Standing on a street corner, watching a window... just like old times. New
window, same me. I cringe at the thought, but it's too close to the truth
to ignore. I'd prefer to think I've changed more than that, but my cold
toes and sweaty palm tell me otherwise. Which really irritates the fuck out
of me.
But now Mulder's back in DC, and here I am again. Standing on a street
corner, staring at a fucking window. I thought I gave up the idiotic hero
worship. Thought I was over this high-school crush number... past hanging
around his apartment like some kind of stalker.
Christ. Embarrassing. What would Walter think.
Walter. He doesn't even know I'm here. Well, of course he doesn't know I'm
here... loitering around on the street like an imbecile. And a cold
imbecile at that. But no, Walter doesn't know anything about this little
visit at all. Assuming this will actually be a visit. Assuming I actually
go knock.
I meant to tell him. Let him know I'd decided to drop by Mulder's. I
just... didn't get around to it.
Just like I 'didn't get around' to telling him about New Year's Eve. That
took a good two weeks. And even then he had to bring it up. But what was I
supposed to do... ruin my New Year's Eve telling him about running into
Mulder? And it would have, because he would have read more into it and
wanted to talk about it. I hate the talking. I knew I should have told
him. I thought I was going to. I just couldn't think of a blasé way to
bring it up during dinner and omission is still a damn fine way of life. And
then after dinner, he was so... so Walter. And one day turned into the next
and one week rolled into another and then his car got a flat tire and he
borrowed mine.
And came home wondering when I'd taken to downing six-packs in my
automobile. Six crumpled cans, on the floor, half under the front seat. I
didn't actually mean to leave them there. It wasn't like I was keeping them
or anything. I'm not that much of a stalker. I'm just not as anal as I
used to be. I just hadn't gotten rid of them. Hadn't cleaned the car.
Fucking hell. Shades of full ashtrays when I don't smoke. Isn't it stupid
how life plays these endless little repeating patterns on us.
Sometimes it makes me worry about my subconscious. Most of the time I
ignore it.
And he didn't even push. Didn't act like he deserved an answer, or expected
an explanation. Just inquired. In that concerned way of his. "Alex, is
everything okay?"
Is everything okay.
"Is anything bothering you? You can talk to me, you know. I hope you
know."
Yeah, Walter. I know. That's part of the problem.
So I told him I wasn't in the habit of downing six-packs in my car. That I
hadn't. That I wasn't drinking alone. That I ran into an old friend who
wasn't really an old friend and—
Fuck.
Guess who's back in town, Walter. Yeah, I ran into him two weeks ago, I
just didn't think to mention it to you. Even though he worked for you for
years and you consider him a good friend and the lot of us saved the world
together. You were busy, I was preoccupied. It slipped my mind.
I didn't even need to look in those eyes to see the hurt. I did though,
because I don't dodge shit like that anymore. When you let yourself start
dodging, it gets easier to keep doing it, and nobody knows that better than
me. So no more ducking. No more ignoring the consequences of my actions,
whatever those actions might be.
Seemed like the least I could do.
And there were the consequences of this little omission, staring me full in
the face. No ducking allowed, Alex. Big, sad, cow-eyed consequences, just
looking back at me. Still not accusing, not getting angry, not even
irritated... just sad.
"You could have told me."
I didn't want to.
And here I am again. Still not wanting to talk about... this.
I stamp my feet and decide that a completely numb toe on my left foot means
it's time to bite the bullet. I cross to the apartment building. Security
is better in his new home. There's a door that locks and buzzers to call up
to the apartments. And there it is... number 239. Mulder, F. & S. I smile
at that. You could almost think he's married. What a trip. Wouldn't life
be infinitely simpler if he was. Then again... maybe not. I almost laugh
as my finger hovers over the button. I clear my throat and press once,
short and sharp.
A long pause followed by static, then a curious "hello?" He's not expecting
anyone.
"It's Alex."
A longer pause. I think I can almost hear him swallowing.
"Come right up. Please. Number 239."
I know, Mulder. I knew on January 2nd.
The door swings under my hand and I'm inside. The heat feels almost damp
after the chill air outside. I stand for a minute letting my nose defrost,
then start for the stairs. Elevators are still in the "only if I have to"
category. Climbing slowly, I feel the painful tingling that says blood is
returning to my feet. For some completely indecipherable reason, I flash on
Walter... he loves a good foot rub. Nothing makes me wish I had two hands
faster than those white-socked feet resting in my lap.
There's something so satisfying in rubbing his feet. He laughs at me. Tells
me it's my old guilt complex talking. Who knows, maybe he's right. He just
grins and tells me he's happy to take advantage of it, in this instance. I
glare at him, and he laughs even harder.
And I'm at the top of the stairs and Mulder's door is much closer to me than
Walter's feet.
Focus, Alex.
Why am I here?
Because you want to see him. Because you've thought about it every day
since December 31st.
Walk. One foot, then the next. Knock. You can do it. Go on, kno—
Unless of course he just opens the door, making knocking unnecessary. What
the hell, was he standing on the other side listening for footsteps?
On second thought, I don't want to know.
Jesus. Beautiful. Just stand there. Don't move. Just let me look at you.
Don't say anything, don't make my life as complicated as I know you're going
to, just... be.
"Come in. Please."
You spoke, dammit. Oh, but it's okay if you smile. Like that. Just like
that. I don't move, just stay in the hall, staring at him as he leans
against the door.
"I was... in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop by."
"I'm glad you did."
He sounds so sincere. He's glad I did. He's still smiling. Grinning,
actually. Like a fool. Finally shaved that stupid beard I see.
"Finally shaved that stupid beard, I see."
"Well, you didn't seem impressed."
Oh fuck, Mulder, don't say that. That's not playing fair. But then, what
did I expect. If I wanted him to play fair, I wouldn't be standing here.
"Are you going to come in? The apartment actually extends back this way. I
know the hall is nice, but there are actually chairs in here."
Still the smartass. Though this sounds more like an attempt to break the
tension than any real effort to be sarcastic. I move past him into the
apartment and try not to shift from foot to foot as he shuts the door. I
hate showing nerves. Impatience. Discomfort. Anything. I've gotten
relaxed with Walter. It's not a good habit. But Walter's just so damn...
easy. So solid, so... there. It's like trying to remember not to show
emotion in front of the walls.
And doesn't that just sound great. I mentally apologize to Walter for the
unfortunate analogy. I really didn't mean it like that.
It's true, though. Something about him, some indefinable, essential
Walter-ness, eventually makes it impossible to be constantly vigilant around
him. He breathes... safety, comfort. The only problem is, comfort makes you
lazy. Sloppy. Careless.
And the man in front of me is a dangerous person to be careless around. Look
at those eyes. He looks so... excited. Happy to see me. My chest aches.
He's holding his hand out and I almost reach for it, automatically, until I
realize he's said something. "What?"
He looks amused. Pleased with my reaction. Great. I must look as
brainless and discombobulated as I feel. How confidence-inspiring. I could
really hate him for the way I react to him.
"I said can I take your coat?"
"Oh. Yes." I slip off the coat and he reaches for it, whistling softly
when his hand contacts the cold leather. Looping it over his arm, he lifts
his hand again to brush his fingers over my cheek. "You're frozen."
Not where you touched me, I'm not. My cheek feels like fire licked it. "I
stood outside for a while. Trying to decide whether or not to come in."
Where the fuck did that come from? It's not enough I twitch these days when
I get nervous, it's not enough I get nervous, I've got to say what's in my
head, too?
His eyes widen, soften. My breath stops in my throat, my heart pounds.
"I'm really glad you decided to come in. I've been hoping you might be in
touch. Let me get you something hot to drink."
"I'm fine," I say automatically, because I'm always fine. Especially around
him. Life is easier that way.
"Oh stop being stoic and go sit down. You're frozen and I have coffee, hot
chocolate, or something a 'wee bit more medicinal'."
My lips twitch uncontrollably at the heavy English accent on the final
words. "Thanks, but I'm in good health these days."
His eyes roam over me from head to toe. And back again. Slowly. "Yes,
indeed you are." Dammit, Mulder, don't start that again. I can't be good
when you look at me with that... appreciation in your eyes.
A little voice in the back of my head sarcastically reminds me that I was
never particularly practiced at "good", and if I was actually committed to
good, I either wouldn't be here at all, or at the very least I'd be here
with the knowledge of my lover. I look away from his heated gaze and clear
my throat. "Hot chocolate really wouldn't be a problem?" I ask quickly,
more for something to say than from a hankering for cocoa. When I look back
at him, he has a soft, understanding smile on his face that I don't like one
bit.
