Title: Laying Low
Author: eggplant
E-mail: goatgirl47@yahoo.com 
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Existence, NIHT and a few others
Category: Mulderangst, slashiness
Warnings: My Mulder is a bit sad and creepy...
Summary: Mulder depressed and in hiding.
Disclaimer: The same one other people use all the
time.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------
---------


If I had been this low at any other point in my
life I wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger. I guess
that's something, that now there are people who would
actually care if I offed myself. And then there's
William. It wouldn't affect him now if I killed
myself, of course, but I want to be alive to help
protect him, and provide for him in the future. I'm
not doing much providing right now, being out of a job
and all, but by leaving and yet not killing myself,
I'm doing all I can to protect him.

The synthetic bedspread feels coarse and cold
against my cheek. I've been curled up on this musty
motel bed for I don't know how long, but my body is
stiff, my stomach feels hollow, and I've got to pee
really badly. I pull myself up with great effort and
shuffle to the bathroom to relieve myself. The
bathroom is freezing compared to the overheated
bedroom. There's a stained pink curtain covering the
bathroom window, and when I lift it I see why it's so
cold in here. The glass is broken. For twenty bucks a
night, it doesn't surprise me. I'll be moving on in
the morning anyway.

After peeing, I decide not to drink any water,
even though I'm really thirsty. I don't want to have
to get up again before morning. This time, I strip off
all of my clothes and get under the covers. I don't
even leave my underwear on, even though I should
probably worry about my skin touching the sheets in
this place. I curl up again and pretend I'm in a womb,
that I'm starting over. I try to let my thoughts go,
to really be a blank, fetal slate, but I can't.

My mother used to refer to my "dark moods"
derisively, as if I should just snap out of it. She
could never acknowledge that she shared them, in
denial until the day she left the oven door open and
downed a bunch of pills. Sometimes it's mostly spite
that keeps me from following her example. I need to
prove I'm not like her, not weak.

But of course I am.

I wonder what Scully and William are doing now. I
imagine him sucking at her breast. I've heard about
men getting turned on by breast feeding, but my
overwhelming feeling the first time I saw Scully
nursing was not desire for her, but desire to nurse
the baby myself. I was jealous. Talk about being in
touch with your feminine side. Even now, when I finger
my nipple, I wish milk would come out. Is it a desire
to nurture something, to sustain life? I don't know,
but I wonder if other men feel a sense of
powerlessness and uselessness when contemplating their
own non-functioning nipples.

I'm non-functioning in other ways as well. Scully
wanted to make love the night before I left. How
ironic, that it's only after we have a baby together
that she actually wants to have sex. I wanted to do it
for her, even though I didn't want it myself. No can
do. She was hurt by my lack of arousal, I could tell,
even though she told me not to worry about it, that
she knew I was under a lot of stress and had been
through a lot lately. She never refers directly to my
abduction or the vicious scars she saw when I awoke
from death. Part of me is grateful for that, but part
of me thinks she's a coward. I told her it wasn't her,
it was me, but of course it was both of us. We've just
never been about sex.

The only fantasies I have these days are, oddly
enough, about Skinner. The fact that he's a man
doesn't bother me. I've always been somewhat bisexual.
Actually, it's more than that. I'm turned on by a
variety of things. One of my favorite porn videos
involves a midget, a boa constrictor and a German
Shepherd. I figure as long as I don't act on some of
my more twisted fantasies, I'm ok. In reality, I don't
have much sex at all except with my own hand, and a
few well-used toys. I wonder what Dogget thought of
the nine-inch vibrator he found under my bed when he
searched my apartment.

I reach between my legs to touch myself, but
there's no action down there, just my soft shriveled
penis nestled against my thigh. That's ok. I'm used to
celibacy now. It bothered me the first couple of
years, but now I have no expectations for myself.
There was a time when I slept around quite a bit,
believe it or not. I even took part in an orgy once,
if four people counts as an orgy. When I was with
Phoebe, she once invited over a couple of guys to join
us in bed. No women of course-that would have made her
too jealous. I think she figured since she couldn't
really fuck me (although she could pretend with her
favorite strap-on), she could at least watch someone
else do it. She had me get on my hands and knees so I
could take one guy from behind while the other fucked
my face. The idea of it was hotter than the actual
event. They never show any of the mess in gay porn.
Still, we all got off, and I hooked up with one of the
guys, Trevor, a few more times after that. I stopped
sleeping with him when he decided he wanted to fist
me. I'm pretty open sexually, but not that open.

I've wondered a couple of times whether Skinner
would have been open to getting it on with me.
Sometimes he looks at me so intensely, and Scully said
he was pretty devastated when I was abducted and then
found dead. She said he blamed himself. For years now
he's seemed to have more interest in me than warranted
by a coworker relationship. But at times it seems more
like a paternal thing. Diana once told me I brought
out the parental urges in everyone.

Actually, what she said was, "Everyone wants to be
your mommy or daddy. You've got that little-boy-lost
look down pat." Diana was talking about Scully
actually, that night when she "rescued" me while I was
hearing voices, and tucked me into my seldom-used bed.
Even though I was starting to suspect Diana didn't
have my best interests at heart, I didn't protest when
she sucked my dick. It's only women like her who can
get me off-tall, strong, bitchy, a bit trashy. Scully
is too petite and good to arouse anything more than
brotherly love in me.

I imagine Skinner taking control, pressing me
against the wall of his office, ripping my pants down
and ramming home. Ooh, a twitch from my flaccid friend
at that thought. He would fuck me hard and fast,
pinning me there helpless. I match the rhythm of my
own hand to his imaginary thrusts until I climax and
go limp again. It's my first orgasm in months. Lately
I've been too busy and preoccupied to jerk off, but
now I have nothing but time. I curl up again on the
sticky sheets, too lethargic to get up and clean off.
At least I'm not the person who has to change the
sheets in a place like this. That should cheer me up a
little, but it just depresses me more and I start to
cry a little bit.

I can't believe it has come to this after the
fantastic life I've led. I've seen horrors and wonders
most people could never even imagine. My entire family
has fallen victim to a powerful conspiracy that I've
spent my life fighting against. I've been in space
with aliens. I've died and come back to life more than
once. And yet I'm alone in a 20-dollar-a-night dump,
lying in my own drying semen, weeping pitifully. And I
can't even kill myself.

I'll just have to sleep. I'll move on in the
morning to another cheap motel, keep laying low. I
imagine Skinner cradling me in his big arms and start
to drift. If I think of William's scrunched up little
face, untouched by all the crap I've become mired in
over the years, if I sleep thinking of his face, maybe
I'll wake up in the morning with the strength to stay
alive.


Title: Staying Invisible (sequel to "Laying Low")
Author: eggplant
E-mail: goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Category: M/other, angst, a bit o' SM
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mulder continues his lonely tour of seedy
motels. 
Disclaimer: the usual


