TITLE: Follow Me in Merry Measure
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL:
ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if
you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is
forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you
can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: Post post postypost post Holiday melancholia
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No specific time frame ... just back in the
days when Mulder existed in more than our memories, Skinner was his
boss, and the world was slashy and good.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files
characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th
Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and
no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they
really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I
become king ...
Author's notes: Thanks to Angie, Michele and Susan for their thoughtful suggestions for other titles in this series. I have a feeling there will be more to this, because Sue H. gave me a brilliant idea. And no, Dragon Princess, it will NOT be Don We Now Our Gay Apparel! As for the orgy, you're on your own, Bertie.
If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.
Follow Me In Merry Measure.
by Mik
I wasn't exactly surprised to wake and find Mulder in my bed. I had stayed awake long after he drifted away, and while the temptation to cradle him possessively was great, I kept to my side of the bed. I wanted to think things through without his breath in my ear, or the distraction of smelling his hair. We'd slipped under the border into a dangerous place last night, a place that requires a map or else you step on every landmine. And when you're traveling with someone as volatile as Fox Mulder, even a walk in the park is a dangerous thing.
Of course, backing up was not an option, either. I had extended the offer and he had accepted in good faith. The bargain was struck and sealed in the middle of my bed. There was no honorable way to break it. And no desire on my part to break it, for all that. I knew it last night before I crossed the room, and the boundaries. I saw him standing there, looking miserable as only he can do, and I wanted --no, make that needed to make him look anything but miserable. And then, having taken him into my arms, having claimed a kiss, I realized that this was something I've wanted, something I've denied myself all these years not because he is another man, but because he is my subordinate.
Mulder didn't appeal to me because of his gender, rather in spite of it. Mulder, I had determined in these wakeful hours, is completely asexual in a very smoldering way. There is no macho posturing, no effeminate coyness, nothing that shrieks `I'm gay! Take me!' any more than there is an aura of testosterone laden ball scratching and shoulder slugging. He simply is, but with an allure that speaks to both sexes.
Yet, when his passion is wakened, I was surprised and elated to learn, it is heady and heated. He turned into mercury in my arms last night, and as I squirmed and struggled to contain him, he melted me, so that we were both reduced to pools of thick, honeyed exhaustion. As I cooled and congealed I found my heart was lost, drowned in all that was Mulder in motion.
Despite these remarkable facts and conditions, it is inescapable that he is an unwittingly dangerous commodity, a man, and my subordinate. Somewhere in the night, I began to fear that he initially accepted because he felt he had no other option. I tried to rationalize that away by reminding myself of every moment of our lovemaking, lovemaking I had intended to postpone until we had established ourselves in this relationship, lovemaking he seemed to instigate, lovemaking that was so explosive there must be flash marks on my walls.
So, it is not accurate to say I was surprised that he was there, more that I was surprised he was still there.
Yet, when I woke this morning, there he was. Still on his back where I had left him, when I went to get towels and washcloths. By the time I returned to clean up the physical evidence of our encounter, he was gone, deep asleep, breathing low and even, his face unlined by care, the misery I had sought to banish nothing more than a shadow. He had, sometime in the night, flung a hand in my general direction, and the other remained on his chest.
I raised up on an elbow and looked down at him. I don't believe I've ever seen him in repose. I have seen him sedated, and usually bandaged or restrained in a hospital bed. I have seen him once or twice in the violent throes of a nightmare. But I had never seen him simply asleep. He's not particularly remarkable. But I found pleasure in watching him, nonetheless. Asleep, he is less the fount of simmering animal need. He is merely a man, a body at rest. It is a pleasing enough body; lean, pale, firm, well proportioned, and if I were a man who prized and sought such features in another man, he would be my first choice. As I was aroused by something within, something that slept, seeing him this way elicited no passion. However, seeing him in my bed, with the memories of the night before still fresh, there was a definite sense of possessiveness. For whatever reasons brought us to this place, I was not willing to let him go.
As I watched the even rise and fall of his chest, I had to contemplate the future as well as the immediate past. The Bureau was slowly moving out of the dark ages. There was an attempt to appear enlightened, there was a domestic partner program in place, but in the trenches, being openly involved with another member of your sex wasn't well tolerated. And there was also the inescapable fact that he is my subordinate, and therefore, gender aside, sex with him was, as I think he would put it, the ultimate cosmic no-no.
As I saw it, there were three options and none were good. We could carry on a clandestine relationship, which would be impossible for very long. We work for the FBI, after all, and sometimes our investigators actually come up with a clue. And there was also a very strong sense that Mulder would resent and reject secrecy for very long.
I could reassign him so that he would no longer be my subordinate. I didn't like this idea simply because that would be signing his death warrant. No one else would be willing to walk the fence for him or his causes. No one else respects his work ... well, no one else tries.
We could end it. No.
