Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters 
here depicted. They belong to someone else. I am 
not earning any money for said depiction.

   <fortuita@hotmail.com> for feedback

Quartered 
By Fortuita James

   Autumn Equinox

   Chill, almost, but not satisfyingly so. No 
bone-breaking cold. Mulder looked critically at 
the light through his fingers, but it had gained 
no more colour. He looked at his apartment building, 
at his wallet. Looked at his feet, bounced up and 
down on them, as if contemplating sudden movement. 
Finally, he moved; sat back in the car he had just 
vacated and drove away.
   Arriving at his destination, he spent another 
few minutes standing in the indecisive air. It 
seemed to sway around him, pushing him one way then 
the next. Gently stroking the small of his back, it 
coaxed him inside this new apartment building.
   He approached the door, threshold, and knocked, no 
hesitation.
   It was answered.
   "Sir," he began, 'Walter' "I need..." 'you.' 
"something."
   There was another of those long moments, this time 
not owned by Mulder. He sighed with relief as that 
weight of decision was taken from him.
   Walter stepping aside, his intrusion was tacitly a
llowed.

   Winter Solstice

   Walter buried himself in the body, heat-seeking, 
driving out consciousness. It could not be banished, 
and an edge of cold, an edge of awareness clung to him. 
She seemed oblivious, writhing and concerned with her 
own passions. His passions, passion was denied to him. 
This was a coupling.
   Cocooned with this other larva, he lay in the heavy 
post-coital silence, and couldn't bring himself to 
sleep. She, however, slept, warmed by her vigorous 
activity. The coldness took more of him, and he admitted 
his warmth could not be found here.
   The warmth that he needed, that could take him from 
his solitude, was elsewhere. An elsewhere far away, he 
had sent it, sent Mulder, its source. 
   So he retreated from his hasty sex, his attempt at 
redirection. Left the wrinkled bedclothes and sleeping 
woman, and went home to his cold apartment, filled with 
artificial warmth. 
   Drank, ate, worked. 
   The chill seeped through his whole body as he waited 
for Mulder's return, until finally, there was warmth only 
in remembering eyes. Eyes that brightened, flashing heat 
through the rest of him, when he finally, finally, again 
found Mulder on his doorstep.

   Spring Equinox

   Mulder laid a wondering hand on the cloth-covered arm, 
still amazed his gesture was allowed. One of the many 
things allowed, now. 
   "Walter," he breathed, pleased he could also say this, 
that he could make these noises outside the confines of 
his own head. The name's owner did not respond, somnolent 
and satisfied. Mulder really didn't mind.
   Contented, he rested back down against his side. 
   His gaze wandered over the room they inhabited, the 
warmth and light of it. It was bathed in all the infant 
sun, it's clear yellow straining to cover the world. 
   Happily, Mulder slid his hand down from its position 
until it covered a lax hand, and left it, thrills running 
through his at the permission.
   A moment of indecision, strangely echoing through his 
mind, as if something half remembered was taking possession. 
But he knew, Mulder, that the decision was already made, 
had been made by him and for him long ago.

   Summer Solstice

   Walter buried himself in the body, a conflagration and 
juncture. The air sizzled, popped and dried out to a hulk 
around them. Their passion was escalating, finishing 
explosively, leaving them also dry and heavy. 
   It pressed them down, the thick air, pressed them 
together, and together they sought shelter.
   Walter felt balanced, the heat justified by the man at 
his side. Mulder's heat was burning, shrivelling, but 
irresistible, an inflammation. That furnace and solace was 
enough to combat the leeching heat of the day.
   He reached blindly for the glass, turning slowly lukewarm 
on the bedside table. He gulped it hastily, hoping it could 
work against the swelter seeping into his bones. He knew 
there was no possibility it could defy that other heat, the 
consuming one. 
   It trickled through him, seeming syrupy, unsatisfying. 
   Sweat beading across his face, he turned in desperation 
to his side. He could not hold up the air, could not fight 
its persuasion. But he could burn it off. His Mulder was hot 
enough for more than that.

   FIN