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I keep my eyes closed the whole time, but I still
can't pretend it's him. This guy's cock is too small
for Walter. Not that I've seen Walter's cock for real,
but in my fantasies it's thick and long, and this guy
couldn't deep throat me if he tried. I still suck and
lick until he comes in my mouth with a groan.
I don't realize I'm crying until I become aware
that he's talking to me. "Hey, Marty, you ok?" He's
sitting on the bed with his flaccid penis hanging out
of his open jeans, and I'm sitting back on my heels
now, naked, with come on my lips. The brown shag
carpet is crusty beneath my knees. 
My face is wet and I can't speak. 
"Should I leave?" he asks.
I guess I was lucky to pick up a seemingly nice
guy who doesn't ridicule me or just get the hell out
of the motel room upon seeing my pathetic display of
emotion. I approached him in the bar because he was
broader than me and bald. Aside from those two details
he really looks nothing like Walter, but it was the
best I could do. 
"Maybe I should go," he suggests again, and this
time I'm able to at least shake my head. I don't want
to be alone right now, and this guy doesn't seem like
he's mean or crazy or anything. Probably just lonely
like me.
"Ok," he says, standing up and taking his shirt
off, "I'll stay if you want." He sits down again and
runs a hand over my hair. "You're really beautiful,"
he says hesitantly. "Why don't you get up here on the
bed?"
He gets up again, pulls his pants off, and pulls
the covers back on the bed. "Come on," he says,
extending a hand to me. I let him pull me up off the
floor and lead me to the bed. I'm so tired. I've been
driving for two days straight, trying to stay
invisible, but once I checked into yet another crappy
motel, I couldn't sleep and went out looking for a
warm body instead. I forget what this guy told me his
name was. Jason or Jared or Jeremy. A sweet J name.
He pulls the covers up over us and spoons behind
me. I'm still crying, although at least I'm able to do
it quietly. Loud sobbing would be even more
embarrassing at this point. I haven't even gotten hard
since I met the guy. He rubs firm circles on my
stomach, straying lower to touch my soft dick and cup
my balls. He stops after a while when he gets no
reaction, but his cock feels half-hard against the
cleft of my ass. If he can get it up again in another
couple of hours I'll let him fuck me. I wonder how
kinky he is, if he'll hit me or cut me if I ask him
to. I have a pair of handcuffs in my bag. 
I don't realize I'm drifting off, but the next
thing I know I'm waking up. It's still dark, so I
couldn't have slept long. J is still in the bed, but
he's not wrapped around me anymore. He's on the other
half of the bed, asleep on his back, snoring, the
covers pooled around his waist. In the moonlight I can
see he has very little hair on his chest. I
tentatively reach out and stroke it. I've seen
Walter's chest-that time Scully examined him when he
was sick from the nanocytes. He had a lot more hair.
Very sexy. The snoring stops and I look up to see J
watching me. I lean over him and take a nipple in my
mouth. It hardens and I suck on it for a while. I
reach beneath the sheets and hold his hardening cock
in my hand. He moans and whispers, "Marty." 
"Fuck me," I say.
"No problem," he groans, taking my shoulders and
rolling over on top of me. He leans down to kiss me,
but I move my face to the side so his lips fall on my
jaw. He takes the hint and sucks for a moment at my
jaw, moving down to my neck. His has a full erection
now and thrusts it a couple of times against my groin,
and there's a bit of a stirring there, but not much.
"Hold on a second," I say, squirming out from
under him. I go to my bag, get out a condom, lube, the
handcuffs, and my belt. I dump them on the bed and he
looks at me with curiosity, but doesn't say anything.
I hand him the handcuffs and lay facedown on the bed.
I wait a few minutes until he apparently decides what
the hell and cuffs my hands behind my back. There's
nothing on the headboard to loop them through. He
takes the pillows and shoves them under my hips to
lift my ass. I'm getting harder.
"What do you want me to do with the belt," he
asks, "hit you?" He sounds somewhat hesitant. I guess
he's not too kinky.
"Yeah," I say. "Hard."
"Any other requests?" he asks. He sounds nervous.
I don't feel like talking much, but I want him to
do what I want. I need something intense to bring me
out of myself. "Hit me hard, then fuck me hard with
the belt around my neck," I order brusquely.
"I don't know man," he says, "I'm not into this
kind of shit."
"Just do it," I insist, and after a few moments
of silence, he cracks the belt across my ass. He does
it a few more times, but I want it harder.
"Harder, you pussy," I taunt, and he speeds up
and puts some more muscle into it. I guess he's more
into this kind of shit than he thought. I'm finally
hard, my ass is burning, my skin singing.
"Fuck me,Walter!" I cry out. I hear him panting
and getting ready and then I feel his sheathed cock,
slick with lube, pressing against my asshole. No
preparation. Good. His sweaty chest presses my cuffed
wrists painfully into my back, and soon he's trusting
roughly into me.
"So fucking tight," he grunts, pumping harder and
faster.
"Choke me, choke me," I pant, pushing back into
his thrusts as best as I can without being able to use
my hands for leverage. He apparently forgot about the
belt since he wraps his hands around my neck instead.
He presses just hard enough to cut off my breath, and
I come forcefully, clamping down on his cock. He
releases my throat before I pass out and comes into
the condom, collapsing with a moan on top of me. As
soon as I catch my breath, I try to nudge him off. The
circulation in my wrists is cut off. He gets the hint,
pulls out, and tosses the condom onto the floor.
"Where's the key?" he asks breathlessly.
"Bureau," I say.
After he releases me I sit up in the sticky bed
and rub some blood back into my wrists. I cough a few
times and J goes to the bathroom and comes back with a
glass of water. I drink the whole thing. I can tell
I'll have visible bruises around my neck and wrists.
He sits on the bed facing me. "You are one sick
fuck, Marty."
"I didn't hear you complaining," I snap, falling
back on the bed, ready to sleep again.
He lies down beside me and runs his hand across
my stomach. It feels nice.
"You're lying on the wet spot," he observes,
keeping up his caresses.
"Don't care," I answer, drifting.
"I know I'm not Walter," he says, "but I'd like
to do this again."
I'm startled for a second, but then I realize I'd
called him Walter at some point. "I'm moving on in the
morning," I say. Does this guy really think we were
going to start going steady? I want him to leave all
of a sudden. I forgot for a moment that my life is
crap, but now I feel like I'm going to start crying
again, and this guy has seen enough of my tears. I
turn onto my side, back to him, and pull the covers
up.
He knows how to take a hint and keeps his hands
to himself.
I know I'm dreaming, but I can't wake up. Skinner
and Scully are naked in my old waterbed. I can hear
William crying, but I don't know where he is. Skinner
is fucking Scully roughly and she's laughing-snorting,
ugly laughter. The waterbed undulates with their
movements. William keeps crying and crying. I ignore
the writhing bodies on the bed and follow William's
voice. It takes me a long time to find him, and my
apartment is like a maze, but eventually I see him in
the kitchen sink with the dirty dishes. He's
screaming. I pick him up, but he won't stop crying,
his face red and twisted. I try to stop myself from
doing it, but I can't. I wrap my fingers around his
tiny neck and squeeze. 
Silence.
I can't breathe. 
"Wake up, Marty. Jesus." 
I finally take in a few heaving breaths and
realize I'm awake and J is shaking me. I'm crying and
panting and shaking. Fucking nightmares. He tries to
hold me, but I push him away and stumble to the
bathroom. I stick my head into the sink and drink
deeply from the tap. The water in Arizona tastes like
dirt. I'm wet with sweat and tears, and I'm cold. I
get in the shower and stay in there for a long time.
When I get out, I quickly get dressed and throw
all my stuff in my bag. It's getting light outside and
I need to get out of here. J watches me from the bed
as I move around the room. As I grab my keys and move
towards the door, he gets up and hands me a piece of
note paper. He's still naked. I stare at what he's
holding.
"It's my number, if you're ever back in town," he
says, looking at me with what seems like sympathy. It
makes my stomach turn a bit, but I take the paper. It
says "Joshua" and a phone number. I shove it in my
pocket without a word.
"Take care of yourself, Marty," he says, and from
the way he says it I can tell that he thinks I'm in
real trouble. I am.
I leave him in the room and head towards the car,
headed for somewhere else, further into invisibility.

______________

Title: "Forgotten Warmth" (sequel to "Laying Low" and
"Staying Invisible") 
Author: eggplant goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Rating: R (no actual sex this time)
Category: Mulderangst and torture, eventually M/Sk
Disclaimer: Same old, same old.
Summary: Things get even worse, but maybe they'll get
better.
Author's note: I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on
TV...


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"Mr. Reed, can you hear me?" I think it's Scully
for a minute. The voice is nice, but no-nonsense.
Who's Mr. Reed? I open my eyes to see someone who
doesn't look like Scully at all-a tall, broad woman
with curly brown hair. Middle-aged. "That's good, Mr.
Reed. Welcome back." She smiles.
Mr. Reed. That's who I am now. I'd forgotten for
a moment. Martin David Reed. Courtesy of the Gunmen
I've got a driver's license, debit card, and even a
birth certificate to prove it. And now I'm in a
hospital. I've got to get out of here.
"Whoa," the nurse says, pressing me back onto the
bed easily. "You need to lie still. You have a tube in
your chest."
Suddenly I'm aware that that's not all that's in
me. There is indeed a tube sticking out of my chest
leading to a machine making pumping noises. A pronged
oxygen tube is up my nose. I'm hooked up to a heart
monitor and an IV is trailing out of the back of one
hand. Foley catheter-yay. My chest hurts a lot, and
pretty much everywhere else does too. The hand without
the IV is encased in a cast. 
It all comes back to me. I'd crept out of my
latest home to a leather bar. Drank a lot, got my face
fucked in the restroom, and stumbled out into the
street to find my way back home. Scully and Skinner
would be so proud of how I'm spending my time in
hiding. "Faggot pussy!" I heard from behind. I was so
drunk I didn't even know anyone else was around, but
as I turned to look, my face met a fist. I tried to
defend myself the G-man way, but there were at least
three of them, I'd been taken by surprise, and I could
barely see in the first place. Boots connected with my
ribs, my back. I remember my wrist trapped beneath one
and something snapping. I remember throwing up. Was
there a baseball bat involved? "Cocksucking faggot!"
These guys were unoriginal in their namecalling. In a
haze of alcohol and pain I was still able to think,
after the incredible life I've led, I'm going to die
in a dark alley in my own puke, the victim of a random
gay bashing? I seem to remember a time when I thought
my life had purpose.
"My name is Maggie," the nurse says while holding
a straw to my mouth so I can take a few sips of water.
I think of Scully's mother and how glad she must be
that I'm out of the picture. "Do you remember what
happened?"
"Got the shit kicked out of me," I answer,
surprised at how raspy and weak my voice is, even
after the water. Just saying that makes me breathe
heavily. Talking also makes my face hurt. My lips feel
bigger than usual. I shudder to think what I look
like.
"There's a policeman here who needs to speak to
you," she tells me, patting my arm and then leaving. I
look around for a moment and realize there are a few
other unconscious souls in the room. It doesn't look
like an intensive care unit, but not the emergency
room either. How long have I been here?
A cop comes in and I panic for a moment. But then
I realize this could be ok. I have an identity, and I
won't be able to describe the guys who did this to me,
so there won't be much of an investigation to get
involved in. 
"Mr. Reed, I'm officer Putney. Are you up to
answering some questions about the assault?" He
doesn't look me in the eye. He's young, probably less
than thirty, big and clean-cut. Most likely he played
football in high school and then went to the police
academy right after graduation. "Faggot pussy," is
probably on the tip of his tongue too.
"Yeah," I say, although the pain, especially in
my chest, is getting worse.
He asks me if I can describe the perpetrators,
asks me for a detailed account of what they did, what
they said. I tell him what I remember, which isn't
much. It feels good to be able to tell the truth, that
I didn't get a good look at their faces, just their
boots. I even tell him I was too drunk to pay much
attention to anything. He scribbles in his notebook.
He tells me that it's the third assault of its kind
that month on that block. "It's kind." "That block."
Cops have such a skilled way of being vague and
perfectly clear at the same time. I've done it in the
past myself. At least he seems genuinely interested in
finding the perps. 
He asks me for my address and when I tell him the
name of the motel I was staying in, he raises an
eyebrow, but doesn't comment. Probably reassessing me
for signs of being a crack head. 
"Shit," I say, suddenly worried, "my stuff is
there. How long have I been here? I need my stuff." I
had left my bag in the room before going out. There
was a gun at the bottom, wrapped in a t-shirt. There
was a picture of William in that bag. 
"Hey, calm down, Mr. Reed," the cop says. "I'll
get someone to pick it up for you and bring it over.
I'll find your doctor." 
I realize the heart monitor has sped up quite a
bit. It's a little hard to breathe, and I'm sweating
and in pain.
Maggie comes back in and injects something into
my IV. I start to calm down in a few seconds, and she
leans over the bedrail to look at me. "Mr. Reed, do
you have any family or friends we can call? We haven't
had luck finding anyone."
"No," I say, and saying it makes me tear up
pathetically. I'm hurt and alone, and what if the
police find the gun in my bag and start asking
questions? And how long are they going to keep me in
the hospital? I don't have insurance. Despite the
drugs that are making me sleepy, I start to feel
panicked again. I don't realize there are tears on my
cheeks until Maggie is dabbing them off with a tissue.
"It's ok, Mr. Reed. Try to get some rest," she
soothes me.
"Marty," I say.
"What?"
"My name is Marty," I tell her. At least Marty is
a name I've used before. It's familiar. It may not be
me, but it's more me than Mr. Reed is.
"Ok, Marty." She smiles. "Do you think you'll be
able to sleep?"
"Think so," I say, and before long I drift off.

