...Except Temptation |
|
|
Epiphany
FANDOM: X Files, baby, yeah! Epiphany-Part 1 Rain drummed on the Airstream roof, adding emphasis to the Stephen Crane story in his hands. When he bought the '57 Flying Cloud at a convention, he had no idea how beautiful the restored version would look in his new backyard. The Zolatone paint was dulled and pitted from decades of neglect. Graffiti defaced the trailer, its silver skin peeling from the recessed wheel wells. Mulder had revived the beauty over a year's time. Now, under moonlight, the Airstream crouched like a metallic beetle, as shadows of elm boughs skimmed over her polished hull. Mulder reached for the scotch under the lamplight. It burned going down, and he squinted. "I Walk the Line" played faintly in the background on the old Bendix. A knock sounded. Probably his new lover, jealous of his solitude, having driven down from Fredericksburg. Or Elliot, the Jehovah's witness from the neighboring farm, asking to borrow his electric sander. Mulder sighed, marked his place with a scrap of the Washington Post, and stood. His sciatic dogged him. He had braced drywall unassisted last evening, no thanks to his outlaw stubbornness. He limped sullenly to the door. The person he saw made him leap back, startled. "I'm not interrupting, am I?" came the rich baritone, brown eyes doing a slow appraisal. "Just stopped by to drop this off." Tattered volume of Swinburne in one hand. Fifth of Ardbeg, Mulder's favorite, in the other. Not sure which he had actually come to drop off. "Agent Skinner, come in," Mulder said, pushing back the vague irritation. The two men stood for a minute in the snug interior, assessing. The door stood open, and the plink of warm rain echoed in the small space, broken by the generator's hum. The humid air made their shirts cling to their backs. Mulder closed the door, let the generator do its cooling work. Mulder hefted the bottle of Ardbeg, smiling as he recalled a backpacking trip through Islay, Scotland one semester on a break from Oxford. He had discovered the quaint distillery and had sampled its wares for several congenial hours, chatting up the owners and local townspeople. He barely remembered staggering back to the one-room hostel and tumbling over some sleepy undergrads, who threatened to toss him out unless he shared the bottle he had secreted under his leather. He shook himself back to the present. "What's up?" Mulder asked, motioning for Skinner to take a seat. He proferred another glass of scotch from his already-open bottle, sliding it along the dinette table toward his boss. "More political philosophy, I see," Skinner said, lips curving sardonically as his fingers rifled through the Crane pages. He knew his subordinate's penchant for reading anarchic messages into everything from Socrates to Dilbert, and it was more amusing than unnerving now. Mulder bowed his head. No one got him. Not even Scully, who understood why he slept on the couch while his tie-strewn bed stood neglected. Mulder shrugged. "World angst shortage. Just doing my part." Skinner offered a rare smile. "You have enough for the world, and then some." After a silence, during which Skinner's face became oddly flushed, he leveled his gaze at Mulder. "I've got troubling news. I came down to talk, but also to warn you about something." Skinner pushed a slip of paper across the dinette table, the AD's ring on his left hand gleaming. Mulder stared at the paper a second, then unfolded it and read. His face went white, and he dropped the paper. "What the-," Mulder stood up abruptly, bumping his head on the steel roof. He glared at Skinner. "What the hell do you mean by that?" "I mean," Skinner said, watching his subordinate closely, "you might be out of a job, unless..." "Is that a threat?" Mulder took a step back, nearly colliding with the Dixie stove. Instinctively, he felt along the counter's sides for the knife drawer, where he kept his Glock 23. "No. Calm down, let's talk about this." Skinner's eyes glowed like candle flames in the gaslight. "Fuck, no, I won't talk about it. Get the hell out." "Mulder-" "Get out." His hands were attempting to pull open the drawer, reaching in... Skinner was faster. He already had Mulder's hands clasped behind his back, his grip like iron. "You don't want to mess with me, boy. You know I can take you down in a heartbeat. Just turn around, nice and slow." Gradually, he let Mulder's hands go, but did not take his eyes off him. When Mulder faced back around, he saw the pistol gleaming in Skinner's left hand, finger on the trigger. He hadn't even heard the drawer slide open. "Nice," Mulder said. Sore muscles tensed. He glanced down at his linoleum floor. He wasn't really afraid, just shocked and angry. When he looked up again, his boss was sobbing. Skinner dropped the gun, and his body crumpled to a heap on the kitchen floor. He sat with his back against the banquette, arms folded over his face. Muffled weeping came from behind outstretched hands, and he rocked back slightly on his heels. "Oh, Jesus," Mulder whispered, kneeling down to face him. He felt sucker-punched. He glanced around foolishly. Get Scully. Get Shorty. Get the men in the white coats. Skinner's gone loose canon again. Then, not realizing what he was doing, he peeled Skinner's arms away from his face. Skinner yielded willingly, cheeks red and tear-streaked and vulnerable. He shook his head. "'God has no plague so perilous as love.'" "Excuse me?" "Forgive me, Mulder," he sighed, gulping. "That damn book of yours... I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't work, I think I'm fucking losing my