Work Text:
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and to descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair -
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin -
(They will say: "But his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
* T. S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
I wake with a start. It is far too bright in here, too much light streaming through the window. I have overslept. I never oversleep. But then, I am a methodical man, my habits well drilled into my brain, and I never fail to set my alarm clock each night. Except, it appears, for last night. And no wonder; the reason for my surprising negligence lies against me, his head on my chest, one arm draped over me, while my right arm is around him. Reality hits me in the stomach like one of his occasional demon-or-alien-inspired assaults on me; I am in bed with Fox Mulder.
Had I the slightest degree of sense, I would wake him, eject him from my apartment politely yet firmly, and forget that last night ever happened. Had I remotely the quantity of brains I was born with, I would make plans to reassign him somewhere I know I'd never see him again. The Reno office, or Frank Black's old desk in Seattle. Had I any reason, any sanity, I would get up, make coffee, and contemplate how to tell Fox Mulder that this could never happen again. I lack, however, all sense, sanity, or reason. I turn just slightly, very carefully, so as not to awaken the man asleep on me. He shifts incrementally but does not wake. Now I can reach my telephone. One of the perquisites of being a supervisor is that my sick days, few that I have, require no whining excuse. I have, however, not claimed a false sick day in years. I am about, I suppose, to break my record. Meanwhile, I ask Kimberly to tell Agent Scully that her partner called me last night and is tracking a lead up in Baltimore. Kimberly is an intelligent and agreeable woman. She also performs feats that my lover of last night should investigate - she reads my mind on a regular basis, as she is doing now. There is no other reason that she should tell me to congratulate Agent Mulder on having found what he was looking for. Or her advice that the endorphins generated from intimate contact, according to an article she's read, speed healing. Or that cheerful chuckle she gives me across the line. Fortunately, she is also fiercely loyal to me for no good reason. I would rather she were not so astute, but I know she'll say nothing.
The conversation has apparently wakened my sleeper, for a finger now idly traces around my nipple, still bruised and tender from his ministrations of last night. I become exquisitely aware of my own erection, and of his, now pressing into my thigh. I run my hand through the mass of tangled silk purporting to be his hair, and muse on the eternal mystery of the morning erection. Despite the regularity with which such erections appear, I am surprised that I have one. I dimly recall that last night I thought I might never be able to sustain another. It has been several years since I managed to have two orgasms in a fairly short span of time; obviously, I was inspired. The source of last night's inspiration begins to rouse himself, stretching comfortably against me and thrusting himself against my hip at a leisurely pace. How long has it been since I spent a weekday morning in bed making love? I cannot remember the last time I did this. I feel absolutely decadent. One night, Mulder, and this is what you do to me. Here I am, the stickler of the Bureau, calling in sick to spend the day in bed with you, lying to my secretary, lying to Scully on your behalf so you won't have to leave me, and most shamefully of all, refusing to feel the slightest guilt at my acts. I shall have to blame you for corrupting me; I was an innocent prior to this.
Yes, certainly, doubt my word. You may laugh, as you choose. I said only that I was formerly innocent, not that I was a virgin. The latter has been well out of the realm of possibility for over thirty years, ever since my second year on my high school's football team. I was referring, of course, to my previously incorruptible work ethic, now thrown out the window for good with the finding of this creature in my bed. I say "creature", not "man". Obviously Fox Mulder is a created being, as are we all. But just what type of being a Fox Mulder might be is a subject beyond my ken. I am not altogether convinced that my lover is an ordinary earthly human. At times, I suspect him of being a cat, and I whisper Blake's lines about the tiger under my breath. Right now, I see the cat. He stretches and moves against me with a feline grace, marking me as his possession. I cannot be his owner; a cat is incapable of being owned. Angels and demons, also, are created; God knows I have had ample opportunity to consider Fox Mulder to be both at various times. Of those two, right now I see neither. Last night was another matter entirely.
It rained yesterday. I had thought that the rain might continue forever. It has not done so; this morning is bright and sunny, enough so to make me wish that I could turn off the sun, which is too bright for my comfort. I turn away from the window, and towards Mulder. The view improves greatly with this shift in position; far preferable to obtain my sight of the light from the shine of his hair, the glow of his skin, than from my window. He is radiant, like the sun, but far safer to look upon, and, as far as that goes, much more aesthetically pleasing than a large ball of fire and heat. Mulder is fire and heat of his own, and I prefer his version of them to that provided by the star of this solar system. Here is the pole star I have found for myself; I find myself orienting towards him here, in bed, just as I did last night, just as I have done for so long at the office. I have fallen into his gravitational pull; I hope that he is satisfied with this accomplishment, though it is by no means his only one. I wonder: are you a sun, Mulder, radiating all of your passion, all of your energy, from within, or are you a moon, giving off reflected light? Do I see you for yourself, or am I seeing something else -perhaps myself, though I cannot credit it, reflected upon, and bouncing back from, you?
I was not raised in a wealthy family; I was taught to be sparing in my wants. Between my youth and the Marines, I have learned not only to make do with little, but to be satisfied with it. In this, however, I am not prepared to ignore my desires. I was offered freely yesterday the answer to the greatest longing I have had for years, and I accepted it. Too late to undo what I have already done, and am happy to have done; I accept my imbecility, and draw Mulder closer to my face. His mouth engulfs mine, those lush, beautiful lips pressing hard against me. My mind flashes back to what those lips proved themselves capable of doing to me last night, and my body responds in anticipation of an encore today. Tongue circles against tongue; hard body slides against hard body as hard cock thrusts against hard cock. It has been years since I have had the luxury of sharing my bed with another man and feeling this; my random encounters of late, quick and furtive, have not always made it to the point of disrobing completely. I have never felt any shame about my sexuality, but I take no pride in those encounters. Ever since my first whore in Vietnam I have known that sex without this close contact, sex without passion, reduces the fulfillment of orgasm to the physical relief of a sneeze. Last night, grappling on these sheets, burying myself in this man's body as he wrapped himself around me, was nothing remotely close to that sneeze I have felt all too often.
I break free from him and roll, pinning him down against the pillows. I want to drown myself in this man, and I want him in my mouth again, now. Why this need to take him this way, to feel his shaft pressing into my lips and against my tongue, to feel him spurting deep within my waiting mouth? It occurs to me that cannibal tribes consume parts of funerary victims in order to absorb the departed's virtues into themselves; am I trying, unconsciously, to absorb him in this same fashion by consuming his seed? He responds under my mouth like a violin to a bow; I can feel him demanding that I possess him this way. I can hear my former minister whisper the word "blasphemy" in my ear; there is something about the way that Mulder offers himself up to my mouth that recalls the institution, "take, eat; this is my body" to my mind, except that the offering seems to be for the remission of his sins, rather than of mine. What demons is my demon-lover of last night attempting to exorcize through me? What sins has he that he could believe me capable of absolving?
It is not as if I were free of demons myself; am I not the man who sold myself to the devil in place of this man, and is he not the one who, knowing of my blood-pact with the powers of evil, freed me of their grasp? Has he not already given me greater absolution by saving my life then than I can hope to give him here? Or has my lover, in his quest for his sister, ultimately taken on the sins of his father - whichever of the two candidates for his paternity that might be? Nonetheless, he seeks this gift from me; as with the sinning priest, I must believe that grace will allow the miracle to occur when the channel for its delivery is flawed. Very well, then, Mulder; if I can save you, let me. We are told that it is more blessed to give than to receive; whether that is true or not, the giving of this particular gift at least affords me the same degree of pleasure that its recipient is obviously enjoying. I have always been fond of performing oral sex; I enjoy the control I have over my partner's pleasure when I go down, whether on men or women. Most of my partners in recent years have performed upon me instead; my size and appearance probably tell them that I am a straight man looking for quick head. It's not as if I've even had a chance to know my partners; fast, anonymous sex doesn't encourage knowing someone well enough to know what they really want from the act.
Now, however, I know what both of us want; what, for our own reasons, we both need. I run my tongue along the underside of his erect shaft, along its ridge, while I gently manipulate him with one hand. I am delighted to feel, and to hear, his response to my touches; he is a vocal and enthusiastic bed partner. I run my free hand under the beautifully tight ass below me, and begin sliding a finger along their cleft. I run it further in, to the tight rosebud that was the source of my own pleasure last night, and am rewarded by feeling him buck sharply under me, and by his sudden near-gasp of excitement from the stimulation. I had never thought to ever see Fox Mulder let himself go completely before last night's lovemaking; to my surprise and my great joy, I discovered just how capable he is of letting himself give way to his own excitement. I have reached the age where these acts are meaningless to me if I cannot give pleasure as well as receive it; no wonder my chance encounters have left me so empty, and no wonder I find yesterday and this morning so overwhelming. I take him more deeply into my mouth and feel my own cock throbbing in response to his pleasure.
I glance at the clock. Fortunately, my neighbors all should have left for work by now. Potentially embarrassing enough that they probably heard us -particularly Mulder - last night; more of the same this morning would certainly convince them that their fellow resident is a sex maniac. It occurs to me that they may just have to become used to this sound, because I have been in Fox Mulder's apartment and I will be damned if I am going to spend the night with him there until the Department of Health vets the place. That apartment is more dangerous than the DMZ back in Nam, and I don't mean just the occasional electronic surveillance or dorp-in assassins. Of course, those are annoying, too... I can appreciate the aesthetics of good erotic photography, but in Mulder's apartment one would be likely to become its subject rather than its viewer. I have no particular wish to make my passions a spectator activity. Unfortunately, we stand a good chance of that. Not from last night and today, I should think, but if we continue on this course. I have no desire to chart a different one, however.
My lover's breathing becomes ragged; I can feel him tensing under me, my mouth on him, finger firmly within him. He groans loudly - thank heavens he does not scream - and I feel, I taste, his explosions into my mouth. The taste is slightly bitter, somewhat less salt, with a vague tang; I am reminded of sea water. Did I say that I wanted to down myself in this man? What a way to go, Walter. He reaches down, pulling me up to meet him; those eyes are wide open now, hazel green, staring at me like twin pools of yet more liquid in which to drown myself. I have said it before; he is beautiful. Not handsome; I still find that description woefully inadequate. Though not in the least effeminate, he is in many ways remarkably feminine. The softness of skin, the fineness of feature, the turn of his lips; all would suit a woman as well as they suit him. Those lips. I return to them, pausing to nibble and suck at that lovely, full lower lip before covering both with my own. I can still taste him in my mouth, as I know he must taste himself when his tongue glides between my lips. This is the most intimate sharing I can imagine; if it is not a bonding between us, then nothing is. I can feel a damp, sticky small pearl of his semen at the corner of my mouth; he must see it, for he moves his lips to the side and begins kissing himself off of my face.
I stare at him, fascinated. He simply has no idea that he is stunning, and I see now, in the morning light in my bedroom, that after orgasm he is not only beautiful but nearly beatific. I realize that even if I had been more rational when I woke this morning, putting him out of my apartment would have been pointless. His conquering of me may be complete now, but it did not begin yesterday. It began the day I sold myself to the smoker so that he might not have to. I should have realized it the day he deliberately misidentified my gun, the day he bought me back from the smoker, knowing damn well what I had done, and why I had done it. Just as well that the smoker thinks that it was all about Scully; speaking of not needing to make my passions a spectator sport, I wonder what he would make of this. The thought of his potentially tame Assistant Director bedding the very man the smoker most wants to deceive, if not to destroy? I'm certain to hear about it someday, probably with accompanying photographic documentation. It occurs to me that I really do not care; after all, the bastard no longer owns me.
Mulder's hands, two exquisite torture devices salvaged from the Spanish Inquisition, objects of beauty capable of causing me eternal agonies of frustration if he so desires, slide down my chest and sides. I watch his hands trail down my body; those hands, incredibly strong but extraordinarily feminine, have always been objects of fascination for me. They are possessed of a surreal grace that is, wholly in itself, erotic. The thought of what he proved capable of doing with them last night is sufficient on its own to excite me; the rhythmic stroking he is beginning now, along with that recollection, are more than enough to push me over the edge without any other activity. I really want no other activity at the moment; I am still tired from the exertions of last night, truth to tell. I must be feeling my age; he is capable of doing that to me even without sex. In bed last night, his energy was overwhelming. I am nearly fifty; I may be in excellent physical shape for my age, but I am no match for his stamina. He is a swimmer and a runner, I a weight trainer; if I intend to maintain this relationship, I can see that I will be back into aerobic workouts. I don't think the Washington Post needs to report that an FBI Assistant Director has expired of either a heart attack or sheer sexual exhaustion in bed with one of his agents.