When I wake up later a doctor examines me. He's
distant as he checks the incision where the tube
enters my chest, and probes around my ribcage and
abdomen. He listens to my chest, and with the nurse's
help sits me up to listen to my back. It hurts like
hell to be upright and I wonder when I'll ever get out
of this bed. Once they found out I had no insurance
they seemed in more of a hurry to speed up my
recovery. He palpates my chest and abdomen, my back,
as if I'm a piece of meat. At first I was glad he's
not the touchy-feely type, but as he dispassionately
rambles on about broken ribs, a collapsed lung,
bruised kidneys, blood in the urine, broken wrist,
contusions, lacerations, low-grade fever, etc., etc.,
I wish he would ask me how I feel, because I feel like
shit. He has wire-rimmed glasses, like Walter's, but
he's shorter and thinner and lacks Walter's warmth. I
don't know why I make these comparisons in the first
place.
When he's done poking me and the nurse
straightens out my hospital gown and the bedclothes,
he tells me I'll have to stay at least a couple of
more days before they can remove the chest tube and to
make sure that my kidneys are ok and that I don't have
an infection. I drift off a bit as he talks about
medications, but then he's asking me a question.
"Huh?" I ask.
"Mr. Reed, I'll let you rest in a moment," he
says, sounding annoyed at being ignored, "but I asked
you if you remember the last time you ate."
"I dunno," I answer intelligently.
"I'm asking because, in addition to your
injuries, you're also somewhat malnourished. You had a
high alcohol content in your blood when you arrived
here, but you were also anemic and dehydrated." I
don't know if I'm imagining it, but I think I see
disapproval in his eyes. This asshole thinks he knows
me-I'm some pathetic loser. All he knows is that I
have no job, no permanent place of residence, and I
got beat up while stumbling drunkenly outside of a gay
bar. 
I want to tell him that he'd probably be dead or
a slave to an alien race if it weren't for me. I want
to ask him if he would feel like eating if he had
spent his life trying to save the world from complete
domination or annihilation? I want to ask, wouldn't
you be driven to drink if everyone you ever loved had
been either killed or come close to being killed due
to your efforts on their behalf? I want to tell him
that I've been dead more than once, tortured, that I'm
far away from home, alone, and that part of me wishes
those bastards had kicked me to death.
Of course I don't say anything since I know if I
said any of those things they'd have someone down from
psych in a second. He doesn't question my silence,
instead telling the nurse to get me some food.
Maggie helps me eat some mashed potatoes and then
Jell-O since one hand is in a cast and the other has a
needle taped into it. I am hungry, and don't mind
being fed, even though the food is horribly bland. She
doesn't talk to me until I'm finished and she's
lowered the bed again. "Marty," she asks, "are you
sure there's no one you want me to call? You'll need
some help when you're ready to leave here."
"No," I say. "I'll manage." I close my eyes so I
don't have to see the pity on her face. I have enough
self-pity and don't need anyone else's.

The next couple of days are hazy. I remember pain
and being hot and cold. Fever, I think in my more
lucid moments, but mostly I think I'm in hell. I see
demons, fire, the things you're supposed to see in
hell. When I'm cold I think I'm back in Antarctica. I
see myself in one of those ice blocks I found Scully
in, an organic tube snaking down my esophagus.
"Infection," I hear someone say at some point. I think
I see Walter. He's wiping my face with a cool cloth.
"It's ok, Marty," he says. "Just relax." I don't know
why my Walter hallucination would call me Marty, but
he does.
It seems like I'm out of it for a long time, but
eventually I surface. My skin feels cool and dry, but
I'm warm under the blankets. There's no tube in my
chest, but I'm bandaged up and every other tube is
still in place. I feel as if I'm part of the bed, as
if I'm too weak to ever move again. The pain has
receded a bit, but I feel as if I'm made of brittle
sticks wrapped in cotton. I turn my head slowly to the
side and assume I'm still hallucinating. Walter is
standing at the window, looking out into the sun. He's
wearing a t-shirt and jeans-an outfit I've never seen
him in. He looks as if he's deep in thought. I realize
that, if I didn't know him, I wouldn't think he was
attractive. I mean, his body is great, but his face is
ordinary. But I do know him. I know his strength and
integrity. At the window, he looks golden, beautiful.
He looks like an angel.
My hallucination turns as if he feels my eyes on
him. He smiles briefly and then comes over to the bed,
leaning down. I think he's going to kiss me for a
moment, but he whispers in my ear, "Mulder, call me
Robert. I'll call you Martin. I'm your friend from
your old job at the bank."
I'm completely confused. 
He pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits
down. "How are you feeling, Martin?"
I'm too baffled to speak. Finally, when it
doesn't seem like he's going to disappear, I say,
"tired." 
"Apparently you've been through an ordeal. Your
kidneys got infected and your fever spiked at 106.
Seizures, the whole thing."
I don't know how to respond to that, still
trying to wrap my fuzzy brain around the apparent
reality that Walter is here in my hospital room in
California. And he wants me to call him Robert for
some reason. When I continue to stare at him, he gets
up saying he'll get a doctor or nurse to check me out.
He comes back in with Maggie.
"Hey, Marty," she says, smiling broadly, "you
made it. We were really worried about you for a while,
but the kidney infection is under control and you're
stable now. Are you thirsty? Hungry?"
I nod my head slightly to both questions, and
look past her to Walter, who looks like he's not quite
sure what to do with himself.
Maggie glances back at him and then at me and
says, "I knew you had to have a friend, a nice guy
like you. Robert's been telling me all about you." She
starts to check my vitals.
I look over to Walter/Robert who sees the
questions in my eyes. "I just told her what a great
guy you were when we worked together at First
National, how I hadn't heard from you since the
layoffs. I've been worried about you, buddy. Your
ex-wife told me you'd gone off the deep end so I
checked all the hospitals to see if anything bad had
happened, and found you here."
My slow brain is starting to process what is most
likely going on here. The Gunmen were probably
monitoring hospital and arrest records to know if
anything bad was happening to me. When they found out
I was in the hospital, Walter came out here with a
cover story to check on me. A forgotten warmth spreads
in my chest. I've been bemoaning my solitude lately,
when all along I have friends looking out for me. They
were worried. 
Walter sees me tearing up and rushes over to pat
my shoulder. "Hey, Marty," he assures me, "It'll be
ok. You can stay at my place for a while until you're
back on your feet again."
I wonder where "my place" is, but don't say
anything. Just to know that he's in this with me in
enough to make me start crying. My life has become one
embarrassment after another. In the past I only ever
cried for a damn good reason, but lately I'm weepy at
the drop of a hat. Pussy faggot indeed.
Maggie's done checking everything and leaves us
alone when she sees my tears. "Hey, hey," Walter says,
awkwardly patting my arm. "Really, it's going to be
ok. Mary and the baby are fine. Things are starting to
look up in the job market."
I realize he's really being careful. He doesn't
want anyone to suspect I'm not Martin Reed, even if
it's the old vegetable two beds over. I try to break
the code. Is he telling me that Scully and William are
ok? What does he mean about the job market?
"I'll stay here till you go to sleep," he
reassures me when I give no response to his cryptic
remarks. "In a couple of days the doctor says you can
probably come home with me."
This is enough to make me relax for the moment
and soon I drift off, his hand still resting on my
arm.





Title: "Sleeping Soundly" (sequel to "Laying Low,"
"Staying
Invisible," and "Forgotten Warmth")
Author: eggplant goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Pairing: M/Sk
Category: Mulderangst, h/c
Rating: R? (only weird dream sex)
Disclaimer: Same as before
Summary: Can Mulder find solace?


-----------------------------------------------------------------------
---------

In a couple of days, as promised, I'm in a
wheelchair, heading out of the hospital. Walter pushes
me toward a black sedan with tinted windows. A little
too "men in black," no? I don't comment though, as he
helps me into the passenger seat and buckles me in. I
haven't spoken very much at all since waking up in the
hospital. Part of it is that I've gotten so used to
being completely alone, and part of it is because I
don't want to say anything that might mess up the
alternate reality Walter has created for the benefit
of the hospital staff. I can walk and handle basic
movements, but I'm still pretty damn stiff and
unsteady, and I sigh and close my eyes once we pull
out of the hospital parking lot.
"Ok, Mulder," he says as soon as we're on the
road, "I swept this car for bugs this morning. It's
clean. What the hell happened?"
I turn and look at him questioningly, not sure
what he's asking.
At my confusion he sighs. "Who did this to you
Mulder? How did they find you?"
I realize that he thinks my assault was at the
hands of some consortium lackey or alien shapeshifter.
"Sir, it's exactly what they told you happened,"
I say quietly, averting my gaze. Even though it would
have meant I'd been found, I would have felt a lot
better telling him that I'd been the victim once again
of a shadowy conspiracy rather than him knowing that
I'd gotten drunk, at a gay bar no less, leaving myself
open to attack from common street thugs. Will the
humiliation never end?
His face goes blank, digesting the news. Now that
he knows that my cover wasn't blown and I just got
myself into an ordinary, stupid fix, he'll most likely
dump me and go back to D.C., disgusted with what I've
become. "I guess I should expect nothing less from
you," he mutters. I'm not sure what part of the whole
mess he thinks he should expect of me, or if he just
expects a mess in general. I turn my face to the
window so he can't see that I'm holding back tears
again.
I fall asleep at some point during the ride and
wake to Skinner shaking me lightly. "Come on, let's
get you inside," he says softly. He helps me out of
the car and into a motel room. It's a little bit nicer
than the places I've been staying, but not much. There
are two double beds and he eases me down onto one and
then goes back to the car to bring in his things. I
don't have any things anymore.
When he returns I ask, "Robert, did the police
ever find my bag?" I'm proud of myself that I remember
not to call him by his real name.
"No," he says, without explanation and then
tells me to lie down and rest awhile.
I do what I'm told because I am actually drained
just from getting out of the car. I run my hand
carefully over my ribs. I'm wearing a blue t-shirt
over my heavily bandaged torso. The t-shirt, as well
as the sweatpants I'm wearing, are both new, courtesy
of Walter. So is my underwear. As I doze, I'm vaguely
aware of Walter moving around the room. He's sweeping
the room for bugs.
I wake up again to Walter looking down on me,
shaking me awake. "Hey," he says. "I'm going out to
get some food. You can't take your meds until you eat
something."
"My bag," I say, figuring I can talk freely now.
"I had a gun in there." I almost say, and a picture of
William, the one I took right before leaving town, the
only one I have, but I'm not sure he'd see that as
important.
"Traceable?" he asks, his brow creasing with
concern.
"No." I had actually bought it illegally. The
serial number had been scratched off.
He sighs with relief. "Well, I assume you just
contributed another illegal firearm to the Los Angeles
criminal underworld, courtesy of a motel manager or
housekeeper with sticky fingers. What's done is done.
I'll get you another." It relieves me to no end that
he doesn't seem to think losing a gun is a big deal.
My eyes actually get wet with relief. He turns away
when he notices, looking uncomfortable.
"Are Scully and the baby ok?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says, without elaborating, and then
he's gone.
I gingerly get off the bed and use the john-no
blood. I actually jump, startled when I see myself in
the mirror. My cheeks are hollowed, stubbled, and
streaked with yellowing bruises. My eyes are beyond
bloodshot. I'm glad the mirror is too small to see
much of the rest of my body. I understand for the
first time why Skinner seemed so shocked when he first
saw me in the hospital.
Back in the bedroom I turn the TV on. I try to
prop myself against the headboard with the two flat
pillows so I can watch, but it doesn't really work. I
could take the pillows from the other bed as well, but
can't for some reason. It's silly, I know, but I guess
I don't want to upset Walter in any way and I'd rather
ask if I can use his pillows. He probably wouldn't
want to sleep on anything I've touched.
Walter nudges me awake again when he returns and
places bags of Chinese takeout on the bedside table.
"I got you eggdrop soup and steamed chicken with
vegetables-bland stuff." He takes it all out, spoons
some chicken onto a paper plate along with some
steamed rice and hands me a plastic fork. "Eat."
I sit up carefully, take the plate with my good
hand and place it on my lap. I eat slowly, not really
tasting the food. Walter helps himself to a dish which
looks a lot tastier than mine and sits on his own bed.
We eat in silence for a while, watching the local
news. Lots of gang activity. A city councilman has
been indicted for fraud. There has been a rash of dog
torturings and murders. I can't eat anymore.
"That doctor said you should eat a lot," Skinner
says, still watching the television. He must have
excellent peripheral vision.
I place my unfinished plate on the bedside table
and lay flat on the bed without responding. I slowly
roll onto my side, facing away from him. My ribs ache,
my wrist aches, my head aches. I'm too tired
to eat, too tired to explain.
"Here, take these." I roll onto my back again to
see a couple of different pills in Skinner's
outstretched hand. For a second I imagine that the
hand is reaching out to touch me. He holds out the
pills and a glass of water, and I accept both.

