Mortal Coil
Fandom: The Burning Zone
Category/Rated: NC17, Slash
Year/Length: ~12,254 words
Pairing: Philip Padgett
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Warning: Disturbing content warning. Here be snakes.
At first the night was full of shadows and dark, rich color. He saw blood behind his closed lids and knew that the serpent had entered him. He'd lain forgotten on the floor against the stone of the dais while they all milled around, then they'd left, taking the sick woman along with them. He'd watched them go before permitting his eyelids to drift shut while he awaited what came.
When Aesclepius finally possessed his flesh, he gave a shuddering sigh and relaxed, giving himself up to the ministrations of his god. He dreamed then, his mind flying to Delos, and the ruins where, for him, it had all begun, one night seven years before. The God within his flesh made him feel nervy and insecure, and he had to clench his teeth in an effort to stop himself from screaming.
Earlier, as he'd fallen, he'd felt the crack as his spine snapped, and then he'd felt nothing more as he lay on the cold stone of the temple floor. He'd known that he was paralyzed, believed that he was dying. He must have appeared to be dead for they had left him on the ground and gone.
Now, there was a twisting otherness, as though somehow he had stepped away from himself, and suddenly he found himself in very truth back in Delos with the bright moon watching him accusingly. After a while, the god himself reared up before him and he sank to his knees, unsure what was to befall him.
"You were given a gift, Philip." The voice of the god was light, almost girlish, and Philip blinked for a second.
"I was, and for that I thank you." "You have not used the gift for the good of all." "It was my right to exact payment for the gift of healing." His head had risen proudly as he spoke. All his natural arrogance had flared at the words of the god, and for a moment he had forgotten.
The god, whose aspect had been that of a young man, shimmered, and Philip saw the serpent, reared to strike him. He bowed his head down again, prostrating himself before the being that had given him his powers. He knew a moment's fear, aware that the god was all-powerful here in this place.
Philip bowed his head briefly, then raised it once more. What use to argue with a god? He'd done what he thought was right, and then
"Philip, it was not your right to take away that healing, once given. You should not have acted thus. You had lain with the woman. To possess her body but then withdraw the gift for which she had paid was wrong." The serpent flicked his tongue in and out, tasting the air, sensing the truth of Philip's words even before he uttered them. Philip sighed.
"Holy Aesclepius, there was a plot to throw me down, and you with me. Men came who were not what they seemed. They lied, and they attempted to confound us both. They desecrated my shrine to you. They would have destroyed you. The woman she was a part of the plot. She too lied, and cheated. I meant only to protect you." His voice, at first breathy, grew stronger as he spoke, and he finished his little speech with a ring of conviction that satisfied him. He continued to kneel and wait.
The huge snake danced above him, sometimes offering to strike him, and sometimes twining around him. He remained on his knees, perfectly accepting. He had already had one chance at new life when he'd expected only decay and then premature death. He'd enjoyed his gift to the full, had spared himself nothing that took his fancy. A pragmatist, he'd always known that some day the reckoning would have to be paid. He was grateful for the things he'd had, and seen, and done since his cure seven years before.
His mind roamed back over the silks he had worn, the gardens he had caused to grow, and the beautiful women that he'd saved, who had graced his bed. Above him, the pale moon glowed, bathing his naked limbs in shatterlight. Stars, remote and scornful, pricked holes in the velvet of the sky. The serpent writhed around him, stroking his body with warm, dry scales that felt almost like the silk of the clothes he had become used to wearing. Nothing was said.
Gradually, the snake began to twine about him, slithering around his torso, constricting him slightly as it danced and rippled. He felt himself grow hard in response to the serpentine caresses, hard and hot, his groin beginning to ache with the need for completion.
He reached down to touch his engorged penis, and the snake reared, hissed, struck at the hand, knocking it back. He straightened himself at that, spreading his knees, and arching his back to offer himself.
"Do you bend to my will, Philip?" The mild voice of the god was a sudden, silken shock to him, and for a minute he couldn't find a response, then he shivered, and knew beyond a doubt that his life would continue.
"Always, great lord," he replied.
The snake curled close to him, stroking around his penis, whirling around his inner thighs faster than thought. He could feel his climax approaching, and moaned into the silence of the ruins. The restless twining and slithering was maddening. He felt it throughout his body, and it was both wonderful and terrifying. When the great snake raised its head above him once again and hovered, lit by moonbeams, he was almost beyond caring. Slack mouthed and heavy-lidded with need, he knelt, his chest rising from the coils of the serpent flushed and sweat-slick. He watched the snake center itself, and then strike down. As it engulfed his cock, he felt the thrilling, unbearable sweetness of a release so profound he thought that he might die. It flickered, black fire around his loins, drawing him, teasing at his senses until it seemed as if it would last forever. His thighs tensed and tingled. His balls crept in tight against his cock and suddenly it was as though he was melting, everything he had was flowing out from his aching testes. Lightning flowed around him, down his spine, through his balls and out along his cock. His organ pulsed and shot streams of molten, delicious fluid, to be swallowed by the night. He thought that in the end, he might have screamed.
The sky whirled. He believed that he saw ages pass him by, although when things steadied, he still remained there in the place of the god, unmoved within the stone circle of the healer's temple. It seemed as if the god had left him, but suddenly, as he rose at last from his knees, a young man stepped out of the shadowed depths of the temple, gliding to his side on sandaled feet.
He would have knelt again, but the god put out his hand and stopped him.
"Your humility is pleasing to the gods, Philip, but for now I am as you are, and there is no need to kneel. Come and walk with me. The Aegean is a beautiful sight. It will restore your spirit
They walked. Who would refuse a god? Still naked, Philip followed his master. After a while, the young man turned to study Philip's body, and to ask coyly if he was pleased by his earlier 'ministrations'.
Lesser gods have their vanity too, Philip thought, but remained silent, merely smiling thanks to the being that walked alongside him.
Later, he couldn't recall their conversation, but the night was magical. The velvet darkness was as soft as a whisper on his skin, and the stars had forgiven him. Walking beside the ocean, hand in hand with a god, he heard what his purpose was to be, and was no longer afraid. When at last the dawn glowed, rose pink and delicate primrose over the ancient, restless sea, he found himself beside an avenue that was lined with huge, stone lions. The god placed a kiss on his brow, and then another on his supplicant lips, breathed "Remember," and was gone.
Exhausted, but filled with the words that Aesclepius had spoken to him, he crept back up the hill to the temple, and lay down on the marble floor. Sleep took him at last, and his dreams were filled with the knowledge of the journey he must make, and the things that lay before him.
As he slept, he seemed to float in a place that was beyond the boundaries of earth, feeling secure as his body remade itself.
Waking with a start, Philip Paget wondered at first where he was. Then it all came rushing in on him. The fuckers had stolen his life from him, and all for nothing. They'd brought real life rushing in on his carefully crafted, beautiful dream, and now he was cast adrift by decree of his god. He owed them, the men and women that had stolen his paradise from him, and brought him the censure of the god.