I was deep within this man last night; it is not that I do not wish to be there again, to feel that tightness, that heat, that sense of union, but I simply am not feeling up to such exertion again. I admit that I was overworking myself on first-encounter pyrotechnic efforts; after all, when the first encounter is planned to have repeat performances following it, you want to leave a good impression on your partner. I am not the sexual athlete I once was, or at least fancied myself to be. I presume that Mulder is not disappointed in my efforts; after all, he did stay here, when he easily could have left, and he is continuing our activity, when he could have decided to get up and suggest work, breakfast, or other noncoital proceedings. Ah, performance anxiety. I cannot imagine Mulder harboring any such thoughts. Somewhere between his attentions to me and my own musings on age and performance, a sigh escapes from me... not a moan, but a sigh.
"Walter... are you all right?" whispering in my ear.
"I'm * very * all right... I was thinking...."
"Shhh... don't..." He silences me with a deep, lingering kiss, his hands still at work on me. He is exceptional, his ability to feel the stages of my arousal nothing short of psychic. After only one night, he knows my body as surely as he knows his own, and he makes love to me with his hands as skillfully as another man might fine-tune a Stradivarius. These hands are knowing, strong yet gentle, and positively electrical. His touch on me completes a circuit; I swear that I can feel the charge running through me. His hands, like his voice, urge me to let go, to relinquish the control I always insist on having of any situation. His mouth seeks out mine again; he fastens his lips to mine as if he hopes to feed off of me. I should have known he would be like this in bed; as tenacious as he is at all other things which receive his focus, how could I expect less here? Now that I have come within his orbit, I receive the focus normally reserved by him for major phenomena such as rains of frogs or plagues of locusts. I laugh as it occurs to me that he might consider me an X-File. His eyes dart to mine, and he grins. If he does that too often, I could go blind. Trust him not to ask why I laughed; he seems quite taken with the idea that I am enjoying myself this much. I dimly recall a quote from Dorothy Sayers that the only sin passion can commit is to be joyless. I've had far too much experience of that; she was right. Damn the man, trust Mulder to know that quote, too. Another chuckle escapes me at my sheer annoyance with his literacy. He looks at me in wonder, his eyes soft but focused, a close-lipped smile on his face. I hear a faint sound that must be a chuckle of his own in the back of his throat. The smile turns into a momentary shit-eating grin before he kisses me again.
My own orgasm comes upon me suddenly, explosively. I have never had a hand-job do this to me before; of course, this is the first time that I have encountered this pair of hands, which have already proven themselves capable of other, similar miracles, so why not this one? Something tickles. Mulder the cat is back; he has decided to clean my ejaculations off of me by the simple expedient of licking his way up my stomach. Short, precise swipes of the tongue, not broad licks; had I not just come, the thought of what his evident oral skills could do to me would require an immediate demonstration. I relax against the pillows, fascinated by this sight. But then, everything about him has fascinated me since we met.
He makes his way back up to my side; I grab him, pull him to rest on my chest. I would happily stay like this all day, but we will undoubtedly have to get out of bed at some point. He turns his head; looks over at me, inquiringly. "I wasn't tickling, was I? You were laughing back there - what was so funny?"
I smile at him. "Nothing at all. I was just... enjoying myself tremendously."
"I'm glad." Do I need to put my glasses on? I could swear that he is blushing. Fox Mulder with sexual anxiety? I can hardly credit it. "I'm pretty sure it was Dorothy Sayers who -"
There. I knew it. I absolutely knew it. "It was Sayers. I was thinking the same thing myself. Quit babbling." I kiss him. And I chuckle again, realizing that I have finally found a way to shut Fox Mulder up. I'll just have to keep kissing him for a very long time if I want peace and quiet around here now, I suppose. That's not such a bad bargain, come to think of it.