The dream starts out kind of sexy. Walter is
standing at the window like he was when I woke up in
the hospital, except he's naked. He's surrounded in
ethereal light. He approaches me in the bed and then
he's on top of me, inside of me. He's fucking me, and
then he's choking me the way I like. But he keeps
choking me. I don't pass out and I don't die and it's
not sexy anymore, but it doesn't stop. And then it's
not Walter. It's the smoking man, his naked flesh grey
and sagging. Then it's my father, his expression
fierce. It's the alien bounty hunter. They're all
fucking me and choking me and it won't end. I try to
push them off, but each one of them is incredibly
strong. It hurts. I realize I'm not being fucked and
strangled in a bed at all. It's a coffin. I'm deep in
the ground. Can't breathe, can't breathe. It goes on
forever.
"Mulder, wake up!" I'm still choking, but it's
dark except for the parking lot lights outside, and
I'm in a bed, not a coffin. Walter is above me, but
he's in a white t-shirt and sweatpants, and his hands
are gripping my biceps, not my neck. I still can't
breathe.
"Mulder, Jesus, calm down, breathe." His grip on
my arms is bruising, but he doesn't let go. "That's
it, breathe in and out."
I'm starting to get some air and I stop trying
to push him off. He still holds on, but not tightly.
He waits for a while as I move from gulping air, to
panting, to deep steady breaths, and finally normal
ones. In and out. I'm cold and shaky. I'm wet. I think
I wet the bed. I get a sudden flash of being in
another dark place, pinned down like a butterfly
against stone and pissing from pain and fear, but then
the image is gone.
Walter lets go of me and sits on the edge of the
bed for a while, rubbing his face. He finally turns to
me and asks, "You ok?" I notice for the first time
that his lip is bleeding a little. I must have whacked
him with the cast.
When I don't answer, he starts to pull my covers
down. "Come on, Mulder, you need to take a shower and
get back to bed."
I let him lead me to the bathroom, and I'm
insanely grateful that he doesn't mention my little
accident. I sit in my wet shorts on the toilet seat
while he turns the shower on. He leaves the bathroom
and comes back with the plastic bag from the takeout
order. He tucks it in around my cast and then unravels
the bandages binding my ribs. "Just get in and rinse
off. Can you do it yourself?"
I nod and he leaves the bathroom, although he
doesn't close the door. I slowly take my t-shirt and
shorts off and put them both in the trash, and then
get under the spray. I do what he told me to, just
rinsing off for a while, bracing myself against the
tile with my good hand, trying to keep the other out
of the water. The hot water doesn't last long, so I
get out, remove the plastic bag, and try to dry myself
off, which is difficult with one hand and healing
ribs. Wrapping a towel around my waist with one hand
is almost impossible, so I just walk out into the
room, holding the towel in front of my groin,
shivering.
Walter has stripped my bed and piled the covers
by the door. His lip has stopped bleeding. He hands me
a clean pair of shorts. I drop the towel, not caring
about modesty, and slip them on.
"Sit down," he says, pointing to his bed. He
proceeds to tape a small bandage over the chest tube
incision, and then rewrap my ribs with enough skill to
make me think he's done this for someone before.
Probably when he was a marine. I want to lean into
him, to rest my head on his shoulder, but don't. I
pray I don't get an erection while he's touching me,
but it turns out I'm too tired and sore and generally
fucked up for anything like that to happen.
When he's done he says, "Get in bed," again
pointing to the one bed that now has sheets on it.
I do as I'm told and huddle towards the edge as
he climbs in on the other side. I try to relax, but
despite my fatigue, my muscles feel bunched and tight.
I want Walter to hold me, but I'm afraid to ask.
"Go to sleep, Mulder," he says, his voice
sounding as tired as I feel. "We'll talk about it in
the morning." Soon he's snoring, and I'm still a
bundle of nerves. I turn to face him and scoot a
little closer. He smells like sweat and Ivory soap
mixed together. In sleep, without his glasses, his
face is smooth and appealingly plain. I chance it and
move even closer, my nose almost touching his
shoulder. He shifts suddenly and rolls to face me. My
nose is almost pressed against his, and our bent knees
are actually touching. I move my good hand very slowly
and carefully towards his chest, and place my hand
gently over his t-shirt-covered heart. Finally, I can
sleep soundly.










Title: "Letting Go" (sequel to "Laying Low,"
"Staying Invisible, "Forgotten Warmth," and "Sleeping
Soundly")
Author: eggplant goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Pairing: M/Sk
Category: angst, h/c
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Why bother?
Feedback: I'd be happy to hear from you all…
Summary: Contact.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------
---------

When I wake up again, the room is bathed in
sunlight and I'm alone in the bed. The shower is
running. The sheet beside me is still warm from his
body. I huddle more deeply under the covers and doze a
bit more. I can hear Walter come out of the shower and
move around the room, but I keep my eyes closed. I
wonder if he'll let me stay in bed all day, because
that's what I feel like doing. This achiness seems as
if it will never go away. 
"Mulder." Someone is saying my name. "Mulder,
wake up." 
I flinch when someone touches my arm, but then
open my eyes, realize it's Walter, and relax. 
"You've got to eat something and take your
pills," he says, helping me sit up against the
headboard by wrapping an arm around my bare shoulders.
He removes his arm much earlier that I would have
liked. He hands me a bagel and cream cheese on a paper
plate and retreats to the bathroom. I take a bite,
chew and swallow, even though it tastes like
cardboard. Walter returns with a glass of water, which
he sets on the night table beside some pills. I notice
for the first time that my ruined bedding from the
night before is no longer bundled by the door. I
wonder how he explained their state to whatever motel
staff member he gave them to. The other bed is freshly
made.
I take my pills and nibble halfheartedly under
his gaze. He sits on the bed beside me, watching,
trying to think of what to say to me, I can tell.
"Mulder," he starts uncertainly. "I think we can stay
here in this room for a few days. There's been no sign
that either of us have been followed, or that anyone
knows where we are."
I don't ask how he came to that conclusion. He's
wearing a short-sleeved, black t-shirt, and the
muscles in his biceps are defined with tension.
"I don't know what's going on with you exactly,
if you're having some sort of breakdown, which,
believe me, would be perfectly understandable after
all you've been through, but I don't feel comfortable
leaving you alone right now." He doesn't look at my
face while he says all this, so he can't see my
surprise. Does he really think I'm that bad off? Does
he think I'm going to kill myself? I wait to see what
else he'll say.
"Maybe if you rest for a few days instead of
running around you'll pull yourself together a bit."
He finally looks into my eyes, waiting for a response.
My bagel sits barely-eaten on the bed beside me. I
cradle my broken wrist against my bare chest. "I…you
don't have to stay." I'm surprised I don't choke on
the words, they're sentiment is so different from what
I feel. "I'm fine."
Walter lowers his head and shakes it side to
side. When he looks up, he's smiling bitterly.
"Between you and Agent Scully I've heard more 'fines'
than I can take in one lifetime." He loses his smile
and seems to think for a moment. "Mulder, maybe I'm
not fine. Let's just stay here for a few days, get a
lot of sleep, be lazy for once in our lives."
I'm not sure what he means by him not being
fine, but I don't question it. His plan for the next
few days appeals to me so much I actually sigh aloud
in relief.
He looks at me closely again, his face softening.
"Mulder, that dream last night, can you tell me what
that was?"
I don't know how to respond to that, so I fiddle
with the sheets instead. I'm a little chilled and
suddenly want some more clothes.
He doesn't back off despite my lack of response.
"You were choking like you were going to die. Does
that happen often?"
I shake my head, grateful that he again doesn't
mention the fact that I wet the bed.
"But you have a lot of nightmares, don't you?"
I reluctantly nod.
"Jeez, Mulder, it's nothing to be ashamed of.
With all you've been through I'd think something was
wrong with you if you didn't have nightmares. I
just…I've just never seen anyone choking in their
sleep like that. Were you being choked in your dream?"
I can't look at him when I nod.
"I never thought I'd wish you talked more,
Mulder."
"Huh?" I look up to see him smiling gently. I
can't recall ever seeing such a warm look on his face.
I wish I could kiss him, but instead I look back down
at the sheets, self-conscious.
"The Mulder I'm used to sometimes won't shut up,
but you've barely uttered a word since the hospital.
I'll get pretty lonely if you keep that up the whole
time we're here."
I'm momentarily taken aback by the thought that
he would actually be lonely without my voice, that he
wants my companionship, if only for a few days.
"Sorry. I guess I'm just tired."
"Do you want to get more sleep?" he asks, concern
evident in his voice. His care for me should make me
feel good, but instead I get an ache in my chest that
has nothing to do with broken ribs, because he doesn't
care enough to get into bed with me and hold me, kiss
me, make love to me. "Your painkillers are probably
making you pretty sleepy."
"Yeah," I say, slouching back down under the
covers and curling on my side. I think of William and
try to be like an infant again, my mind empty of
ugliness, feeling safe even if I'm not.