"Not a problem at all; I already started some for Sam. The good version,
not the powder. Go sit. Make yourself comfortable."
I follow his advice because my knee aches after standing outside in the cold
for so long. And because being close to him is making my breathing do weird
things and I think if I sit down maybe it will be better. Maybe. Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck. Why? Why after all this time is it all still right there,
just below the surface. Why couldn't he have just stayed in Arizona. I
sink down into the corner of a puffy, dark green sofa that almost swallows
me alive. I groan at the enveloping comfort, then jump at his voice.
"Incredible, isn't it? It came with the apartment. Sam is always teasing
me that it's why I rented this place. She may just be right." He grins as
he sets a fat, steaming mug on the low table in front of the couch. Sidling
between my knees and the table, he sits down on the sofa to my left, despite
the close presence of chairs.
Well, shoot that theory of sitting down making breathing easier.
Of course me moving to one of the chairs now would look just plain stupid.
If I'd been thinking, I'd have sat in a chair myself. There goes that damn
subconscious again. I swallow hard and lean forward to reach my mug. And
almost drop it when a soft voice quavers "Fox?"
"Sam. C'mon out, sweetie. We've got a guest." He stands and waves at the
hall leading off from the living room. I can't see anything for a moment,
but then a slim figure eases around the corner, arms crossed tight around
herself, holding a bulky, beige sweater wrapped close. Faded jeans hang on
her loosely and shush when she moves.
She looks... better. Not as better as I'd hoped, but... better. Of course,
she couldn't have looked much worse when we found her unless she'd been
dead. I wince at my own thoughts but I've never quite been able to rub out
the callousness that still hangs just below my surface. Alright, so I've
never really tried that hard. For some reason, this woman is one of the
only people who ever made me want to. I stand, trying not to notice the
sweet smile curving her brother's face and the way it makes my insides go
liquid.
"Who?" She still isn't looking at us, hanging close to the wall and
watching the floor intently.
"It's Alex. You remember Alex."
The change is unbelievable. Her posture straightens and her head whips up,
brown curls falling back. Eyes so much like his lift and fasten on me
hungrily, a smile breaking open the thin, scarred face. "Alex?" Even the
voice is different. Fuller, stronger. "It is you!" She takes three
half-running steps forward and stops, hands twisting together in excitement.
Color rises in her cheeks and she bounces on her feet. "Hello Alex."
I want to cry. Crying is one of those things I just don't do. It doesn't
come naturally. Never did. But this woman makes me want to cry. She did
when I found her, she did in the days following her rescue, and she does
now. It's obvious she does remember me—as the conquering hero, come to
rescue her from the hell of her existence. Come to reunite her with the big
brother who never stopped looking for her. In one instant her life changed
so drastically, from dehumanized experiment to adored baby sister. And she
laid the glory for that completely at my feet. The way she looked at me
when I got to her, when I told her I was getting her out, when we got her
back to headquarters...
The way she's looking at me now.
Apparently, her brother never saw fit to fill her in on my less glorious
traits. Or maybe he did, and she just doesn't care. If I remember
correctly, she tends to think a bit differently from anyone else I ever met.
Given her life, it's understandable.
"Samantha. It's good to see you." The truth. "You're looking great." A
lie.
She flushes darker and her head tilts to one side. "It's still really hard
to gain weight," she complains bluntly. "So I still get cold too much and
tired too fast. And sick too often." Her hands drop to her hips. "And you
disappeared and you never came back. You never came to visit. You don't
call, you don't write, you don't tell us if you're alive or dead... you're
never in touch."
Staring into those stern eyes, I recall that in another life, in a better
world, Samantha would have been a Jewish mother. I grin. I can't help it.
She's such a mix of herself and him, it's funny. "Sorry. I had to
disappear. I needed to. But I should have been better about coming to
visit, staying in touch. I thought about you a lot."
"We thought about you, too." The 'we' doesn't escape my notice. "We talked
about you."
"Did you?" I shoot a glance at Mulder, but he's just standing there grinning
like a half-wit. I wonder what he did tell her about me.
"Fox said you might show up again sometime. Probably when we least expected
it. He was right." She flashes a worshipful grin at her brother. "Fox is
always right."
I choke and give him a hard look. He has the grace to look embarrassed
under the weight of my gaze, but then shrugs. "What do you want me to do?"
he mutters defensively. "I'm her big brother. She looks up to me."
I snort, because he expects me to, then I ease out around the coffee table
to get a better look at her. She is still much too thin. The scars on her
face and throat are fading with age, but they obviously haven't been touched
by a plastic surgeon, and if she hasn't done anything about these, I can't
believe she's done anything about the ones her clothes cover. But her hair
is more lustrous than I remember, and her color is better. The best change
by far is her eyes. From dull and lifeless and barely sane, barely human,
to this... this real person. Suddenly it's not so much of a lie. "You
really do look wonderful, Samantha."
She smiles, as if she can hear the difference when I say it this time.
Stepping forward she stretches out her arms. "Can I hug you, Alex?" I can't do anything but nod, my throat closing. As her thin arms wrap around me I
find enough voice to ask, "Can I hug you back?"
"Yes."
I tighten my arm carefully, not lifting the prosthesis. It's too difficult
to maintain the right pressure with it. Not an issue with Walter, but with
her... She feels so brittle, still much much too fragile. But her hands
gripping my shoulders are strong and her touch is steady. Steadier than
mine. I rest my face against the heavy weave of her sweater and smell...
Mulder. I realize it's his sweater and it reminds me of how he dressed her
in his clothes, those days after her rescue. Everything was far too big and
loose and she loved every minute of it.
Releasing me, she settles back onto flat feet and beams up at me. "Much as I'd like to hear about your life these days, I'm sure you and Fox have
lots to talk about so I'll just go away." She shoots her brother a look I
can't decipher. I start to tell her not to leave, but the words don't even
make it out of my mouth before I'm cut off.
"The hot chocolate is ready," Mulder interrupts in an ominous voice. She
smirks at him and limps for the kitchen with a wink in my direction.
Turning back to him, I watch with interest as a light blush fades from his
cheeks. He shrugs again and mutters, "She's never really been socialized,
you know? She was so young when they took her. She thinks most humans are
pretty stupid, the way they never say what they're thinking. Feeling." His
eyes dart away from mine on the final word as he slumps back onto the sofa.
I wonder if I can get away with sitting in one of the chairs now, but figure
it would still look incredibly lame. I move back around the table to settle
in my corner of the couch again. "Well, she has a point. Humans are bad at
saying what they... mean."
"The aliens were... blunt communicators."
"That they were," I murmur absently, staring into my mug as I lift it. The
last time I made hot chocolate... Walter was sick. He was miserable, wouldn't eat or drink anything. I finally thought of hot chocolate. Made it just
like this. No powder. The look on his face when I brought it to him... I
almost dropped the mug. Scared me off so bad I never made it again. It's
hard when he's that... open with me. I mean, it was just hot chocolate. I
stop with the mug halfway to my mouth and lower it again without drinking. I
turn my head to face Mulder. "You talk about me. In some of your lectures.
I mean you don't use my name, which I appreciate by the way, but I
recognize myself and... well. You've said... some nice things."
He shrugs and meets my eyes, turning his body sideways and lifting one leg
up onto the couch. "You were a big part of the resistance. Just because
you disappeared doesn't mean you didn't exist."
"It was... unexpected," I mumble. "Considering some of what we did. Some
of what we had to do." My mouth twists. "Considering the fights you gave
me about it."
He smiles, a little bitterly. "I can imagine. Considering the way I
treated you. The things I said to you at the time."
"I understood." I shrug as if it's not a big thing. It was a big thing,
but I did understand. Too well, Walter tells me. But all things
considered, I always expected the vitriol and the sniping, the moods and the
distrust. Ached under it, bled under it on a daily basis, but waited for it
all the same. Waited for it like I needed the aching and the bleeding. It
was the things Mulder said afterward that surprised me. The things that I
never expected to hear.
"I couldn't let go—" His head dips as if he's ashamed. The thought bothers
me.
"There was a lot to let go of," I cut in. "I never expected you to." I get
annoyed at myself even as I say it; excusing his behavior to him makes my
palms itch. He really was rotten to me. Walter tells me I did need it.
Craved it... like an absolution. I give him a dirty look whenever he says
that. And I scoff. I'm good at that. And he lets me. Because he knows...
because he's Walter. Sometimes his habit of being right all the time gets
seriously irritating. "I guess I just wanted to... say thank you. You
know. For... the way you mention me."