mind." Skinner drew a long breath. "I didn't mean to threaten you. I'm so sorry, I would never do that under normal circumstances, you have to believe that. I just didn't know what else to do. I can't even think any more." Skinner stared into Mulder's gray-green eyes. " I suppose you'll want to go to PR on this." Mulder looked at him quietly. The formidable superior he devoutly trusted had just admitted defeat. And, indirectly, love. Slowly, Mulder responded, "No." After a long pause, a sly grin spread across his face. "But this would explain all those late nights at the office, and the fact that you play "Dancing Queen" when you think no one's around." Skinner made a broken sound in his throat, a cross between a laugh and a sob. He managed a wan smile. "God, I love you," he blurted, face flushing as soon as he had said it. He went to wipe his sleeve across his nose quite uncharacteristically, but Mulder reached for some tissues and handed them to him. "I love you too, sir" Mulder said, not even aware of what he was admitting. Of course, his feelings were undeniably those of loyalty and friendship after years of service together, or could he be mistaken... As Mulder lost himself in thought, the older man's appearance gradually metamorphosed. Skinner's chocolate-brown eyes brimmed with the light of their like minds, united for a common purpose. Mulder felt suddenly intoxicated by their closeness. Skinner was no longer the older-but-wiser man, the invulnerable mentor, but a companion, an emotional equal. Suddenly, he looked more beautiful than anyone Mulder had ever seen. "Stop looking at me like that, Agent Mulder, or I'm might have to, uh..." Skinner's voice trailed off. But he was smiling now, his usual bravado stealing back into his eyes. "Have to what?" Mulder said, taking him by the hand and pulling him to his feet. Garth Brooks crooned about having friends in low places on the radio. "I never would have figured you for a country boy," Skinner said, chuckling. "Don't change the subject," Mulder smiled. ********end Part 1 *********************************************************** Epiphany, Part 2 Of all the freakish, supernormal events, Mulder thought. He fully expected Rod Serling to sidle out from the water closet, brow raised as he intoned, "Exhibit A. Two FBI agents, trapped together in a tiny cabin, exorcising a demon that threatens to bring them ever closer to madness..." Skinner sat uncertainly at the dinette, sipping the scotch to steady his nerves. His bronzed skin showed through the open collar of his white shirt. He had removed his glasses, and was squinting myopically at Mulder in the low light. Mulder suppressed a laugh. "So, let me get this straight," Mulder began. He winced at the irony. "You read my copy of 'Rosamond,' the one I've had on my coffee table since Oxford, and suddenly thought of..." Mulder was too embarrassed to finish. "Not suddenly," Skinner said, reaching out to brush Mulder's hand. Mulder drew back as though burnt. Mulder leaned back against the banquette and sighed. He felt claustrophobic in a space that had formerly felt so safe. "I'm sorry, Mulder," Skinner said, putting on his glasses. "Stop apologizing." "I will when you stop being so fucking beautiful." Skinner raised warm brown eyes to meet Mulder's. Unexpectedly, a shiver ran down Mulder's spine at the lack of fear he saw in those eyes. And something more...Okay, two steps and he was out the door, into his restored Stingray, and into the night. Maybe a dose of alien sightings and some lost hours to clear his head. "With all due respect, sir, were you drinking tonight?" Mulder asked, afraid to take his eyes off his boss in case said boss went starkers. "I mean, before you got here?" "No, Mulder, I'm telling you...Look, I've never been with a man. I wouldn't even know how to go about it. But something really strange has gotten ahold of me, and now I can't stop thinking about you. And I've tried, you can't imagine how hard." At that, both men laughed uneasily. Skinner turned red, and gazed down at the floor. "Oh, Christ," Skinner said, still laughing. "No wonder Sharon left me." "She was a fool," Mulder said, suddenly serious. The blue denim of his shirt glowed against his skin and damp, black hair. His eyes were a murky emerald, and they fixed on Skinner intently. "Don't." "No," Mulder said, "I mean it. She didn't know what she had." He rose from his seat opposite Skinner, and squarely faced his boss. "Walter, I know you too well. You are my teacher, my mentor, I respect you so much..." And before he knew what he was doing, he was bending to sit next to Skinner, leaning his long, lithe body against the older man. As though they had always belonged around him, Skinner's arms slid around Mulder. Skinner went to kiss him. "No," Mulder drew back, startled. "Fox," Skinner said, his voice a hiss of undiluted longing. "Please, let me..." Mulder felt as though his skin were melting. The sound of his name in that gravelly, love-sick moan made him feel drunk. Made him feel like a teenager trying alcohol again for the first time, making him so high he could have flown. Those early experiments with boys came back to him, making him remember their eyes, the heady way he controlled their bodies, their musky scents so different from a girl's...and he was suddenly tasting Walter's humid lips, parting them to insert his tongue...every Catholic tenet ever beaten into him lashed his soul like fire, warning him to stop before it was too late. But this only fueled his lust and made him press harder to the lips beneath his own. The two grabbed fiercely at each other, touching