiting, and he still couldn't face them. On the other hand, he could hardly expect Skinner to stay awake all night to keep them at bay. But being alone in Skinner's apartment would probably be as bad as being alone at home. Maybe worse. At home, he could at least change, watch the dumb fish, play some music to try to drown out the noise in his head. He sat down again, hopelessly. No words to explain. No place to go. "Where do I sleep?"

"In my bed. Unless you prefer to be alone, of course."

He stared at his boss, speechless, very embarrassed, but overwhelmingly grateful. Another few hours of grace. He perfunctorily searched around inside his head, and didn't find the strength to refuse.

Skinner went upstairs. Mulder followed. Skinner gave him a towel, a toothbrush and a pair of clean boxers, and sent him off to the second bathroom. After a long shower he returned to find Skinner in the big bed, almost asleep. He got in, carefully staying away from the imaginary line bisecting the bed, and looked for the light switch to put out the lights. In the darkness, Skinner said, "If you can't sleep, move closer." Then he turned around and appeared to go to sleep immediately.

Mulder tried to sleep but couldn't. From time to time he managed to turn his attention outward, listening to his boss' slow breathing, but these were short excursions into the normal world from his seventh circle of hell. After an hour of debating, of sliding into the underworld and crawling back out, he finally took a deep breath and moved over to Skinner's side of the bed. He would only touch him slightly, maybe put a hand on his shoulder, just to have some notion of a living human being that would stay with him, keep him out of the abyss, or at least provide a link to reality... but the moment he touched the shoulder, Skinner woke up.

"Not working, is it? Turn around."

Mulder had been about to flee back to his side of the bed, but he did as he was told. Skinner again put an arm around him, and stayed awake. Mulder willed his muscles to relax. When they finally obeyed, he once again fell asleep almost immediately.

An hour later he was awake again, wide-eyed, trembling, sweating, trying to shut the images from the nightmare out of his mind. A familiar one, people disappearing, one after the other, being dragged away by dark shadows, and he could only move in slow-motion, as if he were wading through quicksand, always too slow to rescue them, just fast enough to keep up, to watch their frantic struggling, to listen to their screams for a long time.

Skinner had awakened too, immediately, and got out of bed. He came back with a glass of water. "Nightmare?"

Mulder nodded, almost invisible in the dark. "I'm... I'm sorry. Your night is getting as bad as mine."

"I think we're ending up somewhere in the middle, Mulder. And I have more reserves than you do."

That was undoubtedly true. Fewer reserves was a logical impossibility.

Ten minutes later the was calm enough to lie down again. He didn't dare ask, but he didn't have to - Skinner put his free arm around him again. And like a puppet on a string, Mulder went to sleep.

When he woke up it was light, and he was feeling better than he had for a long time. He lay very still, in the same position he'd gone to sleep, Skinner's arm still around his waist. It was warm and safe in the embrace. The voice was still there, but much of its urgency had gone - he could ignore it without too much trouble. He sighed deeply. His comfort would undoubtedly be short-lived. Soon he would have to leave the cocoon, but he couldn't face that fact yet. For the moment, he was grounded, anchored to the world, to the realm of ordinary people, through Skinner's touch. It shielded him, sheltered him, magically turned him into an inhabitant of the bright side. It scared his demons away.

He moved backward slightly, carefully, afraid to wake Skinner, but yearning for more contact. Skinner's warmth permeated his skin, making him glow. Gradually, he became aware of Skinner's erection pressing against him. A hot flash rushed through him, even before the awareness reached the edge of his consciousness. It made his breath catch, and he felt his own cock respond. A fleeting vision unfolded, a vision of being liquid, wrapping himself around Skinner, surrounding him, absorbing the miraculous healing power. He shifted slightly again, then froze when he felt Skinner's embrace tighten.

Skinner was awake, but didn't move away. He didn't give any indication that he was embarrassed, or even noticed his erection. His hand moved slightly, touched Mulder's wrist, made small stroking motions. Nothing else.

They lay in silence. Mulder's heart was pounding so hard his chest seemed to reverberate with the sound. Then he heard himself say: "Fuck me. Please."

Skinner's cock jumped when he said the words. At the same time, although he was horrified at having said it, and convinced that he hadn't intended to say it, he knew it was what he wanted. Needed. At that very instant, he could not imagine surviving if Skinner would refuse.

Skinner was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Are you sure?"

Mulder nodded, his head still reeling in surprise, his breathing fast and superficial.

He felt Skinner's hand leaving his wrist, moving closer, touching his stomach. The hand landed close to his navel. One finger slowly traced a line towards his side, parallel to his waistband.

His breath was shaky. Both his hands were balled into fists; he carefully unclenched them.

Skinners hand moved towards his navel again, pushed against his flesh. It moved inside the waistband, still tracing a line. The line felt like it was on fire, like there would be a reddened trace burned into the skin.

Mulder's cock strained towards the hand, eager for its arrival. He gasped when he finally felt its touch. He began panting heavily when the hand trailed up along the shaft, brushed the tip, descended on the other side. He had to make an effort to keep his hips still.