As I watched him, wishing I had a fourth option, he opened his eyes. The body at rest became emotion in motion. He smiled. And I remembered exactly why he was in my bed. "You're still you," he murmured sleepily.
"That was the agreement," I answered gruffly, trying not to stare as he lifted both arms over his head and stretched.
"Yeah, well ..." He scooted upwards to sit, leaning back against my headboard, and dragged his hands through that mop of brown, unruly hair. "Wow. It wasn't the wildest dream of my life." He looked down at me. "Um ... Sir ...?"
I had to shift slightly to look upward. "'Sir'?"
"Walter?" He said my name tentatively. "All those things we said last night ... I ..." he sighed. "I mean ... look ..." he looked down at his fingers. Then he pushed the bedclothes aside, tugging at his oversized sweats with one hand and padded to the bathroom.
"Mulder?" I shook myself. "Fox?"
He paused at the door, without looking back. "Mulder's fine. Hey, could I take a shower?"
"Sure." I sank back on the bed. I guess there was a fourth option after all. He could end it.
I heard him flush. A moment later I heard the hiss of water in the shower. I listened for as long as I could stand it, threw back the blankets, gathered up clothing and dressed quickly. Downstairs, I managed to put together coffee without slamming or breaking things. I was considering the refrigerator, wondering what was appropriate to serve for that awkward `thanks for the sex, gotta' go' breakfast, when I heard him come down the stairs. I turned as he came into the kitchen. He was in his suit slacks, his dress shirt and socks, shoes in one hand, jacket and tie folded over his arm. "Coffee, Mulder?"
"Please," he answered, draping his jacket and tie over a stool. He seemed a little anxious. Perhaps he was just eager to go.
I managed to put a cup in front of him without undue force. "How do you take it?"
He looked at me, and then at the cup. "This is fine," he promised. He took a sip. I know it scalded his tongue. His eyes watered. "Umm ... thanks. For last night. It ..." He smiled in that self-deprecating way he has. "It had been a while."
"That explains it, then," I said through clenched teeth. I returned to the refrigerator and pulled out eggs and ham.
"Explains what?"
I didn't look at him. "Why you tumbled into bed so quickly."
He was so quiet I finally gave in and turned around. He wasn't looking at me. But the water in his eyes was threatening to spill. Mulder? In tears? The coffee wasn't that hot. Finally, he put the cup down and brushed angrily at his face, seemingly unaware that I was watching. He reached for his coat, shrugged it on, and stepped into his shoes. It wasn't until he was moving to the door that he realized I had watched the whole performance. "No, that doesn't explain it," he said quietly, and kept moving.
"Mulder?" I put down the platter, wiped my hands on my sweats and followed him. "Mulder? Why don't you explain it then."
He was almost to the front door. My words hit him like a bullet, his body actually arched upon impact. He stopped, sagged, shook his head. "It's okay, Sir. I know last night was just ... I mean, come on ... I don't expect ..." he stopped again, and this time did not resume.
I was not accustomed to seeing him without words. "What? What don't you expect? For me to keep my word?" I demanded, more roughly than I should have done. "Thank you very much."
He drew breath through his nose and straightened. "Let's be real, Mr. Assistant Director, Sir. How the hell could we make this work? We can't. I know it. I know you know it. You knew it last night. You don't take a crap without considering all the ramifications and filing all the right paperwork." He stopped, embarrassed. "I mean ..."
"Yes," I agreed tightly.
"Well, you are too smart to start something like this. So last night was just ... a little holly jolly folly."
"What about for you?"
He shrugged. "I am not like you," he reminded me quietly.
I had to hide a wry smile. "Are you saying you don't always think things through?"
He knew he was trapped. But he took it like a man. He nodded.
"When did you start thinking, then?"
"This morning when I woke up and you were there dissecting me like a bedbug," he answered honestly.
"So, you assumed I was trying to determine how to tell you it was a one night stand?" I prompted.
He looked away. "Weren't you?"
I sighed, aggrievedly. "Well, I must say I'm disappointed, Special Agent Mulder. I had always believed you were an ace psychological profiler. I guess I was wrong." I shrugged, stepped back into the kitchen, and impulsively grabbed his barely touched coffee.
He had his hand on the door when I came back to the foyer. "Agent Mulder?"
He stopped and glared at me. "Yessssssssir?"
"Perhaps you just don't see too well before your first cup of coffee." I held it out to him. "Why don't you take this, and then give it another try?"
He looked at the cup and then at me. "Are you saying that you weren't trying to figure something out?"
I shook my head. "No. I was trying to come to a decision."
"Oh."
"I was trying to decide how in hell we were going to make this work, because I can't give you up. I knew THAT last night."
He gave me a look of incredulity. "Nice of you to tell me," he shot back.
I reached for him. "It's all in my report." I kissed him.
- END -