Climbing painfully to his feet, he surveyed the temple where he had healed so many. It would hurt to say goodbye to this, and yet, for the sake of the serpent he carried within him, it must be done. He raised his hand to the back of his head, seeking for any tenderness, but there was nothing. He was healed in truth.
He turned and left the temple without looking back. His loss was so great that it was all but unbearable. A lesser man would have cried and begged, but he was not a lesser man, and he would remain. He knew, as well as he knew his own name, that he would find paradise again despite them all.
Soldiers had been though the house, and his possessions were strewn about, many of them broken. Who knew how many precious items were missing? He didn't stay to count the damage. He moved surefooted through the house to the conservatory where his snakes were housed - or at least where they had been housed until tonight. The tanks lay broken, and the snakes were gone. That cost him a pang. He loved the sensuous feel of them, and only ever felt truly relaxed when they were within reach.
He knelt, feeling inside the vivarium that had housed his largest boa, and groped for the key he'd concealed within it. Securing it, he left as quickly as he'd arrived, and went in search of the things that he would need.
He filled a suitcase with necessary items, clothing, passport and papers, and most importantly the passbooks that held the details of his Swiss bank accounts. He rapidly dressed himself in a silk suit and shirt, leaving the collar open, before at last abandoning the wreck of his beautiful hacienda without a single backward glance.
The god must have been at work. How else to account for his escape? He walked right past the soldiers that guarded the gate and they didn't see him, or maybe they didn't care. When he drove his car out of the place that had been his home for seven years, all he could feel was relief.
Washington DC was chilly after the heat of his Mexican domain. The November wind was blowing sleet into any unprotected space, and when Philip disembarked from the plane that had carried him here, he felt the first stab of regret as the cold knifed into him and made him cringe.
He hadn't any clothes warm enough to cope with the stinging effects of the weather on his skin, and he knew that his first sortie would be to find protection. As he passed through Immigration, he half expected to be stopped, outed, and to end up thrown into some holding tank while he was investigated. Once again it was as if the god were shielding him, and his entry back into the US was, against all odds, painless.
His first care was to visit the bank where his funds were held. Having set up a checking account for himself, he went in search of warm clothing - expensively tailored clothing in rich fabrics, and once he had that, a place to stay.
The god had told him that his task was to heal a certain man, and that in doing so he would expiate his crime against his calling, but he hadn't been given any further understanding of what he was required to do.
Philip couldn't avoid thinking how very typical of a god that was. He hated surprises. He'd always made certain that he was well prepared for whatever might befall him. He wasn't sure that he liked this sensation of uncertainty. He was used to imposing his will on events, and to submit in this way made him uneasy. He wasn't used to bending before another's will. Only his need for the god held him. He knew that what would be, would be, but he wasn't happy about it.
All he could do was wait. The god had forbidden all thoughts of revenge on those who had destroyed his life, and now he was in limbo, unable to make any plans for the future. He had no plans and no strategies, and in a way, that very lack of structure had set him free. He was a new man in many ways. In a way he was ready to relinquish control for the first time in his life and that made him giddy also. He told himself that he liked the feeling of being directed for he knew that once he did as he was commanded he would most certainly be rewarded and, truth to tell he loved rewards. Little did he know how profound that reward would be.
He checked himself into a hotel, and bought himself a number of papers so that he could begin his search for a place to live the following day.
He awoke to the beating of cold rain against the hotel window, and looking outside at the dawn, he shivered at the contrast between the daybreak he had witnessed on Delos and this cold, grey apology for a sunrise. He dressed himself in cashmere and heavy silk and went down for breakfast, knowing that he had to find somewhere to live that day. Much later, armed with a cell phone and a list of appointments, he left the hotel in search of a vehicle.
The apartment block in Hegel Place was neither new, nor modern, but something inside him had surged when he inspected the vacant suite on the 4th floor, and he knew that this was the one. Sighing, he made notes of decorating to be done, and furnishings to be purchased before paying the retainer to the disinterested landlord, who handed him the keys without attempting to check the references that he'd provided.
The place was his, and he would go shopping for the things he needed. It would take a lot of work to make this place home, but it wasn't impossible. He tried not to think of the things that had been left behind him, but there were pangs that he couldn't avoid as he thought of warmth, and sweet blossoms, and even sweeter scented flesh.
Philip Paget had been born to appreciate luxury. All his life he had collected things that he thought beautiful. After all, he was beautiful himself, and his collection complemented that. He'd never had to work at coaxing women into his bed while in Mexico, only one or two had ever rebuffed him and truth to tell, if he approached them for a second time they acquiesced. Though they might tell a different story, he knew the truth.
He'd spent his money on things that he considered perfect, and Washington DC in the winter was not something he had ever dreamed he would experience. His presence here was a penance that he had to endure, but in his heart he hated and resented it. His thoughts were of Mexico, of sunlight and golden skin lit by lamplight on sheets of satin. What kept him tied to the cold winds of winter was the need to be different, special. He was beloved of a god and that set him apart. The god required that he make this sacrifice, and so here he was. The god hadn't required that he like it though, and that was just as well.
He hated it.
Three weeks later he had completed his preparations and the apartment was now warm and inviting, the dcor and furnishings sensual and comforting. He had strewn richly patterned rugs on the waxed and gleaming hardwood of the floors. The walls glowed in shades of cream and cinnamon, lamps hung to burnish the pale wood of his new furniture and there were framed Navajo prints on the wall. The serpent shrine was in the corner beside the window, and his new car was parked down below in the lot. It was time to move in.
Walking into the building as a resident for the first time seemed strange to him. He had relished the space that Mexico afforded him, and it would be very different living in this new and crowded way. Not that he'd seen much of his neighbors. He felt that he had gone from ruling like a prince over his own small kingdom back to suburbia. He was in mourning for his lost status.
He missed the servants too. He'd had to do all the preparations himself, and hated it. Always used to the best of service he'd been severely galled by the lack of it in the people with whom he dealt. He wasn't accustomed to shopping for his own groceries. He resented the time it took to prepare meals for himself. He had very soon discovered that he was not able to prepare food to the standard that he wished without investing his time very heavily. That was in a way far more frustrating than anything else. He discovered that an astral surgeon did not necessarily have the skills to slice vegetables, and cut himself on more than one occasion.
"Some day. Please, someday, it will all be mine again." His husky whisper burned the air as he looked out of the window at the drab wet street outside, sucking the finger that he had just sliced open in the pursuit of salad.
He'd been told that there was an FBI agent living next door, but Philip had neither seen nor heard any sign of him. The elderly lady who lived opposite seemed to feel that the occupant had gone away for an extended period, but lost no time in sensing someone who would permit her to chatter. He was lonely. There was nobody with whom he'd really wished to make friends, and the kind of female company he craved had been denied him by the god.