The hand moved in between his legs, lazily circling his balls. He lifted his upper knee to make room, panting hard, his mouth dry. The hand was withdrawn. Skinner said, "Raise your hips," and slid the boxers down, leaving it to Mulder to untangle his legs. Skinner pushed back the blankets. He got up and rummaged in the bedside drawer, then quickly removed his own boxers and was back, in the same position, the hand once again teasing and stroking.

Skinner's cock pressed against the cleft between Mulder's buttocks. Mulder's stomach tightened in anticipation.

The hand stroked his inner thighs, gently squeezed his balls. Skinner rolled him slightly back for better access. The fingers rubbed the skin behind his balls, slowly making their way towards his anus, touching carefully. Then they moved away again.

Mulder closed his eyes and curled his toes.

Skinner's hand strayed back up to Mulder's leaking cock, idly stroking it, touching the clear droplets. Down again, fondling the balls. Mulder spread his knees as much as he could, getting desperate. Skinner's cock pulsed strongly against his buttocks. The hand proceeded slowly, stroking, nipping along the way, then a finger pushed against the tight hole, turning tiny circles, sending a series of shudders through Mulder's body.

The hand departed again, making him groan in frustration, but then he realized dimly that some lubrication would be needed at this point.

When the hand came back it began probing him, applying some pressure, but not entering. Mulder's blood rushed, his cock jumped. He was gasping for breath.

The muscle gave way. Skinner's blunt finger entered him, slid in, past the first joint, then the second. Just as suddenly, it was withdrawn again. He inhaled sharply.

Skinner rolled him back on his side and moved away a little. He re-inserted the finger from behind, more forcefully now. Mulder pushed back against it. He wouldn't be able to keep still much longer.

The finger was withdrawn. Two fingers now pushing their way inside. There was pain, and he shied away. The fingers halted for a moment. Then they pushed in again, making him gasp. He felt his flesh being stretched. His whole body tensed against the pain, slowly relaxing when it became easier. His arousal took over again. He moved with the fingers, rocking his hips, his eyes closed.

Suddenly the fingers bent and forcefully rubbed his prostate. He cried out. Another rub. Again. And again, with more pressure. He began to moan in time with the touches, unable to stop himself, moving against the pressure, and felt himself getting closer, getting very close, his balls tightening, his breath ragged.

Then the fingers retreated again.

"No! Oh Christ, please..."

In response, Skinner stroked his cock. His hips bucked. Again it didn't last long enough. His erection was beginning to hurt.

His upper knee was pulled up, his foot planted on the mattress next to the other knee. Skinner placed his own leg behind it, in exactly the same position, creating pleasing symmetry, and holding Mulder's leg in place.

Mulder felt the fingers entering him again, fleetingly, spreading more lube, then moving away. He shivered in anticipation, and sighed deeply when he felt the head of Skinner's cock against his anus. There was slight pressure, then more. He unconsciously tensed up. The pressure became burning, then turned into pain. Mulder began to groan. Suddenly his muscle gave way and Skinner entered him.

The pain was so intense that he clenched his jaws, and had to make an effort to keep breathing. Slowly it abated, and was replaced by the feeling he had been hoping for. A feeling of total fulfillment, of union, of joining, of merging, physically and spiritually. For a moment he could be part of Skinner's world, not as a guest but as a participant. The voice was silent. He felt Skinner's power to exorcise the demons had now, briefly, become his own.

Skinner pushed on, causing another small bite of pain, but the worst was over.

Mulder felt himself swell. He got dizzy, light-headed with elation.

Skinner began to thrust, very slowly.

Mulder moved with the tide, rolling his hips, pushing back. His prostate was under constant assault. Skinner gently bit his neck. His hand strayed forward again, and that was too much. He sobbed, his sphincter tightening around Skinner's cock, his back arching, tensing, aching to retain the pleasure as long as possible; but it was over almost immediately.

When his mind cleared a little, he concentrated on the feeling of Skinner's cock thrusting, in quickly, out slowly, then back in again, the friction, the stretching, the tightness. He wanted to remember this feeling, to etch it into his memory. But he knew it was too new, too strange. He felt Skinner tense, heard a moan, and felt the cock inside him twitch, again, then Skinner relaxed.

Mulder lay without moving, still feeling Skinner inside him, and wished time would stop. When he felt Skinner stir, he desperately reached behind him to keep the other in place. It gained him another minute of bliss, and a soft, slow kiss on the back of his neck that made his head spin. He wanted to go back to sleep like this. He never wanted to move again.

Finally Skinner moved away from him and said, "I have to go. You can stay here if you like."

The voice was back, not very loud yet, but that would change.

Mulder took a deep breath, then shook his head. Though there didn't seem to be anything he could do at work, at least he wouldn't be alone, and something might come up. He got up too and took another shower.

Skinner dropped him off at home. When Mulder stood outside the car, about to close the door, Skinner said, "I should probably have mentioned this before... before this morning, but you're welcome to return tonight if you want to. No strings. Obviously."

Nothing came up during the day. When he got home, Mulder watched some TV, stretched out on his couch, and listened to the voice. He watched his fish. He drank some water, then some whisky. He took two sleeping pills. The voice was still there. He played some music. He watched half an hour of infomercials. Then he dressed, put on his coat, got into his car and drove, very carefully, to Skinner's place.

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