I awake gasping and sweating, something I can't
seem to get used to no matter how often it happens, my
dream visions already fading, thank god. A giant
rotating blade descended towards William's pale, tiny
chest, finally splitting it down the middle. Is that
what they did to me? Is that what that long scar
bisecting my chest was from? I don't even have the
scars to show that anything happened. They even stole
my scars. My chest hurts.
"Mulder, can you hear me?" Walter is looming over
me, holding my arms again. By the look on his face and
his question I gather that he's been trying to get a
response from me for a while.
"They stole my scars," I say brokenly, and can't
help myself from bursting into sobs. I don't know
where it's coming from, but once I start, it seems
I'll never stop. Walter pulls me up into a hug. He
holds me in his strong arms and strokes my back, my
hair. He tells me over and over that it's ok, to let
it out. Is this part of the dream? Will he start to
choke me now, or turn into someone else? No, the
t-shirt soaking up my tears is the same black one he
was wearing earlier. We're in the same motel room,
although the light is different. He smells like the
real Walter. I can't stop crying, and he doesn't let
go.
At some point Walter finally releases me, but
still holds onto my arms, keeping me upright.
"Mulder," he says, very seriously, quietly, "talk to
me. Tell me what you need."
And then it all comes pouring out of me, like
verbal diarrhea.
"I want to go home, I want to go home. I'm tired
and scared and I want to see William, and I miss
Scully, and I hurt. Everything hurts, and I'm cold. I
don't want this life anymore, I don't care if they
kill me, I just want to keep William safe. They've
taken everything and it's not fair, they hurt me over
and over and nobody cares, and everyone's gone,
Samantha and Dad and Mom, I want my mom, and I want
you. Hold me, please, make it ok, please." I'm sobbing
and the words come out in an ugly, muddled stream
punctuated by hiccups. I'm pawing at his chest, and he
pulls me into his arms again. My eyes are closed, but
I blindly seek out his mouth with my own and latch on.
He stiffens and doesn't move his lips, but he doesn't
pull away either. I put everything into the kiss, pry
his lips apart with my tongue, and thrust it against
his. His lips soften and he lets me in. We kiss for a
long time and both gasp for breath when I release him.
I keep my eyes closed, afraid of what I'll see in his,
and feel my way along his jaw with my lips. I trail
kisses down to his neck where I begin to suck and
lick. "Make love to me," I whisper against his skin.
He stiffens again and finally says, "Mulder, I
want you to lie down." He gently pushes me flat
against the bed, and for a moment I think he's going
to fulfill my request, but when I open my eyes, I only
see concern in his expression. And tears in his eyes.
I made him cry. "I'm going to get you some water," he
says, leaving me cold and alone on the bed. I shiver
as I listen to him blow his nose in the bathroom and
run the tap. He comes back and hands me a glass.
"Drink the whole thing," he says, and sits on the bed
watching me until I do, holding the glass with both
shaky hands. 
I lie there for a while just looking up at him,
my tears abating. He doesn't say anything, just
strokes my hair away from my wet face with his big,
warm fingers. He gets up for a moment, pulls the
blanket off of the other bed, and lays it over me. He
goes back into the bathroom and I hear the tap run
again. He comes back with a wet washcloth and starts
to carefully clean my face with it. It's warm and
soothing. He continues to stroke my face until the
cloth is cool and he places it on the end table.
"Sorry," I finally say hoarsely.
"Nothing to be sorry for," he answers. We don't
speak for a long time. We study each other. The sky is
beginning to darken outside. I've spent all day in bed
after all. I wonder how long I slept for. 
Finally he breaks the silence. "So, you're gay?"
he asks, trying to sound more casual than he can pull
off.
"Uh, not exactly," I answer, taken off guard.
"Bi, I guess." I don't think he'd be ready to know the
full extent of my kinks.
He nods in understanding and takes his hand away
from my face, keeping it in his own lap instead.
"Sorry," I say, struggling not to start crying
again. "I know you're straight."
He looks at me, and then reaches out to wipe a
stray tear away from the corner of my eye with his
thumb. "Well, maybe not exactly."
My heart jumps in my chest. "You…you've been with
men?"
"No," he answers, lowering his eyes shyly, "but
I've thought about it. I mean, not often, but I've
been attracted to men on occasion." He pauses and then
looks me straight in the eye. "You, for instance."
"M…me?" I stutter like an idiot. But then I think
of times in the past when he's given me that
penetrating look that I was never quite sure what to
make of, and it doesn't seem so farfetched. 
"Yeah, I mean I never considered doing anything
about it, but I've always thought you were
attractive." He's speaking more confidently now. He
cups my face in his hand and says, "And I care about
you."
My breath hitches. Once again I wonder if this is
all part of a dream and something unspeakably horrible
will happen at any moment. "Would you…would you kiss
me again?" I ask. Instead of answering, Walter leans
down and kisses me sweetly. I bring my good hand up
and place it on the back of his neck, intensifying the
contact. This time, he's just as much an active
participant as I am. His mouth is so warm, his mouth
tastes so good, and when his tongue begins to take
control, I let it happen. We kiss for a long time,
exploring the contours of each other's mouths. He
retreats to nip at my lips, and then plunges in again,
slowly fucking my mouth with his tongue. He runs his
hands over my neck and shoulders. I'm so hard, but I
don't want to scare him away by asking for any more
than he's giving me. He eventually pulls back, kisses
me on each eyelid, and then sits up.
"Wow," he says, stroking my face again, "that
was…that was good." He flops down on his back beside
me on the bed, but remains outside the covers.
"Yeah," I agree. I want more, and can barely
restrain myself from turning to rub my erection
against his leg. I can't scare him away. I wish I
could see if he's hard too, but I can't from the
positions we're lying in.
He sits up a bit and leans on one elbow, looking
at me. He reaches out and traces one finger over my
lips. "You're so beaut…attractive."
He was going to say beautiful. I wonder why he
didn't. Was the word too feminine for him? "I…can I
suck your cock?" The words are out of my mouth before
I can stop myself. He draws his hand back, startled.
So much for not scaring him.
"Uh…you're still healing," he says nervously, not
looking at me.
I sit up a little and look toward his crotch. The
bulge in his jeans looks decidedly larger than usual.
I work up some courage, sure that he wants it. "It
doesn't involve the ribs much," I say with as much of
a smile as I can manage. "We'll do it lying here. I'll
be careful." I wish I could get down on my knees for
him, but I don't think he'd go for that yet.
He's starting to give in. "You really want to?" I
can see that he's not going to be sucking me off
anytime soon. The joy of having another guy's dick in
his mouth is clearly a foreign concept for him.
"Yeah, I really want to," I assure him in the
sexiest voice I can muster, considering I was
hysterically crying not too long ago and sound like I
have a bad cold.
"O…ok," he stutters. You'd think I was about to
arrest him rather than blow him. "How should we do
it?"
I want to laugh and say, "Putting your cock in my
mouth might work," but instead I say, "Take your
clothes off and scoot up here," patting the space
beside my head.
"Take my clothes off?" he asks. He stands up
beside the bed and shifts from foot to foot. He's so
cute flustered like this.
"Only if you want to," I say, "or you can just
open your pants." Feeling bolder, not to mention a lot
warmer, I wriggle out from under the covers and out of
my own boxers. I lay out in full naked glory, except
for the swath of bandages binding my ribs and the cast
on my arm, my erection at full attention. I've never
been one for modesty. His breath quickens and he
starts to unbutton his shirt.
It takes him a while to fumble with his buttons,
but soon he's naked too and sitting on the edge of the
bed, turned away from me. His back is a broad muscled
expanse and I need to touch it. I move towards him and
place my palm between his shoulder blades. His skin is
warm, but he's shivering slightly.
"Walter," I say quietly, "are you ok with this?"
I pray to god that the answer is yes.
He doesn't answer right away. Eventually he takes
a deep breath and lets it out. "I…I think…yes," he
says. Not exactly the most definite response. "It's
just happening fast. It's happening fast, but I want
it," he says turning to face me, his voice more
certain now. "God knows we deserve to enjoy
ourselves, don't you think? Let go a little?" He
smiles, and it's a beautiful sight.
"Yeah," I say, smiling back, running my hand
across his muscled shoulders. "Come closer."
He gets fully onto the bed, and now I can see his
whole body—his hairy chest and stomach, beautifully
toned. And his cock, hovering at half-mast. It's not
as big as it was in my fantasies, but then he'd have
to be a porn star to be as big as he was in my
fantasies. His cock is long and thick and yes,
beautiful. We arrange ourselves diagonally on the bed
so my face is at his crotch. I take a careful swipe at
his growing erection with my tongue and hear him start
to pant a little. It's probably been a while since
anyone's touched him like this.
"Do…do you want me to do something?" he asks as I
begin to lick his cock in steady strokes as if it's an
ice-cream cone.
"No, let me make you feel good," I say before
taking him in my mouth. 
"Should…shhhiit." He's trying to say something,
but is too overwhelmed to speak clearly. He's very
hard now, his vein throbbing against my tongue. His
precome is salty, and I take him in deeper.
"Mm…Mulder, shouldn't…shouldn't we use a condom?" he
gasps out.
I pull off reluctantly for a moment. "Why, aren't
you clean?" I ask. It occurs to me for a moment that I
may not be. I hadn't had sex for a long time before I
went into hiding, and I used condoms during my recent
sordid encounters, but I guess that's not foolproof.
And then I remember blowing Joshua. I'd swallowed his
come. I want to taste Walter so badly, but we should
be careful.
"Yeah, you?" he asks.
"Don't know," I admit. "My condoms were in my
bag. You don't have any?"
"I didn't exactly plan on this," he answers, his
erection wilting a bit in front of my eyes.
"I'll jerk you off," I decide, a bit
disappointed, but eager nonetheless. I sit up
carefully and start to stroke him back to life with my
good hand. I wish I had both hands so I could play
with his balls too, but judging by his breathy moans,
I'm doing ok one-handed. I have many years of
practice.
"Can I…can I do you?" he pants out.
"Sure. Yeah," I say, surprised at how into this
he's getting for a first time. I wait for him to shift
around so we're both in easy reach of one other and
then start stroking him steadily again. He holds my
cock tentatively in his hand as if he's not quite sure
what to do with it. He stares at it as if it's a
peculiar foreign food.
"Just pretend you're jerking yourself off. Do
what you like," I advise him.
He doesn't respond, too preoccupied with what I'm
doing to him, and what he's trying to do to me. He
soon gets the hang of it, and we begin to match our
rhythms. The only sound in the room is our
accelerating breathing. I'm getting close, and I think
he is too. I still can't get over the feeling that
this is a dream.
He comes with a deep rumbling groan, and I follow
soon after. There's come on our hands, on the blanket,
on our bellies. I lie down again, suddenly exhausted,
but I'm awake long enough to hear him say, "They're
going to start charging us extra for clean linens."