His natural charm exhibited itself as he gave her all of his attention. She'd fallen for him, that was obvious, and when, with a self-deprecating grin, he had massaged away the joint pains that she'd been feeling more and more in the past year, she'd thrown her arms around him and kissed him soundly. Later, she'd brought him a cake that she'd made for him, and come in at his invitation to share it with him. The conversation had turned almost at once to the next-door neighbor's mysterious absence.
A tiny red haired lady had been coming by every day or so, she said. 'Pretty little thing. Having a baby too. Couple of others had been from time to time. The one with the beard looked respectable enough, but the other two, if you asked her, they could do with a spell in the army.' Then she'd looked at Philip with a smile that invited confidences.
"Of course, now that you've decided to move in you'll be able to visit him whenever. Hope that you keep the noise levels down. You must have come into money. You used to look so down at heel, so rough. You're looking very well now though, dear." She'd flirted with him, and he'd flirted back, happy for the moment that he had company to relieve the grey days.
Philip was fascinated. The old lady seemed to think that she'd seen him before, and he questioned her about that. It seemed that there was someone else who had been here, and who had visited the elusive next- door neighbor. He'd started to tell the lady that it wasn't him, but she seemed so sure that in the end he gave up and allowed her words to drift over him like the swell of the sea.
After a little while he found that he could tune her out. He could allow the wash of her words to burble past him like a fast running tide, and bend his mind to the interesting fact that this neighbor of his seemed to feel that she knew him. He'd noticed several other inmates of the apartment block had looked at him in a strange and not altogether welcoming way, but had ascribed that to the fact that this was a city, by nature unfriendly.
He'd received no further visits from the god since the night he'd been driven from his home, and he wondered if this was to be his fate, that he was now condemned to live in the drab, cold city, waiting for something that might never arrive. The god had told him that there was a task for him. Where it was, and what it was, he didn't know. Serving a god of any kind would always lead to waiting, but only the faithful ever gained from their pains.
He had more than enough money for his needs, and was in no hurry to find work, so he settled down to write a book of his experiences. He had no idea if he would ever find a publisher, but it pleased him to leave a record of the things he'd seen and done. Somehow, his side of the story had been bypassed.
The cold days blurred one into another as he waited. He wrote, and watched the world. He bought himself a small boat and took it out onto the ocean, where it was still cold, but was away from the city. There he could imagine himself alone, and no longer surrounded by the ant heap that was his present home. From time to time he thought back on his former life with regret, as though he was viewing a movie that had made him cry.
He was lonely, of that there was no doubt. His heart was sick with the pain of loneliness. He had no friends, few acquaintances, and even the comfort of easy sex had been denied him. Within his mind he knew that he had to wait for the sign that would surely come some day. As ever, compensated for the loneliness by collecting things of beauty about him, and by pampering his body. Somehow, it was not enough. He was hollow, and loneliness ate him more and more as time went on.
He'd found himself a snake, and taken it home. The smooth, silken coils of her were a comfort to him, but he was still melancholy.
Christmas was approaching when he finally made the acquaintance of the elusive man from apartment 42.
He'd been out, walking restlessly, trying to decide what purpose his life held now, and why it had been put on hold in this way. Left to his own devices he would have gone abroad for the winter rather than remaining in the cold, damp atmosphere of the nation's capitol. He'd found that most of the residents of Hegel Place were content to ignore him, and he rarely saw his elderly friend now. She was visiting her daughter for the holidays and he was no longer subjected to the chatter that flowed ceaselessly around her. In a way, he missed it. He hadn't had much contact with people since his fall from grace.
Philip was wrapped up warmly, with a hat and a muffler that kept out the worst of the howling wind that had been blowing for days. As he approached the main doorway to go into the apartment block, he became aware of a tall, dark man following him in. Entering the elevator and peeling off his hat and scarf with a quiet murmur of thanks, he realized that the other was still with him. As Philip turned to smile, his companion uttered a curse and the next thing he knew he was pressed to the wall of the elevator, with the forearm of the other against his throat.
Though confused, he couldn't in all conscience allow himself to be mugged in his own building. Not only that, but it was the perfect opportunity to release a few pent up frustrations while still being able to justify his actions. He threw himself into the encounter with a glee that burned fiercely.
He fought back viciously, kneeing the other in the groin and then following through with fists. The attacker was soon reeling back against the wall of the elevator, and when the door opened onto the fourth floor, Philip stepped out without looking behind him. He felt elated as he left the man behind him, moaning. The physical contact had been surprisingly energizing. He was, of course, in extraordinary physical condition. He'd had little else with which to occupy his time, and he had always prided himself in caring for his body in every manner available.
He was shocked, and a little wary, when the man left the elevator and followed after him, eyes firmly fixed on Philip.
"What's the hell's your problem?" Philip was furious, and as the other stepped closer to him, he'd balled his fists ready to continue the fight. He could feel the slow trickle of blood from one of his nostrils, and was sure that he would bear a bruise from the attack. He drew breath to begin a discussion of the lack of moral fiber inherent in those who attacked people inside their own apartment blocks, and then, from somewhere within him, had arisen the strange and certain knowledge. This was the one for whom he'd been waiting. He sighed, consciously relaxing his hands, and schooled his angry face into neutrality. "Can I help you with anything?" he said inanely, and stood awaiting the response.
Philip watched the other warily as he stumbled away from the elevator, attempting to ascertain his ability to win a battle, should it come to that. His adversary was as tall as Philip, but stooped in a way that indicated a deep-down pain that wouldn't go away. His face was currently twisted into a mask of hatred that baffled Philip. He moved toward the other man, his hand out to help him, and took an involuntary step back again as the other snarled.
"Why don't you fuck off and die, Krycek? Why don't you just run back to the others, now that you've won? There's no point in tormenting me any more." The words were bitter, and Philip shook his head, confusion on his face. His inner thoughts were in turmoil. This man hated someone who looked like Philip, and the god wanted him to accept it, to overcome it.
At this point it suddenly crossed Philip's mind why he had been treated with such fear by the other apartment dwellers. His look-alike must be a very dangerous man to elicit such responses.
"Can I help you? Do I know you? I believe that you have me confused with someone else, and if you'll forgive me for saying so, you seem to be unwell." He slipped off his right glove and held out his hand to the other. "My name is Philip Paget."
The other ignored the outstretched hand, fixing his eyes with a strange fascination onto his other hand, the one that was currently fumbling for his door key.
"Krycek? Your hand?" The man's voice was thick with wonder, and with something else, and Philip felt a strange flutter within him that came from something he didn't understand. He was suddenly sure that this was the reason he had come here. This man was something to do with his exile.