and kissing like lost souls. All the while Walter sighed into the lovely mouth, tears springing to his half-closed eyes. He touched Mulder's face like a sacred object, caressing his cheeks, his eyes, his hair so lovingly Mulder thought he would die. He had not felt this in so long, it was like spring rain to a parched throat. Oh, God, this was what he had been missing. This was it. **********end Part 2*********************************** Epiphany, Part 3 Mulder thought how strange they must look. Two fortyish men, big and experienced, groping each other like horny teenagers. He wanted to laugh, to stop this before it became too absurd, but he couldn't. Thank God his cellphone rang. "Mulder," he barked into the phone, before Skinner could motion for him not to answer. "Oh, Jesus, Beth, I forgot," Mulder said, getting up and opening the trailer door. He paced the small space, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'll see you in a little while. I love you too. Bye." He pushed "End" and turned to face Skinner. "I have to go," Mulder said, and he almost cried with relief. "Sure," Skinner said, his face in shadow. "I am sorry," Mulder said. "I had a date, I completely forgot..." "No problem. I understand." "God, I-- Skinner narrowed his eyes at Mulder. "I said, I understand. Go. I'll see you tomorrow." "I feel terrible. I--it's nine already, I was supposed to meet her at eight, at this Moroccan place. But I don't want to just leave you like this. I can't--" "Mulder," Skinner said, getting up and facing him. "I'm okay. I'm a grown man, I can take care of myself. Maybe we should think on this anyway. You should go." Skinner squared his broad shoulders as he said this, and unrolled his sleeves. His eyes were shining. Mulder almost shivered at the sight. Mulder suddenly closed the distance between them. "I wish you would wait until I get back," he murmured, hand on the small of Walter's back. "I don't want to go, but she is an important contact..." "I'll bet," Skinner quipped, cupping Mulder's face in his hand. He rubbed the stubble of Mulder's jawline, mouth watering. "Please, Walt, wait for me..." And they were kissing again, enjoying the tight feel of their muscles grinding together. "Oh, God, Mulder..." Skinner hissed, hand roaming to Mulder's ass. "I can't wait..." And, suddenly, Mulder found himself sprawled out on the banquette, looking up at a very flushed and passionate Skinner. His heart leapt. He felt submissive somehow, but not in a degraded way. A laugh bubbled out of him as he felt Skinner's hard length press against his thigh. Is that a pistol in your pocket, or... "You are my David, my idol," Skinner sighed, planting tiny kisses down Mulder's throat, unbuttoning his shirt. He continued along his chest, to his nipples. He took the hard nubs of flesh as though they were a woman's, swirling them with his tongue. "I've pictured you so often like this, underneath me..." "Why?" Mulder breathed, head swimming. He had a perverse urge to laugh out loud. Skinner stared at him, and slowly grinned. "Damned if I know." His hand travelled down to brush Mulder's legs, feeling the hardness between them. Mulder gasped, eyes widening. "This is crazy," he said, and they both knew it. " You're right about that," Skinner replied. Unexpectedly, Mulder closed his hand over Skinner's, which was resting lightly over his crotch. Mulder pressed it hard, panting. Skinner's eyes registered a wariness that darkened into wolfish hunger as he caught on. He shook his head. "Fox," he said low, "you are so beautiful." Skinner leaned down to kiss his full lips, hand still pressed under Mulder's. He felt the rough denim under his hand, the swelling warmth beneath that. Tentatively, Skinner thrust his tongue between Mulder's parted lips, searching eagerly for the other's tongue. Skinner felt hot, insanely aroused. Suddenly, there were too many clothes on both of them. "How do I fuck you?" Skinner said breathlessly, hand caressing Mulder's cloth-covered cock. He felt it stir, grow bigger, and it almost scared him. Mulder was shocked by the huskiness of his voice. He could barely speak. "You don't," he murmured. "What?" Mulder whispered, "No one fucks me. I fuck them." "Is that some kind of power issue?" Skinner asked tersely, eyes glinting. "You could say that, yeah." Ever since the abduction and rape on that ship last year, Mulder thought. He could no longer bear any thought of subjugation. He had indulged in that kind of play in college, with older boys and a few of the younger professors. Then, he had reveled in being topped, had lost himself to the exquisite torture of being taken. Now, the act seemed as pleasant as being castrated and then shot by an SS firing squad. Skinner registered the pain in that beloved face. "Mulder, what is the matter? Did something happen to you?" His hand had strayed from Mulder's cock to his face, caressing his cheek lovingly. Those square, manicured fingers, Mulder thought. I want them on me, but... Skinner's throat closed at the thought of Mulder being raped or hurt. He would die first before he let that happen. But maybe it had already happened. Maybe he was traumatized by some unspeakable event Skinner could only imagine from his professional study of predatory sex crimes. Skinner stood, quietly enraged. Mulder sat up, mistaking the object of that rage. "I-I'm sorry, Walter," he said, cursing himself. He felt cold where Skinner's body had draped across him. In 80 degree heat. Skinner's hands were balled into fists. "I should go." This time, Mulder did not try to stop him. **************endPart3******************* |