He rubs one hand over and over against the leg of his jeans. "I guess I
just wanted to apologize," he murmurs softly.
"I told you not to do that." My voice is flat.
"You've seen me speak?" His head comes up suddenly, as if it just sunk in,
his eyes glowing. Typical Mulder subject shift and I see my error too late.
"I tune in every time you're broadcast," I temporize, because I'm not about
to tell him about the times back in the beginning, when I would sneak into
his audiences. Only at the biggest, most anonymous venues, and only then
with dark glasses and unlikely jackets and anonymous hats. So I followed
him from town to town back then. Big deal. It was just so strange to go
from seeing him every day, day in and day out, to... to nothing. I thought
I could handle it. Turned out I couldn't. Couldn't just go cold turkey.
He doesn't need to know that.
And besides, I got over it. Within six months I only went to see him if he
happened to be appearing in the town I happened to be in. And then two
months later... well, then I ran into Walter. Accidentally on purpose.
But there's a grain of truth in my answer to him, and nobody is better than
I am at selective honesty. It was only after I started watching his later,
televised appearances that I heard the odd comment that surprised me.
Started to hear him say things like "it's been long enough now that we can
be a little more blunt about what went on" and "there's someone who
contributed more than I can truly express, who we haven't talked a lot
about."
Funny, but the thing I remember the most, from that first time I watched him
talking about me, was how Walter held my hand through the entire thing. It
was the Barbara Walters interview. He just gripped my fingers the minute
Mulder started talking. Like he knew.
I'd wanted him to let go. But I've learned to stop saying things like that
because I don't like that injured look on his face. He's better at casual
affection than I am. I can deal when I remember not to knee-jerk, which is
most of the time these days. I still almost ended up pulling away that night
but I was going to wait for the first commercial, make it seem more natural.
Then Mulder started talking about me and by the end of the hour I had a
stranglehold on the fingers that had somehow ended wrapped in mine.
I'd been embarrassed about that for days.
"Like what you see?"
Say what? I look at him blankly.
"The televised lectures." He's giving me an eager look. "How do I do?"
I laugh. I cannot believe the man. "You're kidding, right?" Feeeeed the
vanity. Well, I can do that. "Mulder, you're amazing at this. The way you
explain things, the way you tackle this topic, your humor. There's a reason
they love you so much on the lecture circuit. How many universities are you
speaking at these days? I bet the college students are all over you."
He flushes again, but this time it's a very pleased flush, and he smiles
when he admits, "A lot. They're a fun audience to speak to, so passionate
about keeping the blinders off and—" He pauses when the kitchen door swings
open, and Samantha skitters through the room clutching her mug. She tosses
a lopsided smile at us and disappears down the hall. A door closes.
He doesn't pick back up where he left off, simply stares after her for a
moment, train of thought obviously derailed, a tender look on his face. My
chest tightens and I can't breathe. Okay, so whatever else happened, I did
something right. And that feels so much better than I want it to.
I don't want it to matter. I don't want it to mean this much to me.
Which is pure stupidity, because I should expect it. I always knew he was
the catalyst, the event that started the ripple effect, changed everything
I used to be. Little by little. Much as it irked me at the time. And for
that matter, still does. Which no doubt would amuse the hell out of him if
he knew, inconvenient bastard that he is. But it's nothing but the galling
truth. He made me want to be different even when I couldn't be. Made me
want to get back all the pieces of myself I gave away.
My own personal Curse of the Mulder.
Sometimes I think us cynics—the pessimists, the dedicated realists, the
survivors—I think we're the most vulnerable to the heroes. As jaded as we
are, somewhere, inside us, we're waiting. Looking for someone to tell us
this really isn't all there is. That someone is better than this. Better
than us. Better than our expectations. Good enough to matter, good enough
to make us want... to make us reach.
I don't need a hero anymore. At least I don't want to. But... he could
always make me reach. And I've always known that. So why should I be the
least bit surprised at the intense heat rolling through me at that happiness
on his face. At the overpowering sensation it brings up in me... of
accomplishment, completion.
Absolution.
I turn off the whispering thought with a panicked vengeance and reach for
the first inane comment I can dredge up. "She looks like she's improved a
lot." Great, Alex, how many times can you repeat yourself here?
He comes back to me with a start, beaming and nodding. "She has, Alex. You
know we weren't sure if she'd get better. But she really has made some
amazing strides, considering her condition when you got her out. People
still aren't her favorite thing and she shuts right down around anyone she
doesn't know, but when she gets comfortable with someone, she's like a
different person. It's odd," he pauses, glancing at the hall, "because in
some ways she's so childlike, but in other ways, she seems older than me."
I nod. I remember her eyes. I know what he means.
"Sometimes I think she chooses what she's going to recover and what she's
going to leave off. You know? How 'normal' she's going to become." He
shakes his head fondly. "She's never had the definitions of normal most
people grew up with, so she ignores what she thinks is useless. And I guess
I don't exactly help as a role model for normal."
Speaking of normalcy... I hesitate, but have to ask. I know people. People
who could help. "Did she not want to do anything about the scars, or could
they not—"
He's shaking his head before I finish. "She won't see any doctor. For
anything. She'd rather live with the scars." He runs a hand through his
hair, making it stand up on end, frustration clear on his face. "I have to
call Scully when she gets sick. And then Scully has to come for a 'visit'
and pretend to just casually be here. And even then Sam goes all stiff and
withdrawn the minute Scully gets the least bit medical. It scares the hell
out of me, because she does get sick way too easy. Her immune system is
just ravaged. I'm so afraid she'll come down with something, and refuse to
see anybody."
I ponder for a moment, remembering the feel of her bony frame in my arm. I
can see why he worries. "There's nothing in the old research, nothing that
would—"
He shakes his head again, biting his lip. "I had Scully looking. But I
finally had her give up. Even if there were, we'd have to trick her into
taking it. She won't take a Tylenol for a headache, Alex. She sure as hell
won't touch anything They had anything to do with. And I won't make her."
I nod thoughtfully, thinking about the look on her face when she'd been
cooing about him moments ago. "I understand. But you know, if I were you,
I wouldn't worry. Somehow I'm betting that if she got sick enough that she
needed serious medical care, you could convince her to get it." I smile at
him. "For your sake. Just a guess, but I think she'd do about anything for
you."
That flush of happiness comes back to his face, and it knocks me for a loop
all over again. Beating at the inside of my ribs and making me tingle. All
over. I fight the urge to cross my legs, figuring that would be even more
obvious. This puffy couch must hold in the heat. I'm burning up.
"She asks about you sometimes. Out of the blue. You made a big impression,
even though you took off right after that."
I evade the reproach in his voice with a question. "You tell her about me?"
He smiles, and there's a touch of evil in it. "An edited version." He
smirks impishly. "I leave out the part about the atrocious hair and clothes
in the very beginning."
I blink. He can't mean—
He gives me another of those sad, understanding looks. "Alex, she was at
the center of it all. She... knew him better than I did, in a way. She
certainly knew Them better. She knows the whole story—everything about
you."
My breath catches again. She knows. And she still looks at me like...
that.
"Looking at you through her eyes helped," he says softly. "A lot."
My chest feels like it's going to split open. I can't take this. I can't
sit here and... and be with him. I lift my hand and pinch the bridge of
my nose, trying to keep myself centered. Why does he have to be so fucking
raw? I want to tell him to shut up, but of course I won't. And he's still
talking, that monotonous voice pouring over me.
"Of course, she just got me where I already knew I wanted to be. I just
needed some help admitting it. Sam is good for that, too. She doesn't have
a lot of patience, you know? She just looks at things so differently." He
shakes his head and laughs, then reaches out and across me and catches my
hand, pulling it away from my face. His fingers wrap snugly around mine and
squeeze. Surprised, I let him. I don't pull away, and I turn toward him by
reflex. "She was the one who told me how my eyes changed every time I
talked about you. How my face lit up, even when I was mad as hell at you.
She was the one who pointed out I was more pissed at you for leaving than I
was for... for any of the old history. She was the one who told me in no
uncertain terms it was obvious I was worried about you and why didn't I just
give up all my stupid pretensions and admit it."
I latch onto the last bit to keep myself from staring at him in gape-mouthed
shock at his bluntness. But then, bluntness always was one of his
specialties. I wonder why it surprises him in Sam. I cough to cover a
snicker. "She actually said that? Stupid pretensions?"