When I wake up, I'm under the covers and I'm not
sticky. I must have really been out of it for him to
clean me up and get me under the covers without me
being aware of it. I look around the dimly lit room.
There's a come stain on the blanket. Walter is sitting
on the other bed in his underwear, concentrating on a
piece of pizza. He looks up and smiles. He's smiled at
me more often in the past two days than he has since
I've known him. I could definitely get used to it.
"Hey, sleeping beauty," he says, "up for some
pizza?"
For the first time in months, I'm ravenous.

 





















Title: "Feeling Empty" (sequel to "Laying Low,"
"Staying Invisible, "Forgotten Warmth," "Sleeping
Soundly," and "Letting Go")
Author: eggplant goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Pairing: M/Sk
Category: angst, h/c
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.
Summary: If only they could stay in a motel room
forever.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------
---------

We spend the rest of that night and the next day
getting to know each other better as I recuperate. We
kiss a lot, touch a lot, and after Walter goes out to
get some supplies, including condoms, I finally suck
his cock. Although I much prefer the taste of come to
the taste of latex, just seeing him bliss out from the
feel of my mouth on him makes it more than worth the
taste. 
We don't talk about the X-files, or aliens, or
colonization. We don't talk about Scully. Or William.
We watch a lot of TV, and talk about the
inaccuracies on the law dramas at night, and the
freaks on the daytime talk shows. We talk about the
distant past-our childhood adventures, our college
exploits. His life growing up was remarkably
ordinary-very all-American. He even went out with the
head cheerleader in high school. He stops talking when
he gets toVietnam, which seems to be the only major
dramatic period of his life, that is until he met me,
until he got embroiled in paranormal phenomena and
global conspiracies. We don't talk about any of that
though-Vietnam, or any other dramatic periods. We talk
about sex mostly.
He's shocked when I tell him about Phoebe
watching two guys do me, but his face flushes with
arousal.
"What was she doing?" he practically pants out.
"What do you think?" I tease. I start to fondle
myself while watching his eyes.
"Touched herself?" he whispers. He reaches over
and his hand joins mine at my groin, groping until I'm
fully erect. 
"More than touching. More like finger-fucking," I
say. He's hard now too, but he doesn't seem to want me
to do anything about it because he traps my hand
beneath his, urging me to continue stroking myself,
and my other hand is useless in its cast.
"Keep talking," he says when I stop there.
I try to remember what it was like and how to
make it sound sexier than it was. "Trevor was pumping
into my ass-hard," I say slowly, "and the other
guy-Philip I think his name was-he was fucking my
mouth. I was on sensory overload-moaning, and Phoebe
was urging them on, telling them to fuck me harder,
faster." We pick up the pace a bit on my cock, which
is starting to leak. "The whole time she was pushing
her fingers in and out of her cunt." 
I don't mention that Phoebe was shouting niceties
such as "Fuck that pussy whore," and "Make that slut
scream." She loved to shower me with such touching
terms of endearment. I imagine such details being a
turn-off for Walter, but who knows? Maybe he has
hidden kinks that need to be exposed. Who would have
known a couple of days ago that straight-arrow Walter
Skinner would be sitting on a bed naked with another
guy's cock in his hand getting off to his tales of
getting fucked at both ends?
Our mutual pumping of my cock speeds up until I
can't hold back anymore, and coat our hands with my
come. We sit for a moment holding slimy hands until I
lift them both to my mouth and start to lick the come
off. He watches me, transfixed. When I've cleaned us
completely, I gesture towards his own erection, which
is almost purple. "How do you want me to take care of
that?" I ask.
"W.will you suck me again?" he stutters. As bold
as he's gotten sexually in the past two days, this is
all still new to him, and he's hesitant any time he's
forced to articulate his desires.
"Would you rather fuck my ass?" I ask. Now that I
can safely assume he's attracted to me, I have no
problem voicing my desires.
His breath catches and he swallows. He can't look
at me. "I.I don't know about that, Mulder."
"You'd love it," I assure him, stroking his hairy
inner thigh, but avoiding his straining cock. "It's so
much hotter and tighter than a woman."
"I don't know.," he repeats, stilling my hand and
then gently pushing it away from his leg.
"Come on, Walter," I whine, "this morning you
said I had a great ass. Don't you want to fuck me?" I
put on my best pout and reach out again to stroke his
thigh.
This time I'm startled when he pushes my hand
away with more force and scrambles out of the bed. His
erection is starting to wilt. "Jesus, Mulder, I said I
don't know. Don't be such a goddamn slut!" He storms
into the bathroom and slams the door.
Stunned, I stare at the closed door for a few
moments and then turn on my side away from it. My
breathing is starting to build to where I think I
might hyperventilate, but by concentrating on it-in,
out, in, out-I'm able to calm down. I can't help
myself from crying a little though. I wonder how long
he's going to stay in there. I hear nothing for a
while, and then the shower goes on. He showers for a
long time, at least a half hour. I guess he's trying
to wash me off of him.
What was I thinking, that now that I'd found my
true love we'd go riding off into the sunset together?
All of a sudden, all of the things I'd been able to
put out of my head since Walter and I started getting
it on come crashing down on me. I'm on the run, living
under an assumed name. I don't know when that
situation will end, if ever. I have a baby boy who
will probably never know me. I'm still alone. I curl
into myself as tightly as I can with the bandages
still binding me, and will myself not to cry anymore.
What good am I doing William anyway? How am I doing
anything to protect him? As soon as Walter goes back
to DC, I'll kill myself. Everyone will be better off.
It's a long time after the shower is turned off
before I hear the bathroom door opening. I hear Walter
getting out some clothes and dressing behind me.
Eventually, he comes into my view and sits on the
other bed facing me. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt,
and I'm still naked. I carefully get under the rumpled
covers and try not to look at him.
"Mulder," he finally says. "I'm sorry I yelled at
you. I didn't mean what I said."
I refuse to look at him. I'd have more respect
for him if he didn't lie to me. I know he meant it. I
am a slut. He wouldn't be the first to point it out.
"I just got nervous," he explains, in fact
sounding quite nervous. "Mulder, we've been pretending
here, pretending that nothing's going on outside this
room."
I don't answer, or even look up. Instead, I close
my eyes.
"Mulder," he says quietly. "Mulder, can you look
at me please?"
He seems to be repeating my name a lot more than
necessary. It's not as if there's anyone else in the
room. I try to think of why he would keep saying my
name, but can't come up with anything that makes much
sense. I do wish he would call me Fox though. It's
been so long since anyone has called me Fox. I open my
eyes and look at him.
"Mulder, we can't stay in this room forever." He
begins speaking more insistently. "I took two weeks
off. I have eight days of that left. I don't know what
to do about you, what we can do, but Mulder, I don't
think we should keep up this little fantasy we've been
sharing. You're not in the best shape physically or
emotionally, and I've taken advantage. I apologize for
that."
"You can leave," I say immediately. It makes me
nauseous that he sees what we've been sharing as big,
old, insensitive him taking advantage of poor, weak,
little me. He's apologizing for fulfilling some of my
most cherished fantasies. But he's right about one
thing. We can't stay in this room together forever
encased in some cozy, protective bubble.
"Mulder, please don't do that," he says,
frustrated. "We're in this together, even when I do
have to leave. We need to keep you safe, Mulder, and
keep Scully and the baby safe."
"Why do you keep saying my name?" I ask, finally
having to know.
"What?"
"My name. You've said it about fifty times during
this little pep talk." Just talking that much has
taken all of my energy and I close my eyes and try to
curl up again. I was starting to feel so much better,
but now all of my previous aches start aching again.
"I.I guess I like saying your name," he says
after a long silence. "You were gone for so long,
first when you were.abducted and.and buried, and then
when you came out here. It's like you're gone, but
you're never gone. You're there in everything I do, in
everything Scully says, in everything Dogget and Reyes
say, and they barely even know you. In the baby's
face.you're there in the baby's face."
I open my eyes and look at him. He looks like
he's trying hard not to cry.
"But those times you've been gone, even though
you're still there in some way, I don't get to say
your name too much. It's good to have you here right
in front of me so I can say your name." He takes his
glasses off so he can rub at his eyes.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I ask
cruelly.
"Nothing. Nothing," he says, his voice tight,
before getting up and walking across the room. "Get
some sleep. You're well enough for us to move on in
the morning."
So that's it, I think. That's the end of our
"relationship." I lie awake for a long time,
pretending to sleep, listening to him move around the
room before he leaves, closing the door quiety behind
him. I stare at the ceiling for a couple of hours,
feeling empty, before he returns and I pretend again
to be asleep. He gets ready for bed, but gets into the
other bed that we haven't been using.
"Mulder," he says.
I open my eyes and look at him across the dark
space between our beds. It feels like a canyon
separates us. His bald head glows in the lights from
the parking lot.
"I'm sorry," he says, and leaves it at that.

Walter is choking me again, and it's just him
this time. He's not fucking me either; he's not even
naked. He's in one of his suits, and his hands feel
enormous around my neck, like bear paws. His face is
blank, his eyes invisible behind the glare of his
glasses, as he squeezes tighter and tighter. I can't
breathe or make a sound. My mouth is open in a silent
scream, and I can feel my eyes beginning to bulge out
of their sockets. It goes on and on. I'm going to be
dying forever, but never allowed to die. 
Walter's face remains passive, his mouth closed
in a thin line, but I hear his voice from somewhere
else. "Goddamit, Mulder, wake up! Breathe!" Someone is
pounding my back, but how could that be? I'm lying
flat on my back, with Walter's weight pinning me down.
But there is a continued pounding on my back, and
Walter's voice is still shouting from somewhere, even
though his mouth doesn't move.
All of a sudden, I'm released and air rushes into
my lungs. My chest burns, my eyes are open, and I'm
not on my back, I'm on my side. Someone is still
pounding on my back. It hurts.
"That's it, breathe," Walter's voice says, but I
can't see him. He's behind me, I realize. I gaze into
the dark, across the expanse of empty bed beside me,
and just try to breathe for awhile. It was a dream and
now I'm awake. Walter is no longer pounding on me, and
instead rubs his big palm in circles over my back. 
We don't speak for a long time while my breathing
slows down and steadies out. I want to tell him to
stop touching me, but my body has other ideas and
presses back into his caress. 
"Are you ok now?" he asks softly, his hand
stilling on my back, but not going away.
"Yeah," I grunt. I feel afraid of him, afraid of
how he makes me feel. I want him to leave me alone,
but I also want him to hold me.
"You scared the hell out of me," he mutters. "You
need to see a doctor about this."
His comments strike me as hilariously funny and I
chuckle a little. I scare him? I don't think he dreams
about me choking the life out of him. My laughter
builds. And he wants me to see a doctor? What doctor
can Marty Reed see without any health insurance, or an
identity that would hold up under too much scrutiny?
What would I tell this imaginary doctor-that I can't
cope with being in hiding, living under an assumed
identity? That there's a miracle baby across the
country who aliens might try to abduct and I can't
protect him because those same aliens are trying to
kill me? That I've been tortured in outer space, and
buried in the ground for months, but I have no scars,
and everyone expects me to keep on going as if
nothing's happened? That I'm in love with a man who
doesn't want me and couldn't stay with me even if he
did? I'd be in padded cell in no time. But maybe that
would be better than how I've been living. I can't
stop laughing and barely become aware that Walter is
talking again.
"Mulder, calm down, you're getting hysterical."
His voice sounds panicky.
I'm laughing so hard tears start to stream down
my face. I've curled into a ball, clutching at my ribs
and my laughter turns into ugly heaving sounds. I
don't realize my eyes are squeezed shut until I feel
the bed dip beside me but I can't see anything. I
can't breathe again. Arms come around me, and my face
is pressed into a warm chest. "Ssh, it's ok, it's
going to be ok." Walter talks and talks, soothing me
with his words and with strong strokes of his hands
over my back until I can breathe again. His chest is
slick with my tears and snot, but I keep my face
pressed against it. "Ssh, everything's fine. Go to
sleep. We'll figure it out. Ssh."
Even though I know he's not mine, that he'll
eventually leave me, I clutch at him tonight and
pretend that he's as solid as he feels so I can get
some peaceful sleep for a change.






















