Title: ARROWS OF DESIRE
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
Feedback: Please, to the above address!
Archive: Please contact me for permission
Spoilers: "Terma", "The Red and the Black"
Timeframe: Takes place before the movie and especially "S.R. 819"
Keywords: M/K slash!
Summary: The boys get dressed up and go out for the evening.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the whole X-Files gang, not to me. This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit. Song lyrics not used by permission, either. Sorry.
DEDICATION: This is for Leah, Tiff, and Xander, for their encouragement and support. I owe you guys bigtime!
COPYRIGHT: (C) January 31, 1999; REV: 8/8/99, Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, firstname.lastname@example.org
Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.
I cannot for the life of me tie a bow tie. Let me rephrase that. I never understood how in the world one ties a bow tie. Of course, I can't do it now. Every time I've watched it being done, it seemed to require *three* hands, which would leave me two short.
Being on "payroll" does have its privileges, I'll give you that. Occasionally you get ordered to attend these big-deal soirees, just to lend a *presence* to the proceedings, or to schmooze some dignitary or other in a social setting. Normal people would call it "networking", though with the people I work for, I prefer to think of it as spreading a little fancy-dress infection. Eh: it's a living...
The powers that be paid for the tux--purchased, not rented, of course--as well as the blonde who helped me put it on. So she insisted on blowing me before attempting to negotiate the suspenders: I suppose that makes her a prostitute, putting us at about the same level, I'd figure. As long as it wasn't on *my* tab, who am I to complain? We whores should stick together.
They also supplied me with some of the *good* drugs: the ones that reduce the constant ache in my stump to a steady, tolerable hum while not interfering with my ability to imbibe a little at this 'do. It doesn't look good to turn down a champagne toast at these things, especially the stuff that costs more per bottle than most automobiles. It would look worse to have lived on a knife-edge all of my life, then end up dying like a stupid junkie.
So I am driven to the hotel in question, and I get a room, on the company card, just in case. One never knows... The invitation says "6 p.m. to 10 p.m.", so I figure I have until seven to learn where I am. I find every door and window exit, stairwell, and men's room on the same level as the ballroom, as well as the floors directly above and below. As I said, one never knows...
I finally feel ready to walk into the event. The girl checking names on the list gives me a once-over that confirms what I noted in the washroom mirror: I'm looking eminently fuckable tonight. Maybe it's a good thing I got that room.
The ballroom in question has those huge beaded chandeliers that look like GGGG cups for an outsized Vegas showgirl's costume. Half of the annual crustacean and bivalve catch of the Northern Atlantic and Pacific lie about on great mounds of ice, while old farts in designer tuxes with rent girls in designer noses hover over them like vultures. I might be out of my element, but I do my best to blend. I figure I can do anything for a free meal once in awhile.
Smalltalk, smalltalk, smalltalk... I connect up with my contacts and drop a few bombshells where required, leaving people in my wake who are trying not to pale to the exact white of the linen tablecloths. As I deliver the last bit of information I've planned for the evening, which will possibly result in the overthrow of some troublesome government, or at least a messy assassination attempt or two, I notice an orchestra tuning up in the corner. Done just in time, I sigh to myself, as it's very hard to whisper accurate details over the strains of a dance band.
Then I see him: my former *partner*. The man who could be the Consortium's golden boy if they could only sway him to their way of thinking. As it is, he's just another pawn in the game. Well, at least he's a beautiful pawn, also eminently fuckable...
I don't know for sure about Fox Mulder. I do know he's never shagged his current partner. Whether that's from lack of opportunity, nerve, acquiescence, or desire, I have no idea. I have always assumed that he's like me: no reasonable offer refused. It's never about love. Well, maybe it was once, but that's a long time ago, even in rat years. These days it's more like scratching an itch: you lick my crotch, I'll lick yours.
Wait. How screwed-up does that sound? I've never thought about it before. There's something about considering my flimsy morals with *him* in the room that makes me want to go put on a choirboy robe. Of course, if he wants to be my father-confessor, I won't argue. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned, but for a few favors, I'll keep my mouth shut about them. The image of Fox Mulder in a priest's collar on his knees before me distracts me momentarily. Hallelujah, forever and ever. Amen.
Tonight, however, he's wearing a bat-wing collar. Here I would have expected him in a regulation suit and dog-barf tie, stopping by straight from the office, but he's dressed for the occasion. Impressive. What brings him here, I wonder. No itty-bitty redhead in bitch heels tagging along. I swear he looks like he's *enjoying* his conversation with that toady-looking fellow. Could it be he's not here on business at all, but he was actually *invited*? My worldview begins to collide with the facts as presented. Maybe the hole he lives in allows him to afford to belong to a few ritzy boards about which I know nothing, or maybe he's a secret benefactor to the arts or the disease of the decade. He moves over to the shrimp table, apparently unescorted. Fortune smiles on the rat, who has the rest of the evening to himself. With business out of the way, it's time for pleasure.