"Maybe not those exact words, but that was the general idea. I think she
was a lot freer with the insults in her version."
I look away, down at our joined hands, biting my lip to keep from grinning.
"But Fox is always right." I mimic her cadence.
It's his turn to snort. "Please. She adores me, and is suitably impressed
with my staggering intellect, but she thinks I'm emotionally and
interpersonally stunted and never hesitates to tell me that in no uncertain
terms. And like she should talk."
I lose the battle and start laughing. He takes immediate advantage of my
relaxing muscles and tugs on my hand insistently, pulling my body around
further. Natural comfort dictates I curl my left leg up onto the couch to
keep my torso from twisting, and I give in and face him, settling my back
against the overstuffed couch arm. The position is too comfortable, and far
too intimate. These kinds of positions make me uncomfortable with Walter,
and I'm already starting to feel that frisson of uneasiness. Our knees
nestle against each other and his right arm extends along the couch-back,
too close to my left shoulder. Twisting our linked hands, he smoothes his
thumb over mine repeatedly, then curls it under to stroke my palm.
"Alex," his voice is a husky wash of sensation over me. "I'm being as clear
as I know how to be. I'm way out on a limb here. Either crawl out after me,
toss me a lifeline, or get out your chainsaw and make it a nice clean cut."
"I—" I stare at him, losing myself in the closeness, the warmth, the sheer
thrill of having him coming onto me like a freight train. And I thought
life couldn't get much weirder than me settling down with Walter Skinner.
"Mulder, I can't just—"
His hand lifts from the back of the sofa, his fingers tracing my lips and
stopping all efforts at speech. "Before you say anything," he whispers
softly, "just let me—"
He doesn't finish the sentence, but leans forward, his hand sliding over my
cheek to cup my neck, drawing me to him. His head tilts, and I tilt the
opposite way instinctively, before I even realize the invitation this body
language sends. Then his lips are brushing mine and I'm falling.
I don't know exactly what I expected, but this isn't it. This tentative,
gentle homage to my mouth. I'm confused... lost... the equation isn't
balancing. His lips barely touch mine as he glides back and forth, so
reverently. He catches my lower lip in his and just holds it, then licks
slowly, thoroughly, over it like he's catching the drips from an ice cream
on a hot day. I'm sinking... dissolving into the cushions, melting. And he's right there, slurping me up, catching every last drop with a tongue that
teases my upper lip, strokes wetly over my entire mouth again and again,
then pushes between my parting lips.
And slowly, his hunger rises, pushes outward. I feel it beating against me.
Homage becomes plunder and he's leaning into me, over me, pressing me back.
His tongue is strong, demanding, forcing my jaw wider as it searches for my
own, thrusts and withdraws and thrusts again. His hand at my neck moves to
cradle my head as the force of his kiss tilts me back. His other hand pins
my own to the cushions. The fingers in my hair tighten and twist, gripping
as best they can, pulling my head further back... my throat arches and my
mouth opens wider.
I can't move. I don't know if I'd move even if I could. His weight has me
caught in the soft, smothering folds of the couch. His hold on my head keeps
me exactly where he wants me. My fingers under his can only flex and
retract, helpless. The prosthesis is useless between us, nothing but an
unfeeling obstacle. I can barely moan and he eats the sound as he devours
me.
And this... this feels more like... it should. Right. Balance...
Absolution.
Suddenly I can't stand it, it's too much... I have to move, feel the
restraint, buck against it, into it. I twist in his grip, I writhe against
him and press up and rock and squirm and try to wrench my hair free all in
the same instant. I have to move I have to get closer I have to—
He keeps me pinned just long enough to emphasize that he's letting me go,
then he releases me completely, trying to sit back, flushed and panting and
stunned. That's not at all what I wanted and as soon as my hand is free it's reaching for him, I'm reaching, I'm rising out of the cushions to plaster
myself against him as best I can and draw him back. Fastening on his mouth
like a limpet. Don't let go, don't let me up... make me feel it...
And his weight is back and his grip is back and now there's a leg between my
thighs and pressing tight against my cock, aching and trapped in my jeans.
The heat and the pressure make me mewl like an animal and he rocks his thigh
and my hips try to arch and roll but all I can do is lift my leg from the
floor and wrap it around him and knot my hand in his hair and... and
wriggle. Every shift and tiny movement increases the friction, increases
the electric pulses firing from my balls to every nerve in my body and he's
got a hand in my hair again, twisting, pulling, yanking my head back against
the couch arm and keeping it there and his other hand strokes my thigh and
squeezes my ass and... and fuck I can't breathe... I can't... I...
Light explodes behind my eyelids and I whimper, barely spasming beneath him
in the only movement left to me and still he eats at me like he'll never be
full, never be satisfied. His tongue in my mouth feels like the only thing
I've ever known and I open to it and suck on it and cling to him and...
His forehead is suddenly resting in the crook of my neck and he's gasping,
gulping air and holding onto me with fingers that tighten and release,
tighten and release. He turns his head sideways and sucks in again, and my
lungs flex and the red recedes from my vision as I open my eyes and stare at
the ceiling. It's not the view I remember closing my eyes on and for a
moment my oxygen-starved brain isn't sure what to make of it. Feels like I've got a pillow beneath my head and for one insane moment I actually wonder
if somehow he's gotten us onto a bed without me noticing.
I blink and another breath makes my mind start functioning again and I
realize I'm just where I expected to be... crushed into the corner of the
man-eating couch. In the same moment I take in that I'm twined around him
like an Alexvine and I relax all my muscles, letting my leg drop back to the
floor and forcing my arm to release him. My head hurts and his fingers
rubbing over my scalp lead me to identify severely-pulled-hair as the source
of the pain.
Then he's levering himself off me and staring at me with huge round eyes and
a completely perplexed look. I lay in his quicksand couch, wrecked and
aching, and just look up at him, trying to keep my face from showing the
guerrilla assaults going on in my mind. Survival instincts that have been
wearing down slowly but surely over the last stretch of months suddenly
start screaming. Adrenaline races through me and I have to physically keep
myself from bouncing off the couch and racing for the door. This is not
going to be good for me. I just know it. Being around him never is.
"Okay, that wasn't exactly what I expected," he manages in a voice so close
to normal I want to smack him. Only the slight tremble in his lips tells me
it's an act.
I swallow convulsively a couple times, waiting for my entire body to stop
pulsing. When it becomes clear that could be a while, I clear my throat and
try speaking. "You were expecting... what exactly?" I'm pleased my voice
actually works. My dick is so hard I can't think about much else.
"I just didn't mean to... well, do that," he murmurs, reaching out and
running his fingers over my cheekbone, down to my tensed jaw. "I'm sorry."
"You didn't mean to kiss me?" And stop touching me because it's going
straight to my balls.
"I meant to kiss you. I didn't mean to have you for lunch."
I wriggle around until I'm sitting up straight again, not sure what to say.
"I meant to do this." He leans forward and before I realize what I'm doing
my hand is between us, flat on his chest.
"Whoa. I don't think I can do that again." I really don't like the edge of
panic in my voice.
He plucks my hand off his sternum like it's nothing. Hell, it is nothing.
My muscle control is completely gone. He wraps his fingers around mine,
lifting my hand and brushing my knuckles with soft, wet kisses. Kissing the
back of my hand like an eighteenth century gentleman, he leans forward and
very gently presses his lips to mine. Once again the word 'reverent' creeps
through my Muldersodden mind. He licks my throbbing lips and sucks
carefully at the lower one. Everything is tentative and sweet. I want to
scream. Then he sits back. "That's what I meant to do. I just... we
just..."
I clear my throat again, speech having deserted me once more. "Spark," I
finally croak.
"Ignite," he offers, looking embarrassed.
I nod, incredibly uncomfortable with the warring emotions called up by his
two very different kisses. Walter's voice psychoanalyzes in my head. I don't want to hear it but I can't get rid of it. I sit forward and pick up the
cooling hot chocolate, gulping half and almost choking myself. Trying to
drown the desperation fluttering in my chest. "I guess you don't need that
life line if we burn the tree down," I finally say.
His laugh startles me into looking at him again. He leans forward, his
forehead resting against my bad shoulder, his arm heavy and warm against my
neck and back, his fingers stroking my hair. "Thank you. I think that's
the answer I was looking for."
I suddenly realize my mouth is walking away with my brain and I backtrack,
replacing the mug. "Mulder, wait. I don't want to give you the wrong
impression. I—" I stop short, confused. I have no idea what to say. I'm
no closer to knowing what the fuck to do. Well, my dick knows what to do,
but that's never been the problem. I realize how idiotic I sound. The
wrong impression. There was no way he could misinterpret the 'impression' I
was giving him. If I was 'impressed' any closer I'd have been inside him.
Or he'd have been inside me. The only thing 'wrong' about it is...
He sits back and gives me an arched eyebrow and a half-smile. "So. How
is... Walter."
I wince. I find myself wondering how his telepathy is these days. I clear
my throat again. "He's fine. Surprised you were back in DC. He'd... like
to see you." What else am I going to say? They worked together for years.
They were good friends. And Walter did say he'd like to see Mulder. He
just had that funny look on his face when he said it. That 'I'm doing this
because it's the right thing to do but I hate every minute of it' look.
Mulder grins. "I bet he'd like to see me. That's Walter for you. Collect
data and evaluate. Get a read on me. And make sure he knows exactly where
I am, and how I spend my days, and my nights. Size up the threat." His
eyes are suddenly heated, and I feel a flush rise in my face. Of all the
things I ever thought I might end up, a cheating husband was never one of
them. "And I don't blame him one bit," Mulder adds, one knuckle skimming my
cheek. Once again heat simmers just under my skin, trying to burst out.
He's really pulling out all stops. He was clear enough in the car on New
Year's. Clear enough to have dug his way into every single thought I've had
since that afternoon. But today makes that interaction in my car look like
an exercise in subtlety. I'd guessed from his lectures that he'd come to
some resolution about me. What he said, his tone of voice. He'd forgiven
me, somehow. It felt good, much as I wanted it to not matter. Then to see
him, and to have him hint so obviously... At first I thought I was finally
losing it. He couldn't be hinting what it seemed like he was hinting.
But he was. And he did. And it was so strange, unexpected... And dinner
with Walter was defrosting in the back seat and I had exactly one hour
before the man himself came through the front door.
Walter. Walter, who told me over and over that Mulder's feelings weren't
cut and dried, weren't what I thought. I'd always taken it with a shaker of
salt. Walter's view of reality, which didn't necessarily have any
connection with reality at all. The words of a man, oddly enough,
unbelievably, in love. A man who saw something in me that nobody else saw.
Something that I was pretty damn sure didn't exist, but that I sure as hell
wasn't about to disillusion him about. Whatever he thought he saw, I was
more than happy to let him keep thinking he saw it.
My happily deluded lover, thinking everyone should feel the same way about
me as he did.
Right again, Walter, you smug bastard. Sitting here with an amorous Mulder
leaves no room for doubt. On New Year's, his flirting had insinuated 'what
are my chances because you're looking really good to me.' Today it sure
sounds more like a full-throated holler of 'I want you as bad as you want
me, and I'll take you any way I can get you.' Any way...
Good for my ego. Bad for my... morals.
I hate that word. Such a sanctimonious ring to it. And I never was any
good at ethics.
But Walter isn't... ethics. He's just... Walter.
Mulder sighs and I realize I've been sitting silently for some minutes. I
wonder what my face showed. Used to be I'd never have to worry about that,
but now... He lets his hand drop to my shoulder, massaging in a good
imitation of an absent manner.
"I'm sorry, Alex. I know I shouldn't be doing this. I'm putting you in a
really awkward position, and I know it, and... I have no excuse." He meets
my gaze head on, and the purpose burning in his eyes scares me. It's that
same look he used to get about the X-Files, about his quest, about Samantha.
When he speaks again his monotone is the same as always, but the core of
steel is there, that ring of hardness, conviction. "All I can tell you is I
can't just... not try. I can't just pretend. Seeing you just brought it
all right back to the surface.
"I didn't know, until I saw you standing in that grocery store, if I would
ever see you again. Sure, I thought some about trying to find you; I'd be
lying through my teeth if I said I didn't. But I couldn't make myself try.
It didn't seem... fair, somehow. After everything. If you'd wanted to see
any of us, I guess I figured you would have stayed in touch. I knew I was
easy enough to find. Maybe part of me was still mad, still being childish
and not wanting to be the first one to try to make contact after you walked.
Maybe I was just scared. Afraid of how you'd look at me. I don't know.
"But then, there you were in frozen foods. And I couldn't believe... it
knocked me off my feet. Here I was, back in DC, most likely resettling
here, and there you were. And when you smiled, and hugged me back, and—" he
stops and looks down at his lap for a moment, then back up. His eyes are
shining, but his voice remains steady. "You were happy to see me. And
inside, it was just like before, only I'd had a hell of a lot of time to
think about it and figure out what all the fireworks were really about. And
here I was being handed a second shot. A chance to at least try. To tell
you.
"And then you said you were with Walter and... okay. I can understand.
After everything with you and... me... I mean it's not like I expected you
to wait around for me to get my head on straight and stop thinking with my
hate. Even when Sam told me how obvious it was, from the way you looked at
me, talked to me, treated me—and she only saw us together a matter of days
—even then I figured that even if it was true, even if she really saw what
she thought she did, you'd probably written me off by the time I got to a
point I could hear it. And why not, why wouldn't you? And hearing you were
with someone, with him, I could even be happy for you." A shaky grin
splits his lips. "Kicking myself in the ass, sure, but honestly happy for
you. At the same time, there was so much there... in the car. It was
like electricity." His voice drops to a low hum. "Don't tell me you didn't
feel it, because I just won't believe you.
"And I was willing, Alex. I was honestly willing to walk away, and leave it
at a kiss and a car-full of regrets, and leave you happy with him. At least
I thought I was. Except, the way you talked... you gotta know that sounded
like an opening. And now, here you are and if I was a better person I
wouldn't be saying this but I'm not a better person and I never have been
and Sam keeps telling me I need to live and it's starting to make sense to
me and dammit, I want my chance."
He stops completely, most likely out of breath, and just stares at me. I
stare back. It's not the most romantic declaration ever, but then romance
has never done a lot for me. A full-on Mulderbabble on the other hand,
complete with his own personal, totally unconscious 'I am the center of
the universe' take on life...
I still can't say anything. The danger lights flashing in my head are
distracting me.
He gives me that lopsided smile with the sad eyes again. "I know. Bad
timing, right? Why couldn't I get my head together when this would have
been... less complicated. What do you expect from someone who never had
much experience with the non-celluloid version of interpersonal
relationships? And I'll say it again, say it right up front, that I know I
shouldn't be doing this, saying any of this, pushing you. I know what's
right and honorable, and this isn't either. I should be telling you how
much I hope you and Walter are ecstatically happy together, and offering to
take the two of you out to dinner some night." His hand slides up my
shoulder to rest on my throat, his thumb caressing the pulse pounding under
my jaw. "And if I didn't feel like I was picking up some definite vibes
from you, maybe I wouldn't be so forward. Or maybe I would, who knows. All
I know for sure is that I have to try, because attempting to ignore this
would be like ignoring an erupting volcano, and I don't think you want to
ignore it either. Alex, can you look me in the eyes and honestly tell me
you're completely happy? That you wouldn't like to give... this... us... a
shot, too?"
I stare at the only man I've ever actually fantasized about saying that to
me, and I don't know how to respond. The words literally stick in my
throat. The thrumming need to give in to this, to him, pounds through me,
drowning out everything else, making it damn hard to think, but what else is
new. As strong as it is, it's not enough to unstick my throat. When I can
finally get my mouth open, I'm as surprised as anyone when what comes out
is, "It's not that simple, Mulder." The rawness in my own voice makes me
wince. When did I start feeling so much...
He studies me for a long moment, then smiles wider. "No, I guess it wouldn't be. And you know, I think I'd be disappointed in you if it was." His
fingers stroke the sensitive spot behind my ear and I shiver. "Make my life
a hell of a lot easier, of course, but still... disappointing. And, as they
say in the cliches, since when is anything worth having easy. Okay, so it's
not simple. But is it impossible?"
And I can't say that anymore than I could get out my chainsaw and make that
clean cut he was asking for. Even though that would be the right thing for
me to do, on all counts. And would make my self-preservation instincts a
hell of a lot happier, besides. And maybe make me a tad less pissed off at
myself. But survival always gets screwy around Mulder. And doing the right
thing is still such an obscure question mark for me on a good day, even
without temptation personified staring at me soulfully, touching me... so
close to me I'm breathing in synch with him without even realizing it. It's
never come naturally and I can't even begin to expect myself to be able to
resist this, to look at this man and tell him I'm not interested, tell him
I'm going to get up and walk out the door.