He held out the hand, complete with keys, for the other's inspection, and the dark eyed man seemed to shiver. Slowly, he reached for Philip's hand, removing the soft leather gauntlet that he wore, and turned the hand over in his own, examining it minutely. Philip permitted the examination, tolerating this intrusion into his personal space, sure that there would be some reason forthcoming, and certain that it would be at least a little entertaining.
"Not Krycek. Not Krycek at all, but so like A shapeshifter, perhaps. " He reached out as though to touch Philip's face, and seemed confused at the trickle of blood from his nose. "Blood? Not a shapeshifter then." He seemed to recollect his manners with a visible effort. "I'm sorry. You wouldn't believe how much you look like an ex-associate of mine. Fox Mulder is my name. People call me Mulder." The man smiled a little ruefully, but in the back of his eyes Philip could read strange and disconcerting things. He wondered what the man named Krycek had been to Mulder.
He had a sudden presentiment as he looked at Mulder. The man had a sickness of some kind, he could see beneath the skin of his face to where the disease lay, grey and foul, marring the sensual beauty of his features.
"You're sick," Philip said, blurting out the words without thinking as he gazed at Mulder. The other man paled.
"What? How can you tell? I only just heard" Mulder stood looking at Philip for a frozen moment that pressed down on the pair of them. He suddenly shuddered as Philip opened his mouth to speak, then turned away, moving towards the door of his apartment without any further words.
Philip could see that something had shaken Mulder badly, and he wondered what the implications were for him: what it was that the god had planned for him to do. Was he perhaps to heal this man who had attempted to beat him, and who seemed to be quite entertainingly odd?
Shaking his head, he turned towards his own apartment. He was about to go in when the other man called him back.
"How did you know? How can you tell that I'm?" Philip had opened his door. He paused, and then beckoned to Mulder. It seemed that the god had decided that this would be his task. Perhaps it would prove diverting. The man was a little eccentric to say the least. Having decided that he was to befriend him, Philip squared his shoulders, gave a mental sigh, and began the process he was sure that he would regret.
"Why don't you come in and have a drink. There's no short way to tell you, and a lot of it will mean you suspending your disbelief." He gave a graceful little bow and an ironic smile as he extended the invitation. Mulder stood for a moment, apparently deep in thought, and then nodded, half to himself. His eyes were fixed on the moving flesh of Philip's left hand, and he seemed a little off balance. It was plain that the man was now seeing differences between Philip and his doppelganger.
"Give me a minute or two." He moved to open his own door and disappeared from view, removing his overcoat as he did so. Philip watched him go and then turned to enter his home. It was closer to ten minutes before the knock on the door heralded Mulder's arrival.
Philip had discarded his outer clothes and was now dressed in light silk, the sleeves of his jacket pushed up to his elbows. As usual, he wore no tie but his expensive suit had a vest that perfectly fitted his broad shoulders and his shirt was of heavy, raw silk, beautifully tailored.
He opened the door to find the other man standing, virtually hopping with some kind of suppressed excitement. Inwardly rolling his eyes, but outwardly smiling urbanely, Philip held the door open for the other man, welcoming him into his apartment. As Mulder wandered in, his shrewd eyes darting around the living room, Philip closed the door and then moved to pour his guest a drink.
Mulder accepted a seat as Philip held out the glass of wine to him, and stretched his long legs out in front of him as he took the crystal glass with its contents of honeyed, Grecian wine, from his host's hand.
Walking back to drop into a chair facing Mulder, Philip observed him. His senses seemed to be telling him that Mulder was the reason for his presence here. He waited. His years spent with people who had discovered their own mortality made him aware that silence was required right now. Mulder sipped at his wine, and then placed the glass down on a small, hand-carved table made from teak that stood at his elbow. Finally, in response to some inner prompt, he raised tormented eyes to the other man. "
I have cancer."
Philip nodded, his body still as he waited. There would be more. He could see it trembling on the visitor's full lips. He needed all the information. Mulder returned to his wine, and after a while, the silence grew heavy.
"I've been told that there's no cure for what I have. It's taken hold too rapidly. My mother died from the same thing, and now I guess that I'm going to be the last one. There will be none of us left." Mulder's face twisted in pain momentarily, and Philip nodded, his face compassionate.
"You believe the sickness to be hereditary then?" His voice was low and soothing. There were forces at work here that he needed to understand. The god within him was waking, he felt it, and he was so sure that he could affect a cure for this Mulder that he wanted to scream it out loud, but now was not the time. Mulder was shaking his head from side to side as he denied the other's question.
"No. I believe that I have a susceptibility to this form of cancer, but that's all. My partner suffered from the same thing when she" Mulder was suddenly silent, apparently unsure whether or not his story would be accepted.
Philip remained unspeaking for a few moments more, and then leaned forward to begin his investigation of the fascinatingly off-the-wall man who sat, shifting nervously in his seat. He gazed mildly at the rangy body, attempting to divine what kind of sickness led to an embarrassment as palpable as Mulder's obviously was. As always when he was faced with a problem, his hand stretched out to caress his snake. She had coiled herself over the back of the chair in which he sat, and extended her head to his touch, sliding down his arm to receive the absent stroking.
"You say that your partner had the same thing?" Philip had learned always to watch people's eyes, making contact that they couldn't, and he wouldn't break. In that he was snake-like. He'd learned to keep his focus on the eyes of others once his interest had been engaged. Now, watching Mulder, he was surprised to see the other man wince in pain.
"No. You don't understand. Not exactly the same, but brought on by the same cause." Mulder took a deep draught of the wine and resumed speaking. "You see, we are both alien abductees. Scully and I were both returned with implants in our flesh. Hers was in the back of her neck, and she developed cancer on her pituitary. My implant was removed from my abdomen, and I have Paget's Carcinoma. My mother had that too, before she died."
Philip's brow creased. This was coincidence on coincidence. He knew Paget's Carcinoma, of course. How could he not? Still, his diagnosis needed substantiating. Inwardly he grinned, suppressing his urgent desire to laugh out loud. It wasn't every day that someone complained that their sickness was the result of a meeting with little green men. This man was going to provide him with hour after hour of amusement, he was sure. Aliens and implants aside however, Philip needed to perform an examination, to allow the god to explore the workings of the body that was sitting before him.
"You're sick, Mulder. I can make you well but you must trust me." Mulder's brow creased at his words, and Philip smiled ruefully. "No, I'm not a doctor. Ihave a gift that was given to me at a time when I was near death myself."
Mulder looked at him, catching something in his utterance that made him nervous. It was plain that Mulder had caught the melancholic vibrations that surrounded Philip, and that it was contributing to his skittishness.
Philip sought words that would help him explain without losing the other man. If he frightened him away, there would be no cure for him. As always, he became commanding and assertive as he began his pitch. He fixed Mulder with his gaze, turning the full force of his liquid green eyes on him. He sat forward, and his hand stole idly to caress the coils of the snake that lay draped on the arm of his chair. His voice became almost hypnotic as he began to tell Mulder about his experiences in the ruins seven years before.