Title: "Shedding Skin" (sequel to "Laying Low,"
"Staying Invisible, "Forgotten Warmth," "Sleeping
Soundly," "Letting Go," and "Feeling Empty")
Author: eggplant goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Pairing: M/Sk
Category: angst, h/c
Rating: R? (no actual sex, just references)
Author's note: I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on
TV. In fact, I got a D in high school biology.
Feedback: Please!
Summary: Walter makes a decision.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------
---------


"Who's Joshua?" Walter asks out of nowhere. We're
in a new motel room, this one crappier than the last.
It seems he's realized the necessity of saving money
while on the run. At his question, I almost choke on
the turkey sandwich I'm forcing myself to eat at
Walter's insistence. I'm sitting on one of the beds,
and he's sitting in the one chair in the room, easily
working his way through an enormous meatball sub. He
also bought us some salad, but neither of us have
touched it yet.
"What?"
"There was a note in the pocket of your jeans.
They gave it to me along with your wallet at the
hospital," he explains. He doesn't look me in the eye,
instead taking another huge bite out of his sandwich.
"And it didn't occur to you to give it back to
me, that it might be private?" I've been testy ever
since we left our last motel yesterday morning. We've
barely spoken, and when he does say something to me,
no matter how innocuous, I can't help myself from
snapping at him. I don't understand how one day he can
let me suck his cock, and the next, he seems to go out
of his way to avoid even the slightest physical
contact. I don't understand how he can hold me and
comfort me at night when I wake up terrified, gasping
for air, and then act as if it never happened in the
morning. I'd always considered Walter to be an honest
person, but now I don't know what to think. I've only
eaten about a third of my sandwich, but I put it back
in the bag sitting on the end table.
"Uh.sorry Mulder." What pisses me off even more
is that every time I snap at him, he doesn't snap
back. He only responds with weak, placating words, as
if anything more harsh will shatter me. "I forgot
about it till now. You don't have to tell me."
"Damn right I don't," I say, lying back on the
bed, holding my cast against my chest. But then I
reconsider my words, thinking of what might get a rise
out of him. "He fucked me. I picked him up in a bar,
took him back to my room and sucked his cock. I
swallowed his come." My voice speeds up and sounds
loud in my own ears. "Then he cuffed me with my own
handcuffs, beat me with my own belt, and choked me
while he rammed his cock up my ass."
I look up to see Walter staring at me with his
mouth gaping open, half-chewed meatball inside. I
almost laugh at the sight. He finally closes his
mouth, chews, swallows, and places the remainder of
the sub on the rickety table in front of him. I can
tell it takes a great effort for him to even look at
me. "Is.is that why you're having those dreams.why
you're choking in your sleep?" He looks at me with
such concern. "Did he.did he rape you?"
My bark of laughter makes him start. I would be
rolling around on the bed laughing if my ribs weren't
still sore. The laughter is sharp and bitter and
awfully loud, and doesn't sound like me at all. 
"Why are you laughing?" 
His confusion makes me laugh harder. I hold my
chest with both arms.
He gets up and stands beside the bed looking down
on me. "Mulder, you're going to hurt yourself. Calm
down."
I force myself to settle down, and finally sigh
with exhaustion. "Oh, Walter, you crack me up."
Despite my words, I'm struggling not to cry.
He continues to stare down at me, baffled, trying
to contain his frustration. The distressed furrows in
his forehead make me decide to take pity on him.
"Walter, Walter, Walter," I say, "He did those
things because I wanted him to."
He backs away from the bed and sits down in the
chair again, lowering his face into his hands. He
raises his head and looks at me for a long time before
speaking. "Mulder, I'm trying to be patient with you.
I'm trying to help. I came out here to help. I care
about you and I want you to be safe. But I don't know
what to do."
The way his voice cracks makes me regret being so
blunt.
"I've got two days left of my vacation time," he
continues, dropping his hands away from his face and
looking up at me. "I don't want to raise any suspicion
by returning late, but I can't leave you here like
this. I don't know how aware you are of how your
behavior appears, but you're worrying the hell out of
me. You're taking dangerous risks, you're having the
worst nightmares I've ever witnessed, and that's
including in 'Nam, and you're having some pretty
extreme mood swings. You're on the edge Mulder, and
I'm at a loss for how to help you."
My momentary sympathy for him evaporates, and
vituperative words leap out of my mouth before I even
realize what I'm going to say. "Is that what you were
thinking while your cock was in my mouth," I
practically spit, "or was it while we were jerking
each other off?"
Skinner sighs deeply, lowers his head into his
hands again, and scrubs at his face. He looks back up
at me and stares until I'm too uncomfortable to look
back. I put my right arm over my eyes. "Look Mulder,"
he finally says, "I'm not going to say I didn't enjoy
doing those.things with you." He swallows audibly. The
fact that he can't even say what we did together makes
me feel like crap on the bottom of his shoe. "I'm
incredibly attracted to you. I don't think it was a
mistake, but I do think it was a mistake to do it now
when everything's such a mess."
"And by everything," I mumble into the crook of
my elbow, "you mean me."
"No," he practically shouts in exasperation,
startling me enough to take my arm away from my face
and look in his direction. "I mean the situation,
godammit."
I figure I shouldn't say anything more. 
"I'm going out," he announces suddenly. "There's
a cybercafe a few miles from here. I need to check my
e-mail." He's already grabbed his keys and is heading
towards the door. He turns and looks at me before
leaving. "Get some more rest Mulder," he says.
I know it should piss me off that he's ordering
me around, but it doesn't. Instead I'm more worried
he's so fed up with me that he won't be coming back.
The room is too quiet after he's gone. The remote
is screwed to the night table, so I reach over to
press the power button. I close my eyes, but I'm too
anxious to sleep. Rosie O'Donnel is on interviewing a
teen heartthrob I've never seen before. He's talking
about his new movie and she's fawning over him. They
laugh. I turn the volume up, but I can't seem to
follow what they're saying. They're laughing harder.
It seems grotesque somehow. I imagine Rosie reaching
over with a huge knife and slashing the heartthrob's
chest open from sternum to pelvis. They both still
laugh uproariously while blood spurts across the
show's set. 
I leap for the remote and turn the TV off. I curl
into myself, willing the frantic beating in my chest
to slow down. I wish I was still in that coffin
feeling nothing. Three months in the ground, and I
have no memory of it because I was dead. I suppose I
have no soul, or spirit, or whatever you want to call
it. Otherwise, I might have been floating around
somewhere outside of my decomposing body watching over
everyone. But nothing like that happened. I now know
that nothing really happens when we die. Nothing.
Walter still hasn't gotten me another gun, so I
can't shoot myself. I could take all of my pills, or
break the bathroom mirror and slash my wrists. But I
can't yet. When, or if, Walter returns, he'd have to
deal with my body, which doesn't seem fair. I'll have
to wait till I'm sure he's gone for good, but the
waiting is getting hard to take.
I get up and go to the bathroom. I start to fill
the tub with hot water, take a piss, and then strip
down. There's a full-length mirror on the back of the
bathroom door. The bruises on my face and neck have
mostly faded. Even though Walter has helped me to tuck
a plastic bag around my cast every time I shower, I
usually get it slightly wet anyway and it's starting
to look pretty shabby. It's supposed to stay on for
five more weeks, but it doesn't look like it'll last
that long. I pull at the edge of the tape holding the
bandages securely around my torso, and unravel the
tight binding. I don't think I'll let Walter put it
back on. The broken ribs are probably healed enough. I
can see each one in stark relief. There's still a
large bruise on my left side, although it's not the
deep, almost-black, purple it was a few days ago.
There's still a small piece of gauze taped over the
stitches from the chest-tube incision. I pull the
gauze away, and pick at the black stitches
underneath-only four in all. It hurts, but I pull and
tug at them until they're all out. A little blood
seeps from the wound.
The tub is full to almost overflowing now, so I
turn off the taps and step into the water, which I
know somewhere in the back of my mind is scalding hot,
but somehow it doesn't bother me. I crouch down and
lie back, keeping my cast on the edge of the tub. I
ignore the sting on my skin. It feels as if the heat
is leeching all the toxins from my body. I dunk my
head beneath the water and hold my breath for a long
time until I'm on the verge of breathing it in. I
surface with a gasp and realize that I've forgotten to
keep my arm out of the water The cast is already
soggy. Oh well. I lie back in the water, feeling
light-headed from the heat, and drift.
"Mulder, Mulder!" Someone is shouting and pulling
me up. 
Leave me alone, I want to say, but I'm too sleepy
and weak. I feel like a boiled noodle.
"Mulder, get up!" the voice says. It's my Walter,
and I'll do whatever he says. He's gripping me under
my arms, and I try to get my feet under me.
I finally open my eyes, and see his face right
beside mine. His glasses are so fogged I can't see his
eyes. He gives a mighty pull, hoists me out of the tub
and lays me out on the cold tile floor. I can barely
move. Walter wrestles with my limp, unresisting body
until he's got me propped up with my back against the
tub. My skin feels numb.
"Drink this," he says, and I open my eyes, not
realizing that I'd closed them again. He holds the
glass for me and tips my head back. 
I sputter a few times until I'm able to swallow
some of the water he's pouring down my throat. It
tastes good and cold.
"Again," he says, holding another full glass in
front of my face. I drink more smoothly now, although
he still has to hold it for me. 
I feel queasy, but I'm starting to feel more
awake and alert. My skin is starting to tingle
unpleasantly. Walter is sitting cross-legged in front
of me with no discernable expression on his face. He
gets up after a while, grabs a towel off of the rack,
and starts to pat me down, although the water has
mostly evaporated from my body. The air in the room is
hot and humid, hard to breathe, even with the bathroom
door open.
He grabs my t-shirt and sweats and starts to
dress me as if I'm a child. I try to help him slip my
arms through the sleeves, but all of my energy seems
drained, although I am able to lift my hips slightly
so he can pull the sweatpants on.
"We need to find a hospital," he mutters, as if
he's speaking to himself, more than to me.
I don't want to go to the hospital, but I can't
seem to speak yet. He practically drags me out of the
bathroom and lays me out on one of the beds. He calls
someone, the motel manager I guess, and asks for
instructions to the nearest hospital.
Then we're in the car, and then in another
hospital, all in what seems like a few minutes,
although I know it all had to have taken longer. I
doze off while waiting for someone to see me, Walter
standing beside the gurney I'm lying on. 
A young woman is asking me questions, but I don't
answer. I close my eyes and let her poke and prod me.
I wonder where Walter is, but I don't ask. My entire
body feels hot and itches. Someone is rubbing
something slimy all over me, even between my legs. I'm
naked, but I don't remember taking off my clothes. I
can't move. Steel bolts are driven through my wrists
and ankles. It hurts, but I can't get away without
tearing myself to shreds. I can't move my head, and
something is driven up my nose. I scream and scream,
but no one helps me. I'm alone in the dark. I'm buried
alive, and I can't breathe. Can't breathe. And then I
feel nothing. I'm dead.