Hell, I wouldn't be here if it was impossible...
"I get the feeling that you wouldn't be here, stopping by to see me today,
if it was impossible."
Shit. I've really got to ask him about that telepathy. I draw a deep
breath. I have to say something. And I have to make it good. And I have
to figure out what the hell I'm going to do. And he leans forward and
nuzzles me.
Honest to god nuzzles me.
Not a kiss, not a lick, not a bite... somewhere in between all three with a
little rubbing and purring thrown in for good measure. Nuzzles me right
where his thumb was teasing, and continues right up behind my ear.
And there's really no question what I'm going to do. I wonder if there ever
was.
My entire body melts into him, and as his arms come around me, I squirm
closer bonelessly. "Mulder," I breathe, inhaling and rubbing my face
against his neck. My lips are by his ear and suddenly my throat is unstuck
and the words want to pour like honey and I have to stop them forcibly.
"No... not impossible," I manage, and the sound of my blood rushing in my
ears is drowning out the clang of the warning bells in my head. My arm
winds around his neck and holds him to me with a ferocity of grip that
scares me. I can't let go.
I force myself to pull back, but my arm won't release him. He tilts his
head and kisses my cheek repeatedly, from my ear to my mouth, just teasing
the corner of my lips. His mouth presses up over my cheekbone and then he's
breathing against my eyelashes, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin
under my eye, then against my eyelid. I sit in his arms and just breathe
him in, trying not to think. I know thinking is going to hurt, and this
feels so incredibly good. So warm and languid and buttery and enveloping.
"Alex, listen to me. Things have always been so intense between us, I don't
know why we'd think this would be any different... but I just want to say
that I don't underestimate what I'm asking of you here. I don't understand
your relationship with Skinner, I mean it was such a surprise, but I can see
it means something to you. Whatever it is... does it make it any easier if
I tell you I'm not asking you to choose? I'm not asking you to walk away
from him, Alex. I'm just asking for a chance for us, a recognition that
there is an us... whatever we might have, might be."
Does it make it easier? Or harder? I can't say. I can't think coherently,
now that the decision is made, now that I'm curled up in his arms, knowing I'm going to do this, practically in his lap. Like the decision wasn't made
before I ever left the house today. I just needed to catch up to it. "Okay,
Mulder," I whisper, because it's all I can get out, it's all my liquefied
brain will produce.
"I know this is complicated and I'm not expecting it to be easy. For any of
us. I want to talk it through, understand about you and Walter, and...
uh... respect the situation."
Shut up, Mulder. "Okay, Mulder." Kiss me again.
His lips work back down my cheek, and slowly he licks at the corner of my
mouth. I turn into it, parting my lips to catch his tongue, sucking it
further into my mouth and exploring it with my own. Such an odd sensation,
really. But so damn intimate I can't resist, can't stop widening my mouth
and rubbing up against the arching muscle of his tongue with mine. Trying
to eat him alive, or invite him in to eat me.
He tries to coax me back into his mouth but nothing doing. I want the
penetration with a need I don't want to think about too carefully. Trying
to communicate 'tongue fuck me' without words is harder than I expected, and
I'll be damned if I'll ask. I tighten my constrictor grip on his neck and
let my head fall back, my neck muscles relaxing. I feel his hands working
up my back to settle on either side of my head, fingers threading into my
hair. I try to moan my encouragement and wind up making a desperate noise
that is downright embarrassing, but my cock likes that anyway and my hips
are suddenly rocking, trying to press up against him, find some friction,
pressure.
Sitting tight beside each other, we're in the wrong position to allow me to
spread my thighs and I'm whimpering in frustration before I can stop myself.
I twist frantically up onto my left hip, my right leg working its way across
his lap until I can ride against his thigh, gasping into his mouth when my
trapped cock meets shifting, hard muscle. He makes a growling noise and
suddenly his left hand slides down my face, down my throat, over my chest,
forcing its way between us to grope my crotch. His palm settles against the
bulge of my begging erection, his fingers curling down over the swell of my
balls, teasing through worn denim. His thumb feels out the head of my cock
and my entire body bucks, causing me to lose suction on his mouth and whack
our foreheads together. He makes a startled noise of pain that morphs into
a smothered laugh when I seal my lips to his again, not letting him free to
make some smartass comment.
I relax in his arms all at once, leaning back, letting my body weight pull
us over into the arm of the couch again. Using my tongue to tease at his, I
coax him forward then push back, then let him in again. Half on top of me,
he finally gets the hint and his tongue starts moving rhythmically, pulling
almost all the way back into his mouth before forcing my lips apart again
and again. His thumb works the swollen head of my cock over and over with
each thrust of his tongue, and I can feel an embarrassing wetness soaking
through my underwear, into the soft denim, my thigh muscles tensing and
releasing as I try to wriggle against him.
When he finally breaks the kiss to take a breath, I find it rather stunning
that I haven't come in my pants. I realize my hips are rocking against him
and force myself to stop, dragging another groan out of the depths of my
chest. Leaning my forehead against his, I breathe shallowly. "Your
sister..."
"Can find her own boyfriend to neck on the sofa with." His hand cupping my
crotch squeezes.
I laugh helplessly, sagging under him. Just his touch, his smell... I'm
losing my grip on reality fast. "Could come out here any minute," I rasp,
while I can still complete the thought, forcing my arm to release him.
"Mmm. Alright. If you insist."
He doesn't move. I don't push him off. After a minute we both start
laughing again. It's a soft, breathy sound... we're both almost
hyperventilating.
"Mulder..."
"Alex..."
"You need to get off me."
"I don't want to. You might change your mind."
My heart skips a beat and I push enough to get him a few inches away,
staring down at me. His eyes are wide and glassy, pupils dilated. He looks
drugged. I doubt I look any soberer. "Mulder, you don't know what coming
over here was like for me," I mutter. "Believe me, I'm not going to change
my mind." The words are almost sad. I know it's inevitable, and I've given
in to that... but something inside aches and somewhere a little voice
screams.
Whatever he sees in my face is enough for him, because he sits back, pulling
me with him so we lean together again, side by side. It feels strangely
good to ignore the insistent throb in my dick, the pulsing ache in my balls,
the painful tightness of my damp jeans. Feels right to sit here so close to
him, torturing myself. Resting my head against his, I smile as he nuzzles
my hair. "You really are going to make my life incredibly complicated," I
murmur, half to myself.
"You won't be bored," he says into my hair. "Nothing's worse than a boring
middle age."
I rest my hand against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart against my
knuckles. The warm and sunny room with the puffy furniture and the lazy
sensuality of the man beside me have me feeling like I'm in a drug-induced
trance. My skin hums with him... my thoroughly juiced mind wanders dizzy
circles around itself, drowning in sensation and denial. I really don't
need a hero anymore. I believe that about myself. I'm not entirely the
same person. But I still need him. Like air. Like I'm only half-there
without him. And I have to wonder what spin this new configuration will put
on our apparently inevitable relationship... where we'll end up, now that
our traditional dynamic has bit the dust. Now that I'm not looking to him
to be my golden-boy martyr, to prove to me that the human race deserves to
exist.
One lust-hazed, desultory thought leads to another and I flash on Walter
teasing me about the superhero complex. I know he knows... knows what
Mulder was to me. Is to me. I don't know exactly what this is going to
mean to he and I, but I'm not stupid or naïve or optimistic enough to think
Mulder's "we can work this out somehow" approach will be at all successful.
If I know Mulder, he's thinking that he doesn't need to ask me to walk out
on Walter. Ten to one, he's figuring once he gets me firmly in bed I'll
walk out on my own accord.
He doesn't understand. I don't even understand.
Complicated is an understatement for what life is about to become. Just
like old times. And none of it matters here in the circle of him. He
strokes my hair again and I shift in the heat of the couch, moving my hips
just enough to feel the constriction of my jeans. I moan softly and he
laughs. Sadistic bastard.
"You sound about like I feel. If I can't convince you that Sam won't wander
back out here while you're here, can I persuade you to retreat behind a
locked door with me?" His hand brushes lightly over mine on his chest, then
catches it and drags it inexorably down to settle in his crotch. I suck in
a breath when I feel the hard length of him, hot through his jeans.
And big. God. A shiver runs through me, and I know exactly what I want.
"Wouldn't that be... rude?" I manage, even though I'm already turning my
head and licking his neck. The salt of his sweat makes my tongue tingle. He
smells good. I squeeze gently over his dick, then work my hand down in
between his thighs, cupping his balls.
"She's... undoubtedly... expecting it..." I like the breathy cadence of his
reply.
"Okay," I answer, choosing consciously to not think about the implications
of his answer right now. I force my hand to stop stroking his crotch and
peel myself away from him. "Lead on."
He tries to bounce out of the sofa enthusiastically, but the couch defeats
him. He sinks back and has to struggle up out of it, but still manages not
to lose the enthusiasm. Grabbing my hand, he drags me toward the hall.
Great, his room is probably right next to hers. When was the last time I
had to worry about someone's little sister overhearing me?
Across from hers, actually, and as we pass her door I hear music. How
considerate. Which of course would mean she was expecting—Not going
there, Alex. Not right now. Thinking is all well and good but there's a
time and a place for it and this ain't it.
Then I'm in his bedroom and he's shutting the door and leaning up against
it, eyes gleaming as he stares at me like he's never seen me. I swallow
hard and find my feet glued to the floor. That's okay though, because he's
moving... coming toward me with intent boiling off him. I almost want to
back up except it's making me so incredibly hot.
Stopping in front of me, he slides my sweater up my torso, fingers stroking
over the thin material of my long-sleeved t-shirt. I work my right arm out
of the sweater, and let him guide it over my head and down my prosthesis.
He's not used to it, and there's a pause as he handles the plastic, bunching
the sweater down the arm. Okay, so thinking is going to have to reappear
for a minute. On or off? Walter and I don't have to think about things
like this anymore. I swallow hard and finally ask him. "On or off?"
He looks at me, perplexed, and I tap the arm. "Do you want it on or off?"
"Me?" The surprise on his face is comical but I'm not laughing. "However
you prefer."
I nod. I know what I want, and I'll be more comfortable with it off. I
hate lying on the straps. But I don't want to deal with it with him
standing there staring at me. "Can you give me a minute?"
He's still looking blank. I want to smack him. No wonder he got such a
name for insensitivity.
"Can you... turn your back? Just give me a minute? Take your own clothes
off," I finally suggest. Undressing someone isn't as exciting as it's
cracked up to be, especially with five less digits than everyone else.
He flushes, starts to stammer something that sounds like an apology, then
immediately turns his back and starts stripping. I wouldn't mind watching
but I want this arm off. I lift my undershirt enough to get at the straps
and unbuckle the arm, fumbling it off and out of the arm sleeve. Talk about
taking the edge off. I turn and set the arm on a chair, bending to grab my
sweater and dropping it on top.
Turning back, he's down to his boxers, and my lungs just went AWOL again. I
find myself in front of him without remembering actually moving. My hand
strokes his chest, down over his stomach, tracing back up to his ribs. He
shivers and smiles at me, his hands reaching to slide my t-shirt up.
"It's ugly," I murmur as the shirt rises. "Don't worry about reacting. It's hard not to."
His face softens and his hands move against my chest gently, too gently. It
makes me itch somewhere inside. Just get the shirt off, Mulder. Get on
with it. I start working my arm out of the sleeve and he gets the hint,
lifting it over my head. Smart boy. He lets the shirt fall to the floor and
moves closer, pulling me into his arms and against his chest. I suck in a
breath as skin rubs against skin, and then our mouths open for each other.
Teeth fight to keep hold of lips as we each nibble and pull away in turns.
My hand stretches the waistband of his boxers and I feel his fingers
unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. I sigh as the pressure finally relaxes
and his hands guide my underwear and jeans down off my hips. He's sliding
down my body, dropping to his knees as he pulls the material down, and that
is so wrong... I step out of the pants and back away, shaking my head,
before he can even start to open his mouth. I resolutely ignore Walter the
bedside psychologist murmuring in my head again.
If I'm doing this, and I am, I don't want him on his knees to me. I want to
enjoy this. My way. The way I need him.
I reach out a hand and tug him to his feet, moving closer until out bodies
are brushing. "I want you to fuck me," I whisper, not even bothering to try
to get the throaty note out of my voice. I'm past caring about sounding in
control. I'm not and he knows it. I watch in satisfaction as a shudder
goes through him at my simple request.
He catches his breath, his face flushing and eyes widening. "I can do
that," he whispers back, his hand reaching between my legs and capturing my
balls. The move has just the perfect touch of arrogance and my head tilts
back involuntarily, a soft moan parting my lips. My cock swells at the
brush of his wrist, at the feel of my scrotum warmly surrounded. I refuse
to move against his hand... I refuse to... I refuse...
I bite my lip as my hips squirm. The feeling is too good, too liquid, I can't stop.
I twist just enough, trying to rub my cock against his arm. I can
see the grin spreading across his face out of the corner of my eye and
really refuse to look him in the face.
But he's leaning into my side and whispering in my ear anyway, his tongue
flickering wetly at the hollow. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you
want this as much as I do," he murmurs smugly, his other hand coasting over
my lower back to settle on my ass. His fingers mold the curves and trace
the cleft, his tongue thrusting gently at my ear. He squeezes one asscheek
then the other, the hand on my balls tightening and relaxing simultaneously,
then whispers, "let's get flat before my knees give out on me" and releases
me completely.
I'm climbing onto the bed before it sinks in that he's gotten us completely
past the awkward moment of seeing my amputation up close and personal for
the first time. A flash of gratitude swells as I sprawl and roll onto my
back, staring up at him as he fumbles at the bedside for lube. He's
beautiful in his awkwardness... my Mulder, hunched at the drawer, shoulders
sloping, long hands rifling. Then he's turning and staring at me, eyes
roaming up and down, head to toes and back again, lingering a long time in
the middle.
Tossing the tube onto the bed, he crawls on next to me, ducking his head to
lick at my nipples, drag a tongue down my stomach, nose around in my crotch.
He mouths back up over my swollen dick lying against my stomach. His lips
and tongue taste and tease at the sticky head, the distended veins. The
symbolism isn't as potent with me flat and him bending over me, and I can
indulge his oral fixation in this position. My head rolls on the pillow and
my fingers dig into the blanket. I really want to stop making that
whimpering noise, but it's a lost cause and I don't even bother trying. When
he finally lifts his head all I can breathe is "...fuuuck..."
"Oh yeah, right." He grins at me wickedly and reaches for the tube and a
pillow.
It honestly wasn't so much a request as the only coherent thing my brain and
tongue could collaborate on producing, but I'm hardly going to complain now
that he's on track.
"Front or back?" he asks breathlessly.
"Front," I answer without pause, already rolling over. I see the flash of
disappointment in his eyes but tough. I'll let him do me on my back some
other time. I've wanted to bend over for him for too long. The sound of
his breathing increasing tells me he's not minding the view as I lift my
hips and let him guide the pillow under me. Letting my upper body flatten
against the bed I luxuriate in the feeling of my hips propped up, ass raised
for fucking. It's good, and when he spreads my thighs it's better. The
vulnerability knifes through me and my muscles tense. My cheeks are hot and
I feel them get hotter as his hands adjust my cock and balls, then spread my
ass. I hear him murmuring something reverential but the blood is pounding
too loud in my ears and then my entire body is jerking and pulsing as cool
lube slides down between my asscheeks, just above my anus. One of his
fingers is suddenly there, drawing through the gel and guiding the majority
of it to my asshole, and I feel the lube seeping into me as he probes. I
moan and bite my lip again as his finger works me open, getting me wetter. I
only realize I'm spreading my thighs wider when the muscles twinge.
Two fingers enter me and I wriggle helplessly. Every movement recalls me to
the sensation of the pillow stuffed under my hips, the sensation of having
my ass in the air, and the whitehot embarrassment boils through me again,
making my cock throb against the pillow holding it back. If he'd just left
it tucked up under my stomach, I'd have more friction, more heat, but
instead it's back between my legs, accessible to him even though he doesn't
touch it. His fingers have discovered my asshole and they don't bother with
anything but that, apparently determined to experiment with every single
humiliating noise they can force out of my traitorous throat by playing
there.
His two fingers press apart, and I can feel my hole stretch. He works his
fingers back and forth, sliding them further and further in, and oh... they're long. Perfect. Long and bony and perfect and yes right there... I don't care that I'm practically screaming into the mattress, don't care that my
hips are trying to rise off the pillow and arch back into his hand... oh
god, just keep touching me there...
He's stopping and pulling back and those incredible fingers are leaving me
and from a distance I can hear him saying something about not being able to
hold on anymore and then he's back and oh...
Oh.
Ooooooh.
His hands press my asscheeks apart and the head of his cock rubs repeatedly
against my anus. It feels bigger than it looked even, and he nudges
impatiently at my hole. I arch again and hear a strangled moan that for
once isn't mine. His hands clench on my ass and then one lets go and his
dick steadies. He keeps the pressure full on and eases forward steadily,
forcing the tip inside me. I bite the blanket and press back, the stab of
tight pain as the muscle is breached subsiding into the incredible fullness
as he pushes past the resistance and slides in further and further. More
and more and god... more... he works his way in slowly and I can't stand it,
it's everything I wanted and more and he's so there. So full of him and I'm pinned to the damn pillow and his hands are on my hips and FUCK yes...
He's shifting around and then lowering himself to lie down against my back,
his dick up in me to the balls. He just settles there, breathing hot and
heavy on the back of my neck—not moving his hips, just covering me
completely, his weight pressing me open, holding me impaled and stretched
around him. The feeling won't let me get my breath back. He's saying
something almost continuously, and I tune in enough to finally make out "so
good so good so good". I want to return the compliment but my tongue only
makes a sticky 'nuuhhh' sound. Then his dick shifts inside me and I find a
whole new range of 'nuh'.
The feel of him, hard and full, so far up inside me, is enough to have me on
the verge of coming. When he gets his weight onto his elbows and starts to
thrust, I know I'm in trouble. I start squealing. Positively squealing. I
bury my face against the bed to muffle the horrid sound and try to make my
hand stop clawing at the blanket. But that perfect slick feel as he pulls
back and drives forward, smooth and wet with lube and going deeper every
time... I can't take it. The friction on my prostate has my hips jumping
under him with each thrust. Every breath I draw in heaves back out of me
with a moaning grunt and I can't stop. Can't stop moving, can't stop the
sounds...
In moments I'm pushing past the edge. The pillowcase chafes my dick as I
hump against it and I wish it was his hand surrounding me all the way but
his hands are busy holding himself up and this'll do... I rock back against
him and then forward into the pillow one more time and there...
I spasm underneath him, muscles jerking, ass clenching on the cock spearing
me. Unbearable pleasure sizzles out through my groin. Hot wetness spurts
and spreads into the pillow and sheet, and I'm done... gasping and going
limp as he continues to thrust. The pulse and pressure in my ass is amazing,
all the nerves in a riot of stimulation, registering every shock of
sensation as he continues to move inside me. In another minute it'll be too
much, it already almost hurts, but oh it's good, so good... I still can't
get enough air to be intelligible but it's okay because all I can do is moan
brokenly as his dick rides me into the bed.
I'm suddenly aware of his breath laboring in my ear, overloud and tortured.
I hear him gasp and his body stiffens; I feel his hips jerk against my ass
and can't stop a mewl of discomfort. Then he's collapsed and heavy on my
back, still panting directly in my ear. His dick is softening but still
inside me, and I try not to shift, try not to stir at all. I don't want him
moving just yet, not yet, but in another moment he's pushing himself up onto
his arms and I feel his dick slowly slide free as he rolls off me. He hits
the bed and sprawls on his back.
We lay silently for long moments before his head tilts toward me, a silly
grin decorating his flushed face. "That... was amazing," he warbles.
I try to agree but nothing comes out. His hand lifts idly and stretches to
rest against me, just flat against my lower side. It's nice. Walter's a
cuddler, and I've... adjusted. But it's not my natural inclination. Hell,
half the time after I have sex I'd just as soon roll over and forget it
happened. Not that I don't enjoy it, I do. It's just, once it's over... it's almost embarrassing. It's so open. I don't do open. I don't always
like what my pleasure tells me.
I want to close my eyes and go to sleep. I'm drained and my muscles feel
like water. But I suddenly find myself wondering how long we've been at
this... what time it is. I open my mouth to ask and realize that's about
the worst possible thing to say to someone after sex. 'By the way, what
time is it?' Especially a man who's just told you it was amazing. I close
my mouth once more without making any sound, and close my eyes too, trying
to order my thoughts.
I drift for a minute and realize I could fall asleep too easily. I open my
eyes and Mulder is closer somehow. He's rolled up onto his side and he's
just staring at me, a dreamy look on his face. I like the look. It's a good
one for him. Soft and unfocused. He looks happy. I need to know what time
it is.
His fingers stroke my skin just barely. It almost tickles. I realize
absently that I'm still lying propped up on his wet pillow but if I roll off
it I'll either collide with him, or roll out of his reach and he won't be
touching me anymore. I like the touch. My ass feels so incredibly good.
Fucked. Beautifully.
"You know," he murmurs, and his voice is soft and confidential, "whenever I
spend any time looking at you, I end up wanting to crawl in behind your eyes
and see what's going on back there."
I smile before I realize what my mouth is doing. "No, you don't," I murmur
back, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears. Furry and slow. But at
least I made noise. Improvement. "You don't want to be in my mind, Mulder.
Most of the time I don't want to be in my mind."
He sighs and his hand coasts up and down my hip. Up and down. Up and down.
"That's sad, Alex."
"No, it's just me," I answer without thought. "But I'll tell you what I'm
thinking. I'm thinking I like that. It feels nice." Ah, my old friend
omission.
The right thing to say. His smile gets wider, if possible. "Good." He
moves a little bit closer, face nestling toward mine. "You lived up to a
hell of a lot of fantasies, Mr. Krycek."
I blush before I can catch myself. It's less a reflection on what he's said
than it is on what's going through my mind... because it's true for me too.
His performance definitely lived up to years of fantasies and daydreams. I
feel an odd pressure in my chest and before I realize what I'm doing, I'm
saying, "You too." I need to get up.
"Will you stay for dinner with me and Sam? I know she'd like to talk to
you."
Dinner? "I don't... another time?"
"You need to go." His voice is resigned.
"I should."
"She'll be disappointed."
"I'd like to stay, but..." But I really need to go. Get home. Take a
shower.
"But you need to go." And suddenly he's sitting up.
I finally roll off the pillow and sit up too. My ass aches and I love it. I
catch myself smiling stupidly. Then I catch him catching me smiling
stupidly. I'm annoyed, but he looks inordinately pleased with himself. I
roll off the bed and start getting dressed. He leans back on his hands and
watches me. I don't even care as he watches me strap on the arm. My hand
is a lot steadier now that I'm not drowning in arousal.
"You'll come back?"
I've got my sweater half over my head and his voice has me almost ramming my
head into an armhole. Once I get myself sorted out I turn and look at him.
Which is a mistake. That hopeful look on his face... "I... yes." It's out
before I consciously decide to say it.
He smiles. He's relieved, I can see it. He believes me. Which is nice,
considering. "You'll stay for dinner next time?"
My lips twist up and I walk back to the bed, crawling on it and leaning in
for a slow kiss. "Yes."
When I pull back he nods and doesn't say anything else as I ruffle my hair
at the mirror and head for the door. I pause with my hand on the knob and
look back at him, still naked and beautiful on the bed, legs sprawling. "See
you soon." Very soon, my gut whispers. Or maybe it's something a little
lower. I don't want to think it's something a little higher.
"Very soon," he says with a grin.
I push through the door before I can get anymore paranoid about what he
might be picking up out of my head. Walking down the hall to the living
room in a fog, I almost jump when a voice greets me from the couch.
"Can you stay for dinner?"
Ordering my racing heart to calm, I look at Samantha curled up in the same
spot where her brother ravished me a bit ago, and tell myself I am not
going to feel awkward. Which means I have to very sternly instruct myself
not to think about his comment that she was going to be expecting us to
adjourn behind closed doors. "I can't, Sam. I'd love to but I have to go.
But I want a raincheck. Can I?"
She stands with a smile and limps to me. "Anytime. Come back soon.
Although I'm guessing you were planning to." Her grin is way too smug, and
I will the heated feeling in my cheeks to chill.
"Very soon," I say dryly, and head for the door, refusing to look back even
when I hear her giggle following me.
Down the stairs and out into the cold wind and I can't shake the glow of
warmth in my chest no matter how many frantic gulps of frigid air I take.
It's like something's cracked open inside me and I can't shove it shut
again. Something that's pouring out heat like an over-stoked wood stove.
It's not a particularly comforting thought. I'm still confused as hell. I
want to go home. I want to walk in and find Walter in his chair and force
him to stop looking at work he wasn't supposed to bring home with him and
have everything be pretty much the way it was two months ago.
I want to throw another piece of wood in the stove and open up the dampers
all the way.
I want to crawl inside that cracked-open place and stay there.
I suck in another deep breath and keep walking.
Still Burning
by Ratadder
February 21, 2006