When Mulder merely nodded, he continued, relating the things that had happened to him in the recent months. Mulder said nothing as he listened, inclining his head from time to time, as Philip continued to describe the way he would need to operate in order to heal Mulder.
Finally he stopped talking, and leaned back in his seat to await the outcome.
"Let me get this straight. You propose to send an astral serpent to enter my body and diagnose my cancer?" Mulder's dry voice was terse.
"That's about the size of it. You see, the god does things his own way. I can't move to heal you until he sees what the damage is. It won't hurt you." Philip smiled gently. Far from hurting, it would feel good. He knew that.
"When will you do this this diagnosis?" Mulder seemed to be thinking. His forehead was crinkled in concentration, but his eyes gleamed. Philip hadn't any way of knowing that Mulder had just found himself an X-File, and that wild horses could not have torn him away from his investigation at that point, even had he not been as beautiful as the man he had once loved, and then lost.
"As soon as you like," was the husky response. "We need to do what we can before you worsen. You will spend the night here, and then in the morning we'll know what we're up against.
Mulder thanked Philip for the wine and stood. Having made arrangements for him to return at bedtime for his appointment with the god, he left, murmuring his amazement once again at how much Philip resembled his enemy.
Philip stood, his snake about his shoulders, and watched him go.
It was close to midnight when Fox Mulder knocked on Philip's door, entering somewhat shamefacedly. He was wearing a set of old, grey sweats that had seen far better days, and as he came in he grinned at Philip, ruefully, admiring the elegance of his host. No, this couldn't possibly be Krycek. Philip was clad in his navy silk pajamas, and wore a blue brocade robe embroidered with Greek designs.
"I'm a bit later than expected. I'm sorry. I've been arguing with Scully. As usual, she thinks that my head is firmly inserted in my ass. Sorry to keep you up." He moved into the living room at Philip's gesture, and stood, a little awkwardly, waiting for some kind of instruction.
"You didn't keep me up. I will be awake throughout the procedure. It's the only way. Come." He led Mulder to where he had laid out a pallet on the floor beside the serpent shrine. "You need to lie down here, and wait for the god. He'll be here when it's time."
Mulder's inspection of the shrine heralded the explosion of a zillion questions. Mulder wanted to know how it would happen, and what he would feel, where would Philip be during the procedure, and on, and on. Philip merely smiled, and murmured,
"All in good time. First we need to make you ready."
He settled Mulder down on the pallet, and sat down cross-legged on the floor beside him. Now that he had the man ready to begin the process of summoning the god, he was suddenly unsure of how he would take the information that he was about to impart.
"Mulder Fox," he breathed. "There are things that I need to discuss with you before we begin this process. Once we start, we can't go back without difficulties for both of us." He laid a hand on Mulder's chest, sensing the presence of the growth as though it were a living thing that radiated dark fury within the sweet flesh of the handsome man that it had infected.
Mulder, lying on his back on the low pallet, grinned at Philip unexpectedly.
"This is where you sign me up as a Scientologist, or make me buy the Encyclopedia Britannica, right? There ain't no such thing as a free lunch. I know that." Their eyes met, and Philip felt his lips twitch in response to the other man's humor. It was a welcome relief from the tension he was feeling. He'd never explained his sexual requirements prior to a healing before. He'd always made the demand for half of all his patient's assets, but he'd never before mentioned his entitlement to the person as well.
"Pretty much," he replied. "You see, the energy has to come from somewhere before the god can work his blessing. In actual fact, it comes from me, and I have to get it from somewhere myself." He paused to gauge how his words were being received, and as his subject merely lay placidly on the mattress, listening intently, he continued. "In the past, in Mexico, I had a number of people on whom I could call for assistance in generating the energy I need, but here I don't know anyone willing. That energy must be summoned, and I'm afraid that you will have to assist me."
Mulder smiled again, a little hazily. There were circles beneath his eyes that told of the fatigue and strain that the cancer was causing. It was apparent to Philip that Mulder was much further advanced than he'd previously thought. This was not happening a moment too soon.
"What do you want to do? Have sex with me or something?" The words were spoken in tones that suggested a joke, and when Philip didn't answer him right away, Mulder waited, a grin on his face. The grin slowly faded as he didn't hear the other man denying it, and slowly, a look of increasing horror crept over his face. Mulder sat bolt upright as the dreadful truth sank in.
"No! I can't," he gasped. "Not with you."
Philip said nothing, merely watching Mulder's distress, and nodding as though to himself. The oddball thought that he had problems with this, did he? Well Philip did too. He wasn't looking forward to it. It would be uncharted territory for him. He drew a deep breath, and tried to defuse the situation.
"Not with me? I think I'm insulted, Fox," he said, gently and smiled.
Mulder blushed a fiery red, and put his hands up to his face at the other man's words. He began to speak, his eyes looking anywhere but at Philip.
"Iyou see The man that I thought you were He and I" He shivered once, and fell silent, dropping his head down almost to his knees. Philip reached out a hand and laid it against the other man's shoulder, rubbing gently as he assimilated the gist of what was distressing Mulder.
"You and this man were lovers, Fox. Am I right?" There was a nod, and a strangled sound from the other man. "Do you still have feelings for him?" The hand on Mulder's shoulder pressed firmly, and then squeezed gently as he waited patiently for Mulder to recover from whatever emotion was overpowering him. Inside, he was annoyed. This was a complication that he could do without. The other who dominated Mulder's thoughts had sounded -- uncouth. He was damned if he would be thought uncouth. Consciously, he calmed himself. "You do, don't you?"
The nod from Mulder was almost imperceptible, and Philip's hand pressed briefly, offering comfort.
"I'm not that man, Fox. You're dealing with someone new. I'd spare you if I could, but it's a part of the process." They remained still for what seemed like forever, and then finally Mulder looked up.
"When?" His face was grey in the lamplight, and all of a sudden he looked old. Philip, whose preference was for women anyway, and who was not particularly looking forward to the act that he knew the god required, felt suddenly tender towards him.
"You must be sure, Fox. Are you sure? It won't be easy for either of us. I've never been with a man. My preference is for women. It's the god who requires this, not me" Philip slid his hand from Mulder's shoulder to the back of his neck, stroking the soft hair gently as he spoke. Sometimes, he reflected, it was almost impossible to maintain a calm, unruffled bedside manner. Perhaps when this went into his book later, it would seem farcical, though for now it was an ordeal that they both must overcome. Mulder stared at him, stricken, and finally swallowed and nodded his head.