"Mulder, Mulder, Mulder." Someone is saying my
name repeatedly, right in my ear. My eyes feel
swollen, but I'm able to pry them open slightly. 
"Ugh," I grunt, the feeling coming back into my
body. It feels as if I have a terrible all-over
sunburn.
"Mulder," the voice says again, and this time I
recognize it as Walter's. "Come on, that's it, wake
up."
"Mm'up," I say. Through the slits of my eyelids I
see Walter's blurry bald head. 
"Good. I'm going to help you up. We're leaving,"
he says, all business.
I don't protest as he helps me sit up, even
though my skin feels like it's stretching too tightly
over my flesh and bones, and I have an intense
headache, not to mention the usual aches. I feel slimy
all over.
He leaves the hospital gown I'm wearing on, pulls
my own sweats up my legs, and helps me stand up. I
feel dizzy and queasy and cling to the front of his
shirt as he pulls the sweatpants up over my hips and
tucks the gown into the waistband. The clothes cling
to my sticky skin. He sits me down and puts socks on
my feet, but no shoes. Even the bottoms of my feet
feel burnt. I notice for the first time that I have a
brand new cast on my wrist. I wonder how long we've
been here and what happened exactly, but I'm too shaky
to ask.
"Can you walk if I help?" There's all kinds of
loud background noise, but his voice somehow stands
out, although he practically whispers.
"Uh huh," I answer, but I'm not so sure. Then
we're moving. It hurts-burns-where his arm is wrapped
around my waist, but I shuffle my feet alongside his
as we move out from behind a curtain and into what can
only be an emergency room. Even though my vision is
still not great, I see lots of activity, and people
are shouting medical orders above the general noise of
talk and movement and sickness.
Soon we're outside and I don't think I can remain
upright for much longer. I hurt so much, and I think
I'm going to throw up. I start to gag as we get to the
car, but there's apparently nothing in my stomach to
expel.
"Ok, ok," Walter soothes as he lays me out in the
backseat. 
Then we're moving. Despite my discomfort, I must
doze off, because it seems like only moments later
that Walter is waking me up and getting me out of the
car. We walk, or rather he practically carries me,
into a room with one double bed, and lays me down. He
wrestles the covers out from beneath me, removes all
my clothes, and helps me between the cool sheets which
momentarily feel like ecstasy against my skin. In
seconds, however, they warm up and my body begins to
burn again to the point of throbbing. I hear myself
moaning, but can't stop it.
Walter goes away and then comes back. "It's ok,
Baby," he says, lifting my head with one hand. "Open
your mouth." Even through my misery I realize that he
just called me Baby. He presses some pills onto my
tongue when I do what he says. "Drink now," he says,
holding a glass of water to my lips. I drink the pills
down and he lowers my head to the pillow. Before long,
I drift off again, remotely aware that Walter is
gently stroking my hair.

The next few days I sleep a lot. I think Walter
must be giving me sleeping pills, but I don't ask. He
helps me eat and walk to the bathroom. He gives me
sponge baths and rubs some sort of ointment all over
my body. And I mean, all over, except for my knees. I
guess my legs were too long for them to have gone
under the surface. The feel of his hands on me would
be erotic if I weren't sure he's disgusted by my
blistering, peeling skin. There's nothing less
attractive, I imagine, than a peeling penis. 
We sleep in the same bed, but don't touch since
touching hurts. We barely speak. I feel like an
infant, and aside from my burning, itching skin, which
has begun to come off in clammy strips, I don't mind
him taking care of me. In fact, I like it. It seems
even more intimate than having his cock in my mouth.
It makes me think of William nursing at Scully's
breast, a thought that brings me near tears every
time.
By the fourth day, I've shed my old skin
completely, leaving a new, tender layer. Despite some
achiness, the burn and itch is gone, and, although
weak, I feel well enough to take a shower by myself. I
stand naked in the bathroom while Walter pulls a
plastic bag over my forearm and secures it with a
rubberband. "After you get out of the shower, we need
to talk," he says.
I take a lukewarm shower and dress in the t-shirt
and sweats Walter has left for me. It feels strange
wearing clothes after days of nakedness. They feel
heavy and rough. I sit on the edge of the bed, and
Walter pulls a chair up in front of me. "Mulder, how
aware are you of what happened, what you did?"
I shrug. I've been trying not to think about what
happened.
"Please try to answer me," he says in a calm,
reasonable tone. "I need to know what you're
thinking."
His voice is so earnest and kind that I can't
resist. "I'm kind of fuzzy on what's going on," I
admit. My voice sounds slow and strangely thick to my
own ears.
"Do you remember getting in the bathtub?" he
asks. He, too, seems to be speaking slowly, as if I
might not understand.
"Uh, yeah," I answer, remembering now.
"Why did you get in such hot water?" he asks
carefully.
"It didn't feel that hot," I answer, which is
true. How could I have gotten in a bathtub full of
water hot enough to burn me?
"You had first degree burns over almost your
entire body," he says.
"It didn't feel that hot," I repeat softly.
He seems to think about my answer for a bit, and
then accept it.
"Ok," he says, ending that line of discussion. "I
took a leave of absence. I've been keeping in touch
with the Gunmen via e-mail." He mentions the Gunmen as
if he's pretty close to them. I wonder how often they
were in contact while I was missing. "They've sent me
fake documents like yours. I'm Robert Fiske when we're
in public. We're going to head to Mexico tomorrow.
Frohike's got a friend who has a small house in
Ensenada he's not using. He didn't give me the details
about this friend, but it sounds like he's used it as
a hideout of some sort. He says it's not in great
shape, but short term it'll have to do."
He waits to see if I have anything to say, but
I'm too busy trying to take all of this in. He's
taking a leave of absence to take care of me. I feel
grateful and ashamed at the same time. I wish he would
call me Baby again.
"We're going to stay there for a while, until
you're," he pauses searching for the right word,
"better. How does that sound?"
I shrug again.
"Mulder," he insists, "tell me how that sounds."
"Ok, I guess," I say, unsure how else I could
feel about it. Whatever he decides to do is fine by
me. If he wasn't here, I'd probably be huddled in a
corner somewhere by now, or dead. I'm past making
decisions.
He studies me for a while, and I can't look at
him. "How do you feel physically?" he asks.
"Better," I say.
"It looks like you're done peeling," he observes
with a sad smile. "Does your chest feel ok? Your arm?"
"Yeah," I answer. Despite my recent self-boiling,
my older injuries do seem to be fading.
"I'm just winging it here with you're medication,
but maybe we should cut back on the painkillers," he
says as if thinking aloud. He looks up and sees that
I'm confused. "We left the hospital on the sly," he
explains. "They started asking me a lot of questions
about you. They wanted your medical records, insurance
information." He hesitates. "They wanted to admit you
to the psych ward."
"Why?" I ask, startled. I've spent enough time in
psych wards to have a healthy fear of them.
"Mulder," he says in mild disbelief, "you
immersed yourself in a bathtub full of scalding water.
You had some sort of major panic attack in the
emergency room. They had to sedate you to put a new
cast on your arm, and apparently you yanked out your
stitches, which thankfully were about ready to come
out anyway. They had more than enough reasons to admit
you."
It sounds much worse than I had imagined when he
says it all out loud. When I just look down at the
floor, he speaks again.
"Let's go out to get something to eat, and then
rest up for our trip tomorrow, ok?"
"Ok," I answer. He'll take care of everything, I
say to myself for comfort. It occurs to me that he
doesn't want to leave me here to go out for food. He
doesn't trust me not to do something stupid again. I
can't blame him, and truthfully, I want to keep him in
sight too, since I'm still not convinced he'll decide
to leave me here alone for good. 
"We'll work this out," he assures me, reaching
out and placing a hand on my knee. His warmth seeps
through the cotton into my fresh, new skin.













Title: "Holding On" (sequel to "Laying Low," "Staying
Invisible, "Forgotten Warmth," "Sleeping Soundly,"
"Letting Go," "Feeling Empty," and "Shedding Skin")
Author: eggplant goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Pairing: M/Sk
Category: angst, h/c
Rating: PG-13? (They're getting closer to actual sex,
I promise.)
Author's note: I've never been to Ensenada, and it
probably shows.
Feedback: I want to tear off my clothes and roll
around in it.
Summary: Down in Mexico.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------
---------

As I lay sick and broken
Viva Mexico
My eyes just won't stay open
And I dream a dream of home
I dream a dream of home...

--"The Road to Ensenada" Lyle Lovett 

It feels good to be in a different country.
Somehow the strangeness of everything--the cracked,
tiled sidewalks, the dusty streets, the people
speaking Spanish too rapidly for me to follow--make me
feel less strange. It was no problem crossing the
border with our fake identities. I feel, as we drive
past Tijuana, as if maybe I really am Martin Reed, a
guy who just got laid off at the bank. If only that
was all I've been through. 
I'm vaguely aware that Ensenada is
beautiful-sunny and colorful--as we drive through the
city. Walter follows some directions he's written in a
small notebook. We're soon off of the main roads,
bouncing along an unpaved street past ramshackle
houses with the occasional burro or goