Afternoon Weirdness V: Soft Decline
by Te
8/98

Disclaimers: Not mine, though I'm thinking there should be 
something like frequent flier miles.

Spoilers: Very, very vague and easy to miss references to 
the movie.

Summary: Mulder's needs a little time to decompress. 

Ratings Note: Weak R.

Author's Note: I love you, Sister Blue.

Acknowledgments: With thanks to Dawn Sharon for being a 
wonderful, patient ear for a wee bit of insanity as well as 
for  being an audience. Also to the shadowy Viridian, for 
marvelous beta and Tespeak translation in the face of 
SnappishAndManipulative!Te.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Afternoon Weirdness V: Soft Decline
by Te
Daddy793@aol.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder took off his jacket, and his shirt, and his t-shirt, 
and sat at the computer. Swiped a finger across the monitor 
with a mild moue of distaste. He had no clue when he'd last 
dusted the thing. He lay his head on the soft gel wrist 
rest and waited, patiently, to care.

He had rearraged the apartment for the summer, moving the 
computer directly across from the air conditioner. He'd had 
a twinge of worry -- after all, the new arrangement left 
him  vulnerable to sniper fire -- but Washington gets *hot* 
in those summer months. Not that healing bone warmth, 
either. This  was the kind of heat that stripped you naked 
and rubbed you down with burning ooze, then *plastered* 
them back on in  some fabric-ian parody of papier mache. 

So the desk had been moved. After a time, the deliberate 
slowing of his body allowed him to feel the first prickle 
of cool air along his nape. Mulder was abruptly 
appreciative of the new, shorter haircut, despite the 
neatly aimed eybrow from Scully and the muttered "hedgehog" 
comments from...

Well, from Alex. Times like these, the day barely over, the 
night promising to be just as lonely and pointless as the 
vast majority of his life.... He simply didn't have the 
energy to work himself up about *that* new arrangement. 

He nuzzled himself into the spongy length of grey. If he 
was to be honest with himself, a lot of things were burned 
away quite effectively by that first, knowing touch on his 
cock. The voice in his ear. Alex had said:

"Can we, just this once, pretend this is all that matters?"

When he'd bucked into Alex's hand, when he'd leaned back 
and back into that solidity of leather and need, he'd given 
all the  answer necessary.

And Alex's smile against his cheek was just fine, too, 
because Mulder knew he never made enough people smile. 

Sometimes, lying just like this, the computer era's answer 
to  Dead Man's Float, he could feel the whisper of those 
soft, peach lips right where the false breeze was tickling 
him.

And imagine the clever hand on his body, the sudden, 
shocking strength of another man to hold there, right 
there. And the  mouth would bite down hard, once, before 
mapping his spine.  The mouth was too small for the secrets 
it knew, the treasures  it whispered. 

Mulder's fingertips brushed the dusty carpet; he was ape-
like,  stupid with early evening indolence and cock-heavy 
despair. 

Alex hadn't stayed long enough... but when Mulder had awoke 
there was a crisp, manila folder of dirty secrets and a 
crumpled leather glove on the mattress.

He had, at some point, begged the younger man to put it 
back  on. Alex had given him a good, solid week to wonder 
if it was  mock or sentiment before slipping into bed with 
him one  Thursday night, slipping in and slipping down, and 
slipping his mouth right down on Mulder's cock.

A promise to return, then.

Mulder came to himself with the realization that he'd been  
nuzzling the wrist rest like an animal in heat. This 
wouldn't do. He would, at the very least, decide if he was 
going to be too  depressed to beat off.

The urgency was building, just a bit.

He mused on the nature of vulnerability, how any reasonably 
well-adjusted adult male might decide to willingly place 
himself in the line of fire for the opportunity of comfort.

Might lay it all on the line to bind his partner with guilt 
and  need, to have her with him, always. 

Might spread himself on the coverlet, and kneel up, and 
offer. No, that's wrong. Spread himself and *beg* for...

For what? 

It would be disingenuous to say forgetfulness... He'd never  
forgotten, and forgiveness wouldn't be half so thrilling. 
And  there'd be no thrill without fear, so the presumed 
safety of  another man's arms would be a lie as well. 

Perhaps, the beauty of vulnerability was the ease of it, 
the way  in which one, after making the choice to do so, 
could give it all to another person. If only for a few 
hours. 

To be allowed the illusion of a clean attic, a heart free 
of baggage and care for just another hour of salt-slick 
hunger and suffering.

Given time, he was nearly positive he could relate that to 
the air conditioner. Somehow.

******
End. 
******