Looking at him, Philip noted the way that Mulder seemed to be submitting to him, and added another gentle caress to the nape of his neck, surprising a soft sigh out of him as he sat, waiting patiently for all of his worst fears to become true. Philip felt a surge of tenderness for the sick man. He could see that life hadn't always been kind to him, and determination to cure him of the disease flared in his chest, driving the breath from his lungs with its force. Slowly, he stooped his head until he could lay his lips onto those of the other, noting abstractedly that they were softer than he'd ever expected a man's lips to be. Mulder remained perfectly still, accepting the kiss, but not attempting to escalate it in any way, and after a minute or two, Philip drew away from him.
"It will be strange for us both then. I hope you'll be a little patient with me," he said, rushing the words out breathlessly as though they were escaping without his permission from the prison of his soul. He gazed at Mulder, whose eyes were hazy now, half-lidded in the gloom of the dimly lit room. He looked wild somehow, as though he had done too much exercise and was in desperate need of respite. His mouth glistened, and Philip thought to himself that this man was dangerously beautiful in his innocence and his distress. "Before, there was always a woman that I could use to gather the strength to feed the god, but here there are only the two of us, and there's no alternative. I'm sorry for the hurt it may cause."
"You look so much like Alex," breathed Mulder, inconsequentially. He seemed to jolt himself back to the reality of the place where they were, and his eyes focused on Philip. He put up a hand to trace along the side of Philip's face, from the high cheekbone down to the pointed chin. Then he leant forward and fixed his mouth against Philip's with a sigh. Philip drew away, frowning. He may be inexperienced in this, but he was not this other man, this Alex, and he wanted to make it plain.
"I won't have you use me as a substitute for this other man. If it's to happen at all, you see me, not him. Look at me." Philip was commanding now, his chin arrogant and his eyes hard. "See me. I can help you, but you must see me." The two men glared at each other for what seemed forever, Philip challenging, and Mulder considering. Philip was not ready for the other man's sudden acceptance, when finally it came. Mulder nodded, and then reached for him, striking like one of his pets. He had reached a conclusion, and now he was acting.
This time the kiss was not a gentle, passive exploration of lips. This was something fierce, something that Philip could not have predicted, but which rocked him with its intensity. Mulder's lips were parted, and his tongue probed delicately, pressing his own lips apart and stealing in to roam the interior of his mouth, tickling and sliding, wet and somehow incredibly arousing. Philip's hand tightened against the back of Mulder's head. This was new to him, this feeling of harsh whisker against his chin, but the mouth on his knew what it was doing, it was soft, pliant, and it devoured him.
When they drew away from each other they were panting, and Philip was sure that it would work. He would be able to do this, and he would pass the test set by the god. That made him smile, a superior, satisfied cat smile that lit up his face.
"Save your strength, Fox," he said, his voice curling, delicate as smoke in the thickness of the air around them. "We'll need all our strength to feed the god later.
Mulder nodded, mute in the face of so much confidence, and lay back down on the low bier.
"What will happen?" He appeared relaxed, and it was only when Philip placed his hand back onto the other man's chest that he realized Mulder was coiled tight as a clockspring, and would break if stretched one more inch.
"You sleep. The god will come, and he will tell me what you need for your healing. Don't be scared, Fox, he loves you. He brought me to you." Philip studied Mulder's face, and used his thumb to brush the sleepy blue-grey eyes shut and placed his hand onto Mulder's head, concentrating on inducing the trance that was needed. Mulder slowly lapsed into the required state. For several minutes, Philip remained, watching the slow rise and fall of the man's chest, and then he stooped, dropped a gentle kiss onto the full lips, and retreated to keep his vigil on the couch.
Time lay thick about them. There was only moonlight, stealing timid through the window that had been left undraped. Mulder seemed to be sleeping at last as the time ticked past them, slid over them and faded. In the past Philip had always watched from out of sight as the subject was laid out, an offering for the god that he knew would be healed, if only he gave himself up to the process. This time there was no privacy, and as Philip felt the moment come upon him he gritted his teeth, pressing his hand to his mouth to try and avoid the groan bubbling up from deep within: the groan that might awaken and terrify his patient.
The air was charged with something that Philip couldn't name. Flickering lights were there, or perhaps were merely in his imagination. It had been a long time since the last manifestation of the god, and he had forgotten the fear, and the deadly seduction of the process. Around him the air shimmered, twisted and somehow became a different place, one that smelled of tansy and sage and sea breezes.
He felt the god separating itself from his flesh, arising thick and deadly from his groin to twine around his thighs. When at last it reared itself to strike, Philip was hard, erect and straining as the serpent poured itself from him, and he himself became the god.
Mulder opened his eyes as it reared over him. He started, as though he would have sat up, and he let out a gasp as it hovered. When it struck, his eyes opened wide, and Philip could see the smile of ecstatic realization dawn on his face, before he subsided once again into the trance that the serpent induced. Philip, exhausted, followed him down, spiraling into a place where there was no time, and no sickness, and where life was only pleasure.
Later, when the god returned him to his fleshly form, he groaned as the dry-silk slither of astral flesh caressed him, seeping down through aching layers of skin to bind with him, leaving him in need, as ever. Dim traces of the morning to come were showing at the window, and the sleet pelted the glass in lashing flurries that drew the eye and made him shiver involuntarily. On the pallet, Mulder moaned softly.
Philip stood and moved to look down on the still unconscious man. Men weren't something that he had ever consciously desired, but Mulder was well made, and his mouth burned with the remembered kiss they had shared before the snake had come. He'd been celibate for far too long, and it was time now. His knees were weak, and he shook. He needed to do something, and quickly, because his body was beginning to fail him. Slowly, he sank down to lie alongside Mulder and took him in his arms.
Mulder stirred at Philip's touch, turning in towards him, still sleepy as Philip's heated body pressed along his own. Philip lay for a minute, trying to become accustomed to the unfamiliar hardness of the body beside him as his hand stroked down over the long back, to the firmly muscled buttocks. Mulder, sleep- dazed and seductive, squirmed in closer to him, and all of a sudden it didn't matter to Philip that this person in his arms was as masculine as he, or that he was squeezing an increasingly hard erection against Philip's abdomen. What mattered was that he was beautiful, and perfect, and felt wonderful within the circle of his arms.
Mulder opened sleepy eyes and smiled at Philip.
"Now?"
Philip merely looked, his gaze piercing, staring deep within the other to the places within that were broken and required healing. Then he moved forward, and pressed his lips to Mulder's, forcing the other's head back as his mouth opened to let Philip in.
Kissing Mulder was warmth, and heat, and sweet, wet pleasure. Philip sank into the man's mouth, concentrating only on the slippery velvet of the interior, the smooth, sharp edges of teeth and the rub of the caressing tongue. He felt as if he could drown in the feelings that coursed through him. He squirmed in close to the warmth as his hands moved to push the clothing out of the way. As he laid bare the satin skin, Mulder cried out once, a desolate sound that made Philip clutch him closer, pulling him tight against his chest as he murmured, "It's okay, Fox. You're going to be safe now."
