Work Text:
Finally, we have made it out of bed. Not that this is a good thing; it simply marks the passing of the day, which at some point will end. Fox Mulder will leave; I will get ready for tomorrow, at work, a day which will be made harder for me both by my absence from the office today and the mental absence I will surely have tomorrow. My body will be at work; my mind will undoubtedly be on last night and this morning. God. Work. How the hell are we going to handle this at the office? How the hell do we keep it from Scully? The woman could find one mouse hair in an entire room; how do you keep anything from her? I shall worry about that later. First I have to survive sending Mulder home and sleeping alone tonight, the first unpleasantness I will have to deal with. At least there is no immediate rush about that.
We have showered; I am making coffee. He has a towel wrapped round his waist, knotted loosely at the corner; his hair is damp, just beginning to dry, making him look much younger, like a naughty child who has been sent to shower before dinner. He looks young enough to make me feel like a cradle robber. The hell of it is that I am only - what, ten, maybe eleven years older than he is; it's strictly an illusion, and it stems from that Dennis-the-Menace look he has with the damp hair.
The coffee is ready; I pour two mugs and carry them into the living room, turning on the television. I can see him in the next room, my study, going through my bookshelves. He stands there, back towards me, fingering the spines of my collection. Those long, supple fingers, running up and down the leather-bound spines of my H. Rider Haggard novels. Damn it, I should not be getting off on watching a hand job, as it were, being performed on my books as opposed to being done on me. Ah, he has reached my Modern Library collection, mostly acquired during college. I still go back to them. Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, my third copy. I lost one, wore out the second. Cicero's Orations. The only copy I have owned, as I do not return to it on a regular basis. Aristotle's Politics. I pick Mulder for a Platonist; I must needle him sometime. People seem not to expect literacy in Marines; we have a stereotype for jarheads, strong backs, and weak brains. I was my high school valedictorian, however, before I enlisted; the G.I. Bill paid my way after I got out, to a college my family could never have afforded when I finished high school. If I had been like the rest of my class I would have wound up studying at the state university campus twenty miles from home. The Marines did a great deal for me other than nearly getting me killed.
Judging from where he is reaching, Mulder has found my Milton and Chaucer. I fell in love with The Canterbury Tales in eleventh grade. Evil thoughts are coming to mind. Mulder spent seven years at Oxford, and he has that perfect voice, damn it. Does he read poetry aloud? Can I get him to read poetry aloud? The thought of hearing Fox Mulder declaiming Chaucer in what I am willing to bet is a near-perfect Middle English pronunciation is sending chills up my spine. Besides, I would get to watch those lips move, especially that lower lip. I could live on that lower lip for a week. I must be a complete lunatic; what kind of idiot gets sexually aroused at the idea of hearing his lover read Chaucer? Maybe I could just drag him to bed with a bottle of brandy and a copy of John Donne's works. Now I know that I am going over the edge; who besides an English professor gets a fantasy like that?
He has pulled something down from the shelf; I cannot tell which book it is yet. Mulder is reading my shelves the way a bad guest reads your medicine cabinet. This snooping, however, I do not mind. Watching the way Mulder handles my books, eyeing them carefully, fondling the better covers, caressing them lightly with his fingers as he examines them, is both fascinating and arousing. He handles my books, I notice, much the same way he maneuvers in bed. My father always told me that you could judge a man by his books. I presume Mulder is taking my measure on the shelves; as a psychologist, he is probably trying to analyze me by author.
I cough slightly; he turns, and I indicate that the coffee is ready. He reshelves the book - one of my Faulkner novels, I think, comes into the living room, and sinks into the leather couch, apologizing for rummaging through my books. I invite him to read anything he wishes; aside from being a polite thing to say, it is, I realize, a vague step towards attempting to domesticate a wild feline into remaining on my premises as long as possible. He sips at the coffee, curling up against me on the couch; I picture a large Siamese chocolate point curling up on my lap. The effect upon me is much the same as if the Siamese were there; I find myself relaxing measurably, and reaching an arm around him to draw him to me, stroking his damp hair. The towel he had wrapped about himself has come loose and slides under him; he makes no effort to retrieve it, but stays pressed firmly against my robe.
We work on the coffee, silently. This is not because there is nothing to say, or because either of us is nervous now; I certainly am not uncomfortable with the prior proceedings. I simply am not by nature a talker, and Mulder, for all of his glibness, is as comfortable with silence as I. I find the lack of conversation comforting; the women I have known would all want to discuss the meaning of the encounter, future plans, and where we would go on our first vacation by this stage of events. It is, I suppose, one of the small pleasures of being with another man; I enjoy the predictability of silence, the lack of need to fill an empty space with sound.
What conclusions, I wonder, has Mulder drawn from a collection of Latin translations, English poets, and matched sets of adventure novels? My collections are gleaned from years of scouting used book shops, a hobby which used to drive Sharon crazy. He may have noticed my prize, an original printing of Whitman's "Leaves of Grass." It was an expensive gift to myself when I graduated from law school. I have a paperback of it that I actually read; the original is too fragile to be handled regularly. I have always admired Whitman. I am awed by his depictions of war, of the veterans, of Lincoln. It took me years to realize how much I appreciated his other merits; when I was in school, it was bad form to notice that Whitman was writing homosexual love poetry. If you read carefully enough to notice it and to ask, you would be lectured on Whitman's utter greatness, as if greatness were all that it takes to insulate a subject from its context. If Whitman is a great poet, that about him which you dislike cannot be possible, therefore you misread it. And Hemingway's greatness means that he could not have swallowed his gun, by the same logic.
I have been in Mulder's apartment, and I have seen his books; he keeps few, for such an obvious reader, but his apartment is small and quite cluttered enough already. I have never looked closely, since the few times I have been there have not been for anything permitting relaxation. The Poe and Blackwood I noticed were no surprise. Nonfiction - well, alleged nonfiction - on Ufology, on psychic phenomena. A book on Satanism, a couple of books by Aleister Crowley; if I did not know that he actually consults such things on cases, I would think he was having a Sixties flashback. Hans Holzer, of course, on everything about ghosts. Freud, Jung, and Carl Rogers, an abnormal psychology text, a biographical collection on serial killers. Some twentieth century poetry. A few novels, very few. One or two H.P. Lovecraft books. Among the few modern novels, Lord of the Flies and John Knowles' A Separate Peace.
Those last two books I had chalked up to nostalgia for his days at Philips Exeter, or for some psychological glimpses into adolescent cruelty. Now I understand the reason for the Knowles. The book describes harassment, at what we used to call a prep school, of a fellow student perceived as being homosexual. I remember high school; you need only be slight, studious, and sensitive to be ridiculed for that, fact or not. Those words are almost certainly a picture of Mulder at that age. God, he must have gone through hell; I remember what we did to Matt Brady back in school for the same reasons. Matt was gay, as it turns out; I should know, since he gave a great blowjob, but I was guilty of being part of the crowd of jocks who practically killed the poor kid. If he survived college, I am sure he became to some other man what I see Mulder becoming to me. Thirty years later, I find myself ready to fall for an older model of the guy I took advantage of and nearly helped kill. I make a mental note. I will go to my next high school reunion, and if Matt is still alive and he is there, I am apologizing to him. I feel a need for forgiveness from him - if not for his benefit, then for mine, and for Mulder's.
Mulder has set his coffee mug back down on the table. He turns around to face me, twisting so that he now straddles my thighs. I reach into his hair and pull him down to meet me in a deep kiss. How unromantic - we both have our eyes open. I am not sure that it is the best idea to look directly into Mulder's eyes at this close range; the effect is much like being sucked into a whirlpool, and it is dizzying. The kiss is deep, gentle, and surprisingly unarousing; I do not think I could manage another erection right now if my life depended upon it. It is quite enough for me right now that I have him here with me at all; it is certainly more than I would ever have expected, or deserve. The kiss ends, eventually; our lips part, and he moves his head back, examining me thoughtfully. Apparently he approves; he is smiling, at least slightly. He would make an excellent secret weapon; the United States could send him into enemy territory and have him smile at people. Some would be blinded; others would almost certainly vaporize, if not melt. "Penny for your thoughts," he prompts.
Have I been looking that pensive? I was not aware of it. I shrug. "I was wondering how you were doing."
He grins. I hate to say that I wish he would not do so, but then, he is at close range right now, and I am the impact area. "Never better."
"Really? Are you ready to handle work tomorrow?"
That throws him. I see the look darkening his face for an instant. Mercifully, it passes, and he brightens again. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Scully's going to be a challenge, but I can deal with her. I mean, I know there's no place for this at work."
I nod in agreement. We both realize that work is not an area open for negotiation. "This doesn't mean that I'm not going to chew your ass off at work if you deserve it."
"Walter. I wouldn't expect anything else from you. I'd be disappointed if you thought I was looking for a free ride out of this."
I bite back a one-liner about riding. "You do realize this isn't going to be the easiest thing in the whole world. and I'm not the easiest person to deal with, either.
"To begin with take warning, I am surely far different
from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd
satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth
and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground
toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought O dreamer that it may all be
maya, illusion?"
I almost laugh at Mulder's expression. No, Fox Mulder is not the only person alive who quotes poetry. That has always been one of my favorite pieces of Whitman, and I had one of those old-fashioned English teachers who did indeed believe in having her students memorize poetry. I learned that poem to placate her many years ago, since she loved Whitman. I failed to realize at the time what the words really said; I cannot tell, to this day, if Mrs. Ingersoll overlooked Whitman's themes or if she really failed to recognize them. Certainly in those days she would not have been able to tell us about it if she did know what she was reading. If she had, would the Matt Bradys of the world have had an easier time of it or not? Returning to the amusing sight of Fox Mulder disconcerted, I see him shaking his head for a second as he thinks, apparently trying to dislodge a cobweb in his brain. Ah, recognition dawns. I knew he would have to recognize the poet, if not the poem. "Illusion? I don't know. right now, this is the only thing in my life that actually seems real."
My feelings are much the same, but I had not really expected either of us to articulate anything to that effect this soon; I hope that we both are cognizant of what we are getting ourselves into here. That was why I had tossed the Whitman at him. We have been through much together, Mulder and I, and more than once we have been forced to work at cross purposes. I have always wanted him to trust me, but there have been several times when he could not do so, and with reason. I fear that he may place too much faith in me right now; although I dislike believing that I would ever deliberately hurt him, outside of these walls I may find myself forced to do so professionally even as I have in the past. Love does not always preclude betrayal in our line of work. He knows that I will refuse to allow this relationship to affect my professional judgment; if he really understands that, I hope that he will understand this fact of our work as well.
He still straddles my thighs, leaning over me slightly. I lean back further on the couch, feeling like the Grand Pasha. I dimly expect some slaves to enter with peacock feather fans. Surely there ought to be a bowl of grapes out on the table. Yes, reclining on the couch while being fed grapes by a naked Fox Mulder would, I think, be the high point of almost any day. I suspect that I am better off not mentioning this to him, at least not yet. If I have not yet dragged him off with the poetry and the cognac, I had certainly better not reveal this particular fantasy yet. I have the horrid feeling that not only would he oblige me cheerfully, but that he has some crazed contact who furnishes Nubians with peacock fans for just such occasions. I really am not ready to find that out.
Reaching up with one arm, I pull him down against me again, and I grab an afghan that I had folded and tucked near a side pillow on the couch. Even if he is not freezing, I could be warmer; I shake out the folds and wrap the afghan around us. I suddenly long for a fireplace. A fireplace, a wood planking floor, a pile of quilts, a bottle of brandy, a pot of hot chocolate by the fire. my grandfather's cabin, if I am not mistaken. I used to sit near the fire, drink hot chocolate with brandy in it, and read. Poetry in the winter, adventure novels in the summer. I was too young then to wonder about bringing anyone there with me, or to realize that someday I would be living in a condominium - did I even know what a condominium was, back then? -- and would crave the possibility of having a fireplace. I have never made love by the fire. I wonder if Mulder has. Would he enjoy that more than peeling grapes for me? Undoubtedly. I think that I had better save the fantasy about the Grand Pasha and the grapes for a later date. Much, much later.
I can feel Mulder doing something under the afghan. He seems to be working at unknotting the belt of my robe. He has gotten it open; I feel his skin against mine as he slides his arms around my waist. We only dragged ourselves out of bed an hour ago and here we are again, completely horizontal. Of course, we were not getting the maximal amount of sleep possible while in bed. which was partly due to my discovery of talents I had never known that Mulder possessed. I am extremely pleased to have had those talents put to work on my body. I will be even more pleased to have him continue to do so. His words of a few moments ago inspire a certain amount of confidence in the imminent likelihood of just such events. His lips seem to be trying to tell my neck the same information now, or so it feels. "Hey, Mulder, have pity on me; I'm an old man. I don't think I'm keeping up here."
"Sorry, Walter; no pity," he mumbles into my ear. "I think you're doing pretty well at getting things up, myself." His hand reaches down, and I realize that I am once again partly erect. How he does this to me, I do not know. "One more round?" he asks.
"Let's not rush it, okay?" If we rush this, I certainly will not be having another bout in the next few hours; I can tell that much. Maybe not in the next few days. "I'm not equipped to keep doing this any more."
He pouts; I can tell that he is teasing, but it is a pout nonetheless, that delicious lower lip of his sticking out at me like a six-year-old's protest. "You mean I can't play with your toy any more?"
I laugh. I cannot help it; Mulder is charming, silly, and, dare I say it, utterly adorable. "You can play all you want, but I need a rest in between. You're absolutely insatiable."
"I finally got what I want; I'm trying to make up for lost time." He kisses me again, running a hand along my thigh.
"You don't have to make all of that lost time up at once, you know," I reassure him.
"Do I take it that's an invitation to come back?"
"Fox Mulder, I'd like to find a way to keep you from leaving in the first place." I pull him down to my face and kiss him.
He smirks, the asshole. "Assistant Director Skinner, I believe that's classified as kidnapping in forty-nine states and two territories. I'd have to check on the statutes to be sure about Louisiana." He slides back down against me.
"And you have a problem with this, Agent Mulder?"
"Not at all, Sir. Not at all." He curls up against me under the afghan, arms sliding around me again. He must be more tired than he looks. I can see that I am going to have real trouble getting him out of here tonight. Not that I believe he would object if I asked him to leave. but I am not quite sure how I am going to do it. This is far too comfortable. Too much like a favorite pair of sneakers, or a particularly favorite book, like my Whitman. It is definitely time for us to take a nap. I can spring the Chaucer on him later, maybe when he and Scully get back from their trip to New Mexico. It crosses my thoughts that this may indeed all be maya, illusion. I am willing, however, to take that chance.