Southern California

Southern California:

Mulder.

Golden words from a golden time.

Southern California, Mulder, yes, golden words in a golden time. This faded grey landscape of jutting rock and dying sky, rusted wire and pocked concrete all dotted about with the smell of mid-winter fatigue, all flecked with brine, this fisher's cottage--

Southrn California:

Mulder and sun, Mulder and warmth, Mulder and the sweet smell of leather coming through the dust, the rustle of Mulder's sleeve in the wind. Convertible--a ridiculous mixup of rental reservations, but no complaints from either of us. Muscle car. A convertible, something with a roll-down top, leather bench, decent sound: obscure eighties band, pretty sunglasses, pretty boy, shiny car and Mulder, you are one happy little fuck, conspiracy and Scully be damned.

Nevertheless.

We were going South, down to San Diego, down to Mexico: only the vaguest flicker of a memory that it's a workday, that it's winter back 'home', and the entire world is ablaze, glowing in an ecstasy of orange and yellow and the smell of earth. There's bo ocean yet, though you said it was coming up soon, we could take a detour. Nobody would miss us, and there's nothing like beach and ocean, nothing, especially when there's three inches of snow in New York, when there's hail in Jackson.

So. Orange orchards. Miles and miles of orchards, dust and road and , I had ,not that I was particularly paid attention to them. I was lost in my o

Cruising down anonymous back country, and then me, making some inane, in- character comment about what they'd do if somebody stole some oranges. This was back when you saw yourself as purveyor of all things dark and corrupting to innocent little boy Krycek, so, we had to make a jacknife off the road, nearly plow into a fence, then you leapt. I stayed in character and screamed bloody murder until and started rolling up my sleeve and dribbling orange juice down my wrist and licking it off with these quick, neat, efficient strokes of tongue against skin.

Oh yes.

Sprawl of Mulder onto hard-packed ground. He makes a little noise, turning his head a little before pulling me down to him with a tug at the jacket and then his mouth worming through the collar to lick my neck, then him rolling over to let me kiss him back.

Sweat and cologne, the faintest, finest hairs slicked down with juice. Tang of orange, bitter sweat, all layered on smooth curve of his collarbone underneath skin. Collarbone, sternum, nipple, warm silk at first and then tensing into relief, the scrape of my teeth across it, and then Mulder moaning. Upward writhe of his hips underneath my belly, and I could feel his chest heaving, practically feel his heart jackhammering out of his chest, and well, well, well--

Slit of Mulder's eyes, standing out vivid flecks of green against skin that was tawny yellow-brown in the late sunshine, something profoundly disturbing about the way the dust settled onto sweaty skin, about the way he was leaning against the tree, just a little hint of a smile as he took three bites, then chucked to the side. When he saw I was looking (rather guiltily) at the stack of half-eaten, half-finished oranges,

"Don't you bat those lashes at me, you little pervert. Don't try and pin this on me." Lean forward, his own lashes sliding down over his eyes, close enough for me to smell him, practically taste the oranges and sweat and me caked on his lips. "Don't you dare."

And then, reached out and kissed me again.

Oh yes.

Mulder and oranges:

Mulder and Southern California:

Mulder..

OK. So I cheated y'all on the smut. <eg>