Mulder's eyes were closed, and his hands roamed over Philip's skin, burning their imprints as he blindly sought his mouth again for another kiss. The two of them writhed together in timeless passion, before Philip drew away, shuddering with need, to divest himself of the clothing that still covered him.
Naked at last, he began to take off Mulder's garments. His bare chest was a revelation, hard muscle and satin skin, the scattering of crisp hair over his breastbone standing in sharp contrast to the whiteness of the skin. Philip passed his hands over it in wonder, his fingertips reveling in the feel of it. Dropping his head down, he mouthed one of the small, coin like nipples, wondering if they would be sensitive or not, and felt gratified when Mulder arched up in a silent plea for more. He was tentative, less in command than was normal for him, and a little annoyed with himself for his own uncertainty.
Mouthing and stroking Mulder, feeling more and more comfortable with this choice, Philip began to lose himself in the sensations he was inducing for his partner. Slipping down to probe in Mulder's navel with a wet and pointed tongue, Philip finally took the step that he had been holding back from, and pulled off Mulder's pants, laying bare the long, strongly muscled legs, and at their join, the unmistakably male genitals that lay, pulsing.
The dark patch that stained Mulder's belly caught his eye. He touched the mark of the snake reverently.
"Fox, you've been blessed." His voice mirrored utter delight as Mulder frowned.
"What does that mean?"
" It means that you'll be healed," said Philip, absently tracing with one forefinger the mark that the god had left on Mulder's skin. Then Mulder pulled him down again to lock their mouths together, and there was no longer any room for thought, all that existed was sensation. Philip moaned into Mulder's mouth, and Mulder rolled to cover him, beginning at last to take possession of him as his passion grew.
It seemed to Philip that Mulder had suddenly become the instigator in their lovemaking, and that all he could do was hang on for the ride. This too was unaccustomed. He had always taken the lead in sexual encounters, and to find himself being overwhelmed in this manner was more than a little disconcerting. He wanted to move to take back control, had already done so, when all of a sudden the god's voice sounded within him.
"Learn something new, Philip. Give up control, and just feel." The thought was frightening. He gritted his teeth and concentrated. Seconds later, Mulder faced him, eyes wide.
"Did you hear? He said that you and I" As Mulder spoke, Philip smiled wryly, and shook his head. "He said that you're a gift to me." Philip couldn't resist a small snort of laughter. So he was a gift, was he? That was supposed to humble him, he thought. Well he would learn from this. He wasn't going to be submissive for long, it just wasn't in his nature. He would be in the driving seat again very soon, meanwhile, pleasure beckoned.
As Mulder caressed him, expert mouth teasing little pinpoints of wild sensation from him as he moved over him, Philip finally lost his fears, content to give himself up to whatever the other might do. Mulder slid lower, and Philip felt the other man's sweet, hot mouth suddenly engulf the head of his throbbing cock.
The sensation was astonishing. He needed this, needed to feel his cock slide past those full lips and into the depths of the mouth that lay within. He jerked once, and then Mulder steadied him, holding his hips forcibly while his mouth began to work on the length of his cock. Sharp jags of ecstasy began to course through Philip, and he spread his legs, offering himself to the talented mouth that was working on him. He was held steady against the soft pallet while Mulder licked and sucked and drove him skywards with an artistry that had him babbling mindlessly as he tried to gain that little extra friction that would tip him over the edge.
Mulder wouldn't let him come. He worked slick magic on Philip's cock, drawing him in and sucking hard until the stirrings began to herald the approach of his orgasm, at which point the man would pull away, holding him still until his breathing steadied. After a while, Philip began to curse, calling Mulder names that were both profane and insulting, and which made Mulder snicker.
Tight muscles strained for completion, tingling, piercing sweet shocks ran the length of his inner thighs, coiling in his belly and surging uneasily around his spine as Mulder tormented him. He didn't notice at first when Mulder used his forefinger to broach the entrance to his ass, probing in gently to find and finger the little gland that lay within. Philip cried out then, totally beyond words as Mulder took him in deep. In another second he was coming, the force of his orgasm locking up muscle and bone as he shot endless spurts of sperm into Mulder's mouth.
Mulder continued to suck him, the overflow trickling like cream down from the corner of his mouth as he mouth worked around the gradually softening penis, his finger still probing inside him. Philip lay sprawled, shattered by the intensity of the experience, and when Mulder finally pulled off him and spat into his hand, he was oblivious.
As Mulder slid up to lie alongside Philip, his hand remained, the finger embedded inside him as Mulder fucked him slowly. Philip turned to look at Mulder out of huge, bruised looking eyes, and Mulder moved to cover his mouth, his kiss demanding, arousing him even though he had spent himself.
Philip lay, permitting Mulder to do what he wanted. As usual following an invocation of the god, he was totally drained. His limbs were heavy, lead and honey, molten and poured to lie on the ground. Mulder was moving fingers inside him, and it felt good, impossibly good. He closed his eyes and let the sensations take him. He couldn't recall a time when another had taken charge of his needs like this. It was new, and he wanted it to go on.
Mulder's pretty mouth was on his face, his throat, nuzzling into the back of his neck to raise up goosebumps as his hands worked on him, touching and stroking. Strong hands called his body until it began to respond again, until nothing was left but the silver glide of fingers inside him, and the wetness of the mouth on his skin. When Mulder finally removed his fingers and pressed himself up against Philip's back, he was no longer capable of thought, other than that this could not stop. It had to continue.
Pressure followed, and now he knew that Mulder was invading his flesh. He moaned at the feel of the cock pushing into him, moaned again as Mulder bit his shoulder. He cried out as Mulder took hold of his cock and began to stroke it, slow, hard squeezing pulls that left fire in their wake, a molten streamer of licking flame to fill his ass and score him with joy.
Mulder was licking at his ear, his own breath ragged now as he moved inside Philip. It was more than he could take. He felt himself reach the pinnacle, balls clamped tight and tingling as they released their load, and then he was contracting, muscles tightening and milking Mulder as he drove into him, while the eye of his dick spat white, and the snake within him twined and fluttered.
Mulder's voice cut into him, harsh with lust as he reached his own release, pumping slick, heated wet into Philip as he came.
Philip could feel Mulder's heart beating against him, and heard the sleet lashing the window. He was tired, and complete. Abandoning reality for the time being, he snuggled up to Mulder and fell asleep in the warmth of his embrace. This was another first for Philip. Inevitably in the past he had been the one to leave his partner alone following sex, to seek sleep in his own bed.
Philip awoke to full daylight, and the feel of a lazy hand stroking his back. Opening his eyes, he beheld Mulder, his face curiously blank, looking back at him as his hand passed restlessly back and forth across his skin.
"How are you feeling?" he asked Mulder as he slowly worked his way into a sitting position, his stiff limbs a testament to the strenuous lovemaking that had gone on earlier.