The orchestra cranks up "Moonlight Serenade", and assorted couples drift to the dance floor in the corner. Were I the showy type, I'd march right up to that grey-eyed morsel and ask him for a turn in public. I think the hotel appreciates my discretion, not wishing to fish more than a few upper plates out of punch cups. It's a shame, really... Even if I were unsuccessful at the seduction racket, moving rhythmically with Mulder's fine form held in my arms would be quite satisfying, even fully clothed and vertical. I can think of a few places where that would turn a lot fewer heads, and mentally put the list aside. Later... later...
But how to approach him? He couldn't feel as comfortable as he seems were he not armed. Pity. The last thing I want is F.B.I.-issue bullets whinging into the perfectly polished mirrors of this room. All appearances to the contrary, my luck isn't that great to begin with.
Shut up, Alex. No fair talking yourself out of this opportunity without giving it a fair shot. He might *not* kill me were I to run my tongue around that finely-sculpted ear. What was I saying about "One never knows"?
A woman is standing next to him, or at least something that's made a great effort to *look* like a woman. To the trained eye, that curly brown wig and glittery dress fairly reek of Y-chromosomes. Her dignified escort, the mustachioed gentleman across from the brunette, certainly wouldn't want the room to know that he likes to suck a cock every now and then, so the illusion works for everyone. Good Lord! Mulder's actually *smiling* at her! Surely he can tell the difference, can't he? I can't decide if I am disappointed in his falling for the facade or impressed at his acting as if he does.
My opportunity opens up before me as Mulder glances down at the mountain of frigid little pink shellfish, and the brunette steps away suddenly. Silently, I slip into the vacated spot and reach behind my quarry, placing my hand gently on the small of his back and sliding it down slowly, letting one finger insinuate down between the cheeks of that beautiful ass, pushing the wool fabric quickly yet firmly against the tender skin around his opening.
"Excuse me?" he flusters, smiling, turning suddenly to find that one brunette has been replaced with another, this one no less devious, and certainly more dangerous. I've gotta give him *some* credit: he doesn't even blush. "Krycek!" he hisses, and lightning sparks in his dark eyes. His hand grips my wrist, now hanging innocently at my side.
"Not here, gorgeous. People will talk," I breathe into his ear. "Let me get a bite to eat, and try not to attract attention."
He releases his grasp, and turns away from the table, leaning his tuxedoed ass casually against its edge, cleverly keeping my good hand in full view while I grab up several shrimp onto the plate balanced on my prosthesis. I retrieve my drink and indicate a row of empty chairs against the wall with a tilt of my head. He follows like a loyal dog.
"What are you doing here?" are the first words out of his mouth before I have barely settled into my chair.
"Same thing as you, Mulder. Pressing the flesh, looking good for the money people." He has one ankle crossed over the other knee, and a hand lingering too close to his sock. So *that's* where he stashes his dress weapon... "Come on," I tease, biting a shrimp free of its tail, "you don't want to cause trouble here. It wouldn't look good." He is not relaxing one iota, so I change my tactic. "Look--we've both said a few things, done a few things to each other in the past that look really bad on closer examination. I really wish you could put aside this vengeance thing. I was just doing my job." I swear to God I bat my eyelashes. "Here we are, all dressed up pretty, out in public. Can't we at least behave for a little while?"
Something indefinable washes over his face, and he settles back in his chair a micron, his fingers never leaving the hem of his trouser leg. "You didn't come here to find me?" he asks, his voice betraying an odd combination of relief and disappointment.
"Not at all," I counter, wiping cocktail sauce gingerly from the corner of my mouth. "I'm just taking care of some company business. Seeing you here is merely a delightful bonus," I add, without a smidgen of sarcasm.
I actually think I've embarrassed him, as his eyes finally break their concrete hold on my face and make a quick circuit of the room. "You can't mean that you're honestly pleased to see me," he mumbles, lower than usual.
"Nonsense," I bluster at him, my knuckles brushing his knee with a calculated carelessness. "Seeing your face here gives me the same comfortable feeling as seeing golden arches on the Ginza. You're familiar. We know some of the same people. We've got history."
He visibly swallows a chortle. "Good God, Alex. For a minute there, it sounded like you were about to say you trusted me."
This comment stings, but I show no sign, aside from a sudden seriousness. "Who says I don't trust you, Mulder? If nothing else, you're certainly predictable. That should count for something."
"I didn't think the word "predictable" was in your vocabulary. It's certainly not among the traits you show to the outside world."
"You'd be surprised," I sigh, putting my plate aside and draining my glass. "Can I get you another drink?" I offer, overlooking the fact that he doesn't even have a glass.
"No, thank you. You go. If they bring by a tray, maybe I'll snag something."
"Stay here. I'll be back."
"I'm sure you will," he says, almost to himself, but I can't help noticing a tiny glimmer of hope flitting about the corner of his eye.
I cross the huge ballroom, steadfastly ignoring the flirtatious glances tossed my way by more than a few of the kept women I pass. Perhaps some people would consider that an uncharitable description of these society wives, but on the big ledger, what's really the difference?
I ask the bartender for a glass of mineral water. I'll need to keep my head clear if this is going where I want it to go.
I weave through the nicely-dressed crowd with drink in hand back to my prize, who is uncharacteristically silent as I retake my seat beside him. "Didja miss me?" I chirp, as if we were old friends.
Mulder has obviously been thinking hard. "I want to know one thing."
He takes a deep breath before speaking. "Why?"
"Why did you do it?"
A thousand excuses and explanations crowd immediately to the back of my head, none wanting the responsibility of popping out first. I decide to stall. "Do what?" I ask, sipping at my water and trying to look like he's asked me if I've tried the oysters.
His eyes make another survey of the room, but his head does not move. "Why did you kiss me?"
My bosses have trained me well, for I don't spill a drop from my glass, though I am sure my heart has leapt out of my mouth and dived right back into my chest, where it sits quivering from the effort. I steel myself and reply, "Because I wanted to." There are many things I could lie to Fox Mulder about. This is not one of them. I could easily crack wise and ease the tension in the air, but this is obviously something that has weighed more heavily on him than my role in the death of his father, or even in the disappearance of his beloved partner.
I can suddenly picture us as if from across the room, where we must appear to be discussing the severe illness of a mutual friend. "Mulder," I try not to whisper, "maybe this isn't the best place to discuss this."
His eyes hold shadows of unfinished business. "You may be right. Name the place and time. I'll meet you."
"Ten minutes," I suggest, not wanting to lose this opportunity. "Men's room across from the pay phones down the hall to the right of the lobby. I'll be in the last stall."
He nods, his face almost unreadable, and gets up to follow a server with a tray of champagne flutes.
The game is afoot.
I detour past the sweet table and snare a petit-four, which I nibble on my way across the room so no one attempts to engage me in conversation. As I make my exit from the festivities, surreptitiously checking the gun at my back, the orchestra slides into a swingy rendition of "Mood Indigo". Maybe I should have asked the bum to dance after all. It sure sounds a helluva lot safer than being enclosed with him in a small space again, at least at the moment. Well, I wouldn't be where I am today if I didn't take a few chances in this world. This thought makes me snort sarcastically, nearly choking myself on the last cake crumbs in my mouth.
One man is washing his hands when I enter the restroom. I avail myself of the facilities, then run a little water over my hand until he leaves. I assume that the traffic will be light this far away from the ballroom, but I do my best to put up a psychic "No Admittance Except Mulder" sign once the door closes behind him. I shut myself in the chosen stall and wait.
Not much frightens me. I've faced gun barrels, fists, blades, oncoming vehicles, a woman with black oil in her eyes... Okay, maybe that last one frightened me a little. I've been trained not to show fear unless it serves a higher purpose. But here, tucked in a tiny metal-walled toilet stall, I am afraid. I know what I want: Mulder, plain and simple. Possibly with a side of whipped cream. But I have no idea what he expects to find here. I am sure that his grudges run deep. I can deal with that--I rather doubt he's interested in leaving my corpse cooling in the washroom of a ritzy hotel. But what if he *does* want something else from me? Can he give me what I want? Maybe there *is* some scrap that can love or be hurt surviving beneath that callus that used to be my heart: that's what scares me the most.
An abrupt increase in the volume of ambient noise warns me that the outer door has opened. A man's footsteps enter the men's room, and he seems to be unaccompanied. The outer door is physically shut, and the footsteps approach my office. Shiny black shoes appear under the door, and I hear a knock over the pulse in my temples.
"Yes?" I answer, in case an innocent has wandered onto our playing field.
"Alex, it's me," Mulder's voice calls softly. I don't hear the click of his weapon, so I take a deep breath, run through the Evelyn Wood version of "Hail Mary" in my head, and unlatch the door. His eyes are closed when I see his face, and I wonder if he's been calling upon the power of prayer as well. I don't know if our gods will strengthen each other or cancel each other out. Time will tell.
He opens his eyes and begins to step into the stall. A sudden noise in the hallway freezes us both like raccoons in headlights, until we realize that someone using the pay phone has merely dropped a quarter on the floor. He hurries inside with an awkward chuckle, and I latch the door behind him.
I turn so that the door is at my back, and face my greatest hope and my deepest fear. "Mulder," I begin, "I somehow always knew it would come to this. Maybe I've crossed one too many lines with you. You have every right to hate me like the devil himself. I owe you a chance to have it out with me. Here's your chance. Take your best shot. Do whatever it is you have to do to me, right here, right now, and we'll call it square."
He doesn't move for an extremely long moment. At once, he raises his hands to either side of my head. My eyes slam shut and my vertebrae stiffen to brace against a blow. I feel his palms almost cover my ears and his fingers grasp my head firmly as he steps closer to me and
His lips press against mine as if begging for something. My teeth, which had been gritted tensely, relax apart to soften my lips for him. Mulder's long hands entwine in my hair and hold me fast against that luscious mouth, which opens to the tease of my tongue and offers its own in exchange. Our muscular oral appendages spar and feint, first tickling along their edges, then bathing each other solidly, while our lips spread wide as if to allow the entire other man inside. I clutch his body to mine gracelessly with my artificial arm, running my good hand up and down his spine, feeling the muscles quiver under his dinner jacket and crossed braces. I can hear small guttural sounds speaking of needs met and needs unfulfilled, and realize that they are coming from my own throat. The surest sign of those left unfulfilled stands in my trousers partially crushed against a similar swelling in his pants. I kiss Mulder freely, desperately, presenting my abject longing for him directly into his eager mouth, where it is matched and sent straight back to mine.
His mouth frees itself from mine and his lips brush mine once more before he releases my skull and wraps his arms around me so tightly it's a wonder I can still breathe, though if this is to be my last breath, I will die happy. "I have wanted that for far too long, Alex," he exhales into my ear. "I only regret that we had to wait for it until tonight."
I am momentarily struck dumb. My eyes are moist from the force of our kiss, and perhaps for other reasons. I hold him against me, knowing that if I were to let go, my unsteady knees would pitch me unceremoniously to the floor. However, being in that position could be handy. An idea occurs to me.
I test his grip on me by adjusting my weight slightly against his arms. My hand snakes around to the front of his slacks and gently cups his erection between us. "Mulder, please. Let me do this for you," I murmur, promising him the world with my eyes.
Every single artifice has fallen from his gaze. The master of the naked look appears as defenseless as a peeled banana. I smile to myself at the phallic imagery, eliciting his own shy grin, and a soft, insistent kiss. "Whatever you want, Alex. I'm at your mercy."
I notice an unfamiliar sensation in my gut--could that be a pang of regret? I don't want to examine either of our motives in this encounter too closely at the moment. I just want to make Fox Mulder come. I shush him with another kiss, and begin the long, slow slide to the floor, with his arms supporting my shoulders, as I hang on to his perfect ass for balance.
His heat pulses through the wool, calling to me. The zipper sticks as I try to pull it down, but his hand comes to the rescue. I reach into the fly of his tuxedo slacks and that of his boxers to find the object of my dreams: Mulder's wonderful, finely veined cock. My fingers caress the velvet hood, already sporting a glistening droplet for me. I wet my thumb in it and stroke it around the tip slowly and methodically. The organ jumps in my hand as I bend my head to place a soft kiss on the wet trail, then with agonizing slowness, part my lips to let it inside. Once, twice, three times my tongue laps at the head of his penis, circling it within the confines of my lips and tasting his warm, smooth flesh. Mulder groans quietly above me, his hands once again threading through my hair without pushing me against him, so I can suckle and tease at my leisure. Gently, I knead his balls and encircle the base of his cock, slowly falling into a rhythm that I match with my hungry mouth. I take him as deep as I can in this position, letting my teeth barely graze the taut skin, enjoying the sound of his voice muttering encouragement and pleasure.
"Ohhhhhh, God," he inhales, and I know he is close. His hips buck into me, and I bear down with my lips stroking his member up and down, in and out, until hot, salty liquid gushes from him and strikes my soft palate. I drink him dry, swallowing his offering as he moans in painful ecstasy.
I grin to myself at how much noise Mulder has managed to make until I freeze in terror: water is running in the washbasin outside. I raise my head and lock eyes with him in a mutual frisson. I have no idea how much our witness has heard, but decide to play it safe. Mulder adjusts his clothes and helps me as quietly as possible to my feet. I kiss him hard, then flush the toilet for a moment of white noise.
"Wanna get outta here?" I mouth at him soundlessly.
He nods, his eyes glistening.
"Ten minutes. Coat check." He nods again and kisses me before I emerge from the stall alone, dusting off my knees and wiping my chin with the back of my hand. An older fellow in a green cummerbund stands at the mirror, trying very hard not to look at me, but appearing horrified and vaguely queasy at what he imagines he's heard. "Stay away from the crab puffs," I warn, rinsing my hand, then hie out into the hall.
For once the elevators are on my side, and I make it up to my room to grab my topcoat and back in eight minutes. Mulder is just retrieving his coat when I appear in his line of sight. He raises an eyebrow at me, and I wait where I stand. We cross the lobby to the doors a pace and a shoulder-width apart, not speaking. I wave away the bellman who asks if he can order us a cab; it's chilly, but not unpleasant for a walk.
"Where are we going?" wheezes Mulder once we are away from the hotel's floodlights, doubling his pace to keep up with me. He sounds much more out of breath than I would think a man his age should be, but then, he's just had a bit of a workout. I modify my speed to allow us to walk together.
"There's a little place I know near here," I hint, wondering how I can best act on my urge to hold his hand as we walk without attracting attention. "That dance band gave me ideas..."
Not for the first time this evening, I sense real disappointment coming from my former partner. He falls silent for half a block, a small cloud seeming to build around his head. Looking anywhere but at me, he mutters, "Thank you, Alex. I appreciate your, uh, *attention* tonight."
I stop and reach out my arm to grasp his so he stops with me. "You're welcome, Mulder. You'll get your chance to reciprocate later."
That full-blown bottom lip pouts irresistibly, so I pull him behind me into the gap between two shops, which is blessedly dark and clean of debris aside from some wet leaves and a little dirty snow. I press his back against the wall and place my feet outside of his, leaning in against his trim figure. The fingers of my prosthesis rest idly at his waist, and I coil my living fingers around the back of his neck, pulling his face to mine, where I kiss him quickly and repeatedly, inhaling his air and making myself dizzy with the champagne on his breath. As I have not buttoned my coat, it drapes around us, capturing our heat and sheltering us from the chill wind. Already, his arousal presses against mine once again, and my lips linger on his for a breathless moment.
I break away and look squarely into his dark eyes, amazed as I have always been by his physical beauty. "The night is still young, Mulder. We've got plenty of time to amuse each other. Is that all right? Are you okay with this?"
His arms engulf me, and he holds me dangerously close. "Yes, Alex," he whispers. "I'll be fine, as long as you promise me that I can make you come tonight, too."
"I promise with all my heart," I swear into his neck. "Can I just take you dancing first?"
His hands push me away gently and he holds out his left for mine, smiling broadly. "Lead the way, Fred."
I hold his strong hand in mine and tug him happily out onto the sidewalk. "Whatever you say, Ginger."
Three blocks away, still hand-in-hand, we arrive at our destination. A wrought-iron railing frames a staircase leading down beneath the sidewalk. A tough-looking young man with a pierced ear waits outside the heavy steel door.
"Two tonight, Trixie," I address the doorman, fishing out my wallet.
"That'll be ten bucks, Mr. Ryan," he replies, pocketing my cash and stamping our hands before opening the door and letting us in. The corridor is loud, and we walk toward the noise.
Mulder blows on the drying ink on the back of his hand and gives me a questioning glance. "Mr. Ryan, I'll buy. But 'Trixie'?"
I shrug, as we have arrived inside the club and he wouldn't be able to hear my answer anyway. The room throbs with disco and 80s dance music, "Macho Man" by the Village People at the moment. I give Mulder a eyebrow to indicate our entrance soundtrack, at which he grins and shakes his head in disbelief. I locate two chairs and a table the size of a dinner plate, and fling my coat over the chair, holding out my hand to my dance partner as soon as he has tossed off his coat.
We jostle our way to the knot of men writhing under strobe lights and flashing colors. The room stinks of beer, sweat, and gallons of clashing cologne, but thankfully not a single cigarette. We join the dancing, not looking as out of place as one might think. As I feel out the dance style preferred by the crowd, I check out the dress code, too. There's a few couples in skin-tight muscle shirts and baggy Day-Glo parachute-cloth pants, some shimmery polyester throwbacks, one or two tuxes (whom I may very well have seen earlier in the evening), and even a leopard-print micro-miniskirt with thigh-high leather boots and a sheer black mesh t-shirt with a nipple ring. It's a fun crowd.
Even dressed like the little plastic dude on a wedding cake, Mulder is surprisingly agile on the dance floor. The music may have been the soundtrack to my public school days, but he must have been just out of college and living in dance clubs judging by his apparent familiarity with some of the obscure tracks the deejay is putting on. He seems to know all the words to the Violent Femmes' "Add It Up", singing "Why can't I get just one fuck?" with his eyes hanging onto mine for dear life. I counter with Romeo Void's "Never Say Never", threatening "I might like you better if we slept together...", which makes him look just a little bit bashful, though he kisses me after every chorus.
I knew when I chose this place that Mulder and I would not be able to talk here. Sometimes I think Mulder talks too much. Not that I don't love the sound of his voice, at least when it's not threatening to kill me, and sometimes even then, but there are so many other ways to communicate, and my companion is fluent in many more than mere speech. Even had I not been witness and provocateur, I would be able to tell that he had recently had a very nice orgasm, so fluid are his hips and so loose his shoulders. His eyes are shut tight as his head bobs to the music, his lips drawn in a moue of divine concentration, making me want very much to be able to produce the same expression with an entirely different kind of stimulation very soon. I file this image away under things I want to remember for as long as I live, which is becoming a very full file very quickly, which may be entirely appropriate, given my life expectancy.
I look over the faces in the crowd, spotting some "tough" guys, some pretty boys, some aging queens, and the usual assortment of oddfellows. I've been told I'm a damned sexy cuss, but I know I must look like a pencil in a tuxedo beside this elegant wild horse of a man. A few of the men near us glance in his direction and for a moment can't take their eyes away. I draw their attention away with a murderous glance: you can't have him, my friend. He's *mine*. I don't know for how long, but at least for tonight, he is all mine...
Our tuxedo jackets join our coats on the chairs, but we never manage to sit down ourselves, as the tunes keep coaxing one more dance out of us. The whole room goes nuts to the strains of "I Know What Boys Like" by the Waitresses, shouting "Sucker!" in a riotous unison. At last, we slide in close and cling tightly together for Animotion's "You're My Obsession", singing "What do you want me to be, to make you sleep with me?" directly into each other's ears, punctuated with intermittent swirls of our probing tongues.
He presses his forehead against mine, staring into my eyes with a palpable hunger as the song ends and another one starts up. "Wanna fuck?" he mouths at me, languidly letting the consonants slide over lips that would look even more precious curled around my cock.
I run my tongue along his cheekbone and sigh into his ear, "I thought you'd never ask." In a heartbeat we are in our coats once again and piled into a cab speeding back to the hotel.
Mulder sits apart from me on the back seat and looks out the window, but clutches my hand on the upholstery between us as if the left and right halves of the car might separate at any minute were he to let go.
I break his reverie and say, "I never got the chance to ask before: was I any good?"
He glances quickly at me, thinking, and turns back to his window. "I think I saw God."
"Did He have anything to say for Himself?" I continue.
"Yeah," he replies, absolutely deadpan. "He said 'Sorry about the platypus.'"
I stare at him to see if he is joking, then spot the amused twinkle over the poker face, and we both dissolve into helpless, idiotic laughter for the rest of the drive.
The hotel lobby is quiet upon our return, the gala having broken up some time before. We stand side by side against the back of the elevator to my room, silently facing forward while Mulder's hand squeezes the closest cheek of my ass. He stands too close while I unlock my room, and we stumble inside, practically falling onto the floor in a heap once the door is open.
He winds his scarf away from his collar and threads it around my throat, tugging the ends to pull me toward him. I let his kisses burrow beneath any self-control I have left, and find my pulse pounding in my jugular. Slowly I am dragged, not unwillingly, to the king-size bed in the center of the room, and we crash onto it as one, kicking off our shoes, their shiny patinas all scuffed from dancing.
Mulder sits up, flinging his coat and jacket onto a chair, and begins to undress me with deliberate care, untying my tie at last, though his has hung limply around his neck since we walked into the cellar club. Waistcoat buttons remain affixed to my waistcoat while they are undone, and my suspenders are slid gradually off my shoulders so as not to injure me with the fasteners of my prosthesis. Every movement, every item of clothing prompts a new torrent of kisses on my lips, my cheeks, my temples, my eyelids... The opening of my shirt collar moves him to lap at the hollow of my throat, and I find myself whimpering in response.
A few more buttons, and worn leather straps are revealed beneath the fine fabric of my dress shirt. He studies the buckles carefully, attacking them almost daintily and laying the straps aside once they have been loosened. I shut my eyes when I feel his lips brush the dents and red marks left on my bare skin, and push my head more firmly into the mattress in bliss.
With a slight roll of my shoulders, Mulder frees me of my shirt and my plastic arm, not even wincing at the sight of my scarred stump. His hand cups the rudely-closed end gingerly as he murmurs "Is this okay? Does this hurt?"
As an answer, I flex my shoulder and move the bone out of his hand. "No, it doesn't hurt. I'd just rather you didn't..." He freezes. I know he was trying to be considerate and intimate, but I cannot tell him how truly unnerving that particular touch felt. I attempt to lie back and relax again, but notice his face threaten to collapse upon itself.
"I'm sorry," he says, unable to meet my gaze.
"Don't be," I order, sitting up and taking his chin in my hand, forcing him to look at me. "This isn't your fault, and it never was."
"No, that's not it," he begins again. "I just realized how it must look for me to wait on you like you're an invalid."
I spring up from the bed and pace away. "Is that what you think? I can handle myself in most situations; I thought you understood that. Maybe I was enjoying having you fuss over me. Maybe I've wanted to feel your hands on me since I was your partner. Can't we just overlook the fact that you've got one more hand than I do?" Mulder is looking at me in a way that I cannot decipher. "What?" I ask, abruptly.
"Maybe we should both come back to bed just a little less well-armed."
I restrain myself from lunging at his throat when I see him gesture towards my back. The handle of my gun juts out above the top of my trousers. "Oh," I mutter sheepishly. The next few moments are spent in each of us putting aside our weaponry, his sock disgorging its pretty little gun, and my gun and knife laid out near it on the desk.
We stand there stupidly for a few moments, not quite sure where to look. I accidentally catch his eye in the mirror over the desk and he gives me an intense, hurt stare. "Maybe I should go..."
"No," I blurt, spinning to look him in the face. "Please don't. I want you to stay here with me tonight. Would you do that for me?"
For a second, he looks like he could shatter with a single touch. I reach for him shyly, and he responds by falling suddenly into my embrace. I hold my former partner as tightly as I can, and once again he nearly crushes me in his arms, burrowing his nose into my naked shoulder. I notice that I can feel moisture on my skin, and realize that he is crying.
I massage his neck tenderly and make soothing noises. There's just something weird about giving comfort to someone and calling him by his last name, so I risk his wrath by using his hated Christian name. "Are you okay, Fox? Is something wrong?"
At last he chokes out, "I... I have wanted you for so long... I can't believe that you want me, too."
I smile into his hair and reach into my pocket for a handkerchief, proffering it sweetly to him. "Yeah, I do," I sigh, leading him back to the bed as he blows his nose. "I must say that I was surprised as hell that you didn't want to knock me cold when you got me alone in that restroom stall."
He coughs and lays the handkerchief aside. "Had I been in that situation at some other time in my life, I might have done just that. But not tonight. I guess I could have knocked you down and taken advantage of you," he trails off, wistfully.
"Except I don't think that they call it 'taking advantage' if the victim is willing!" I laugh, pushing him back onto the bed and pouncing on his unsuspecting lips once again. I rid him of his waistcoat, suspenders, and shirt much more rapidly than he removed mine, covering his jaw, throat, and chest with kisses and small nips of my teeth. I work his left nipple between my fingers while suckling and nibbling on the right one, dragging a satisfied groan from deep in his chest.
I trail a wet line with my tongue down his breastbone and plunge it into his perfect navel, letting my breath alternately cool and warm his damp skin. "Do you want me, Mulder?" I whisper roughly, stroking his erection through his pants.
"Yessss," he breathes straight up at the ceiling.
"Do you want me to suck you?"
"No, Alex. I want it all. I want you to fuck me."
I feel a nervous, excited flutter in my stomach as he says the words. "Are you sure? Has a man ever fucked you before?"
"No. I've been saving myself for you. I want you to be my first."
I raise my head and scan his face to check if he's serious. "You're kidding, right?" I ask.
"Well," he begins, as I hold absolutely still awaiting his answer, "maybe about the saving myself for you part." I exhale in a sudden, relieved chortle. He glances down at me and looks me straight in the eye. "Not about wanting you to be the first, though, Alex. It's okay. I'm not afraid. Please fuck me. I want you to."
I cannot mistake the earnestness in his eyes. I crawl up his body and kiss him deeply, stroking his stubbly cheek. "I want to fuck you, too, Fox. I'll do my best not to hurt you very much. Are you sure about this?"
He leans up and kisses me almost lovingly, his trust shining on his face like a beacon. "I don't know if we'll ever get the chance to do this again. I said I wanted to make you come, and I meant it. Please do whatever you want with me, anything that could make that happen. I am at your mercy."
I kiss him once more, blinking back a stray droplet in my own eyes, then return to his trousers, which open much more easily now that I know to expect them to be stubborn. He lifts his ass so I may strip him bare, then stretches back on the bed so his head rests on the pillows. I stand and remove my own pants, then quickly dig up some supplies from my toiletry bag on the dresser.
Sitting beside this magnificent specimen, I run my fingers across his stomach and in a line down his impressive cock. His knees rise to expose his opening to me at last. I hold the end of the tube of slick in my teeth and open the lid, squishing some onto my fingers with a little pressure from my lips. I toss aside the lid and the tube and warm the lubricant with my thumb against my fingers, huffing a breath on it as well. Slowly, I insert a finger into him, pausing often to let his muscles get used to being prodded from the outside. I watch his face carefully, noting his eyes closed again in concentration and his teeth worrying his kiss-swollen lip. The groan he makes sounds suspiciously less than ecstatic, but not for his lack of trying to hold it back. I stroke in and out, riding on the path I have greased, then double my efforts with a second finger.
"Are you doing okay, Mulder?" I ask, getting a sharp nod in reply. From the pressure around my fingers, I understand he's not telling me how uneasy he is about what he wants to happen next. While I can still reach it, I bend down and take his cock in my mouth to remind him that I'm here to make it feel good. He jumps a bit at first, startled, but lets out a sigh as he begins to relax. I taste the first drop of juice on my tongue, and decide to proceed to the evening's major entertainment.
I sit up and carefully retrieve my fingers from inside my former partner, slipping off my briefs quickly and letting my purpled cock bob free. I rip open a condom packet with my teeth (a skill I had fortunately learned right around the time I lost my virginity), and roll it on with a shudder that could be arousal or terror. Adding some more lube, I crouch before the path I must take, praying silently for forgiveness from some god, possibly even the one laid vulnerable and naked in front of me. I coax his ring of muscle open again with a finger, and replace it with the tip of my aching organ, sliding in millimeter by millimeter.
He's trying to give me a go-ahead with his eyes, but I notice tendons standing in hard relief along his jaw as he braces for my assault. I bury myself by degrees into the fire that is Mulder's tight, tight ass, and close my eyes to succumb to the burn. I feel no need to watch his face for reactions, as I can hear him murmuring shock and gradual acceptance of each new sensation. At last, I am inside him, surrounded by a grip of dumb muscle attached to the finest creature that walks this foul, ruined earth. My tongue slides out of the corner of my mouth and snares a stray salt tear as I begin to pump him slowly.
Once I have established my rhythm with my knees, I take his penis in hand and stroke it in a matching pattern. I feel a ripple from his stomach muscles along my knuckles, and it makes me speed up slightly. His moans come to me more as vibration than sound, echoing down to the base of his spine and straight into my balls, where I pound them right back into him. I groan with the sublime effort of fucking the man who once would have shot me dead me rather than look at me, and feel unfamiliar, unwelcome stirrings in my chest where my heart may once have resided. No matter how overwhelming my feelings for this man, no matter how complete I feel with my cock plunged into his dark hole, I cannot bring myself to say the words that will betray one breath of them to him. Goddammit, Fox Mulder, I may very well love you, right now and forever, but were I to let that piece of priceless intelligence slip, I could mark myself or, God forbid, you as a target for the powerful pricks in suits who paid for this hotel room. One more silent prayer, this time in thanks for the presence of mind to have disinfected the room for any possible eyes or ears hours ago, and I once again fall under the sheer thrill of being joined with the only man who could kill me and earn my thanks.
I open my eyes, which fall on Mulder's face, glistening with sweat and tipped back in rapture. I thrust into him harder and faster, then topple over the precipice, bucking into him abruptly and coming long and hot, forever and always marking my beloved like a brand. My hand is soon covered with his come, as well, as he cries out wordless groans of joy and release that can probably be heard by people down the hall even without listening devices. Our last spasms coincide, and I freeze where I am, loathing the thought of extricating myself from this blessed tangle.
Mulder lies still, his breathing gradually slowing to a normal speed, and his eyes turn to me at last. "Hi," he sighs, emotions matching the ones I am careful to hide emblazoned on his face.
"How was that?" I ask, pulling out and letting go with that suddenly familiar pang of regret.
"A little tricky at first, but worth it," he nearly purrs, making my pulse thrum in my throat with swallowed words of devotion and love. I stumble off the bed to the bathroom to dispose of the rubber and clean up, and bring him a damp washcloth to do the same. "Was I okay, Alex? Was that what you wanted?"
I cannot look him in the eye, for fear I'll throw myself at his feet and beg him to hold me and never let me go. I finally get control of my words, and let them out in ways that will not endanger him or me. "It was beautiful, Mulder." You are beautiful, Mulder. "I loved fucking you." I fucking love you. "I never wanted it to end." I never want to leave you again. "Thank you for tonight." Thank you... no, wait a minute. I meant that.
Somehow he hears what I say and what I dare not say, and gets up to gather me into his arms for another one of those rib-cracking bear hugs. "Thank you, Alex. I'll never forget this. It means... everything. I *know*." I am kissed so hard I may never need to be kissed again. My ears may have heard one word, but my heart hears another. I'm sure that he's said he loves me, too. He releases me and wanders off to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my self-recriminations.
An electronic bleep sounds from the chair where his coat lies. I check the clock quickly. Nearly one a.m. Maybe it's important. Mulder doesn't run to get it, so must not hear it through the closed door. I dig in his pocket for the little phone, figure out the buttons and cough into the receiver.
"Mulder? Is that you? You weren't at home, so I tried your cell." Yup. Little redhead, right on cue. I cough some more like I am unable to catch my breath. "Hey, why don't you get a drink of water and call me at home in five minutes?" she suggests, ringing off.
The bathroom door opens, and Mulder comes out, freezing at the sight of me holding his phone. "She wants you to call her back at home in five minutes," I say, matter-of-factly.
"But... it's not..." he stammers, looking adorably guilty.
I harden my facial expression, a task that comes as easy to me as sneezing. "Get out." It's not an order. It's just what has to be done.
"I thought you wanted me to stay," he protests, gracing me once again with that picturesque pout.
"I lied," I lie. "Get out of here. Call your little girl partner. Go and fuck her, if she'll let you. Or do what you always do: go home and jack off and think about fucking her. Just get the hell out of my room."
He falls silent, but the stung look in his eyes speaks volumes. He hurriedly gets dressed, then comes to the chair where I sit, holding his hand out for his phone. I put it in his hand, but before he can turn to leave, I grasp his wrist and yank him close to me. "I'm sorry," I say, sincerely and painfully. "I *know*, too. Goodbye, Mulder." I pull him in and kiss him one last time, letting him feel the quiver in my own lip against his.
He stands, valiantly fighting the tears that threaten to spill down his face. "You'd better call her, gorgeous. She'll be waiting."
"Yeah," he says around the catch in his throat, and lets himself out of my room, looking back at me once more before shutting the door behind himself.
I sit naked in the semi-dark room and stop trying not to cry.
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