"Okay. Good, thanks." Mulder was giving away nothing, and Philip felt a chill, swiftly dismissed as he turned to examine his companion. The mark of the serpent was there on Mulder's belly, a sharp contrast to the whiteness of the skin on which it lay. Philip touched it with a judicious forefinger.
Mulder had begun strenuously examining the mark on his body. He bent forward in an effort to see it more closely, lips pursed in concentration. It was plain that he was bubbling with questions.
"The god certainly blessed you, Fox. I can perform the surgery tonight if you like."
Mulder's eyes flickered. Philip thought that he was going to refuse, although he had no idea why. When he rose to go and get his shower, Mulder put out a hand and caught hold of his arm, pulling him back.
"Wait a minute. I need to know about this. How did it happen? What makes the mark? Did you do it while I was sleeping? Are you?" Philip, who had straightened up in an attempt to achieve a little dignity, finally gestured irritably for the other man to be quiet. It seemed as though the man was going to be even more annoying than he had suspected.
He fixed Mulder with a cold stare, and then when he had the man's attention, he gazed pointedly at the hand that still held his arm. Mulder finally released him, and an uncharacteristic blush suffused him.
"I'll answer your questions after the procedure is complete. I'm tired now, and need to rest for it. Tomorrow, after the surgery, we can discuss it." He stood, naked, wearing his authority like a cloak of ermine, and faced the other man down.
When Mulder finally nodded and smiled at him in acquiescence, the breath gasped from his body in a rush of relief that left him feeling faint. He didn't know why the god felt that this man was so important to him, but he undoubtedly did.
Sighing, he pulled himself up to stand, and extended a hand to the other.
"By tomorrow, it will all be over, Fox. You'll be well again."
Midnight whispered its approach with the soft ticking of the antique clock that hung on Philip's wall.
He'd spent the day in meditation, in a place that was somehow dislocated from time. He was calm, and strong, charged with the energy that came from his submission to the god. Somewhere deep inside him he knew that he needed this night for himself as much as for the man he was going to cure.
When Mulder finally knocked on the door, Philip was beginning to feel the first twinges of unease. Maybe Mulder wouldn't be back. Maybe he didn't believe that a cure was possible. Maybe it was all over, and he would die. The discreet tap on the door sent a rush of adrenaline to his belly, causing it to swoop and flutter as though so many small birds had become trapped within it.
As he opened the door to permit the other man to enter, Philip felt the air crackle about him, charged as though it would thunder. He closed the door behind his guest and ushered him into the room where the healing would take place. He hadn't taken more than a step or two into the room when Mulder turned to him and seized him in a crushing embrace, lips seeking his and pressing down hard.
They were of a height, and while Philip was a little heavier built than Mulder, they were almost evenly matched. Philip was no weakling, and it was astonishing to him that he should be overpowered like this and be bent beneath this other man's passion. He struggled for a moment, and then allowed Mulder to invade his mouth, melting against him as he relished the hard strength of him.
When Mulder finally released him, he was flustered. How had he allowed himself to be this out of control? His limbs felt like water as he led Mulder over to the pallet where he was to lie.
Mulder said nothing. He threw off his clothing without a prompt, and stood before Philip, tall, supple and slim in the lamplight. Philip caught his breath as he looked at the rangy, elegant body that was displayed for him.
The air around them crackled, and Philip was filled with the god. He was bursting with the energy. Blue static flickered from his fingertips in the gloom of the living room, and he could feel the snake twine around his spine, filling him with the urgent need to summon it, direct it, and cast it out to do his bidding. He felt as though he were ablaze with the light and energy that was within him.
His hands shook as he laid Fox down on the pallet and stood over him. His voice trembled as he tried to reassure Fox about the procedure, and he was so charged that the power sparkled around him like a nimbus, making Fox open his eyes wide.
Philip was so disoriented at the end, that Fox took his hand and pulled him down until he had his attention, causing him to break off his disjointed attempts to explain exactly what was going to happen..
"Philip. Just do this, okay?" He was smiling, and his fingers brushed the fine hairs that dusted the back of his arm, sending blue sparks crackling as he touched.
Philip swallowed, then nodded, and picked up the stone that he would use to focus the power of the god.
Fox Mulder's eyes watched his movements, drinking up his actions with a lack of apprehension that shocked Philip even as he stroked the god mark on his belly, focusing his thoughts and readying himself for the strike.
He raised the stone, holding it above his head as he centered his will.
He saw Fox's eyes widen as he looked up at Philip, and the ghostly image of the snake coalesced around him, taking the energy and channeling it into the spearpoint fist that held the shining piece of silver ore that was his amulet. It seemed as though time was suspended. The air was thick and motionless. Waves of energy oozed, slick and oily around the tableau of the two men, and there was no sound. All creaking of boards and distant traffic hum had been subsumed, become absorbed into the strange almost- presence of the trio, Fox, Philip, and the god.
Centuries passed and died as Philip remained motionless, lost in the exquisite agony of possession, and then there was a silver rush of air, and he struck in response to the unheard command from the serpent. Fox Mulder jerked once, and his breath came hard and sharp as he took the blow. The snake coiled down Philips arm and into the slim, white body of his patient.
Philip remained kneeling over Fox for a moment, and then teetered, toppled, and slumped to lie across him, all his energy spent.
It was a long time before he felt the god return, and he was so exhausted that he didn't move. He couldn't. He lay with his body over Mulder's abdomen, and in his mind he was faintly aware of the warmth that the other radiated. His lapse into sleep was so sudden that he didn't ever know that he had succumbed.
In his dream, he was once more on the blessed island of Delos, and he stood on the avenue where the stone lions towered above the restless surf as the moonlight glittered on the wet rocks. The boy in the short toga stepped up to stand behind his shoulder, and Philip heard the light voice caress him.
"Philip, I'm pleased. You've done exactly as I required of you." Soft, sweet puffs of breath feathered his naked shoulders and Philip turned to face his master. The god was smiling, and he raised a hand to touch Philip's forehead. "You have your reward. It will be more than you ever dreamed. Live long, my friend."
Sound reverberated around him, and he felt the sharp sand beneath his feet tingle and fade. He awoke to the feel of strong arms around him, and a voice that seemed to flow over him, through him, stirring his senses as they had never been stirred.
"Philip. Come on. Come back."
He opened his eyes to see Fox leaning over him, face contorted as he tried to rouse him. He tried a sleepy smile, and felt the breath leave his body when the other suddenly breathed his name and pulled him in to kiss him deep and hard. That Mulder wanted him was unmistakable. The hard evidence was pressed up against him, and he could feel his own arousal mirror it.
His memory of Delos was sharp in his mind, and the words that the god had spoken rang in his ears.
"More than you ever dreamed."
Sighing, his body tingling in anticipation, Philip returned the kiss. This was something he could hold onto forever.
He felt rewarded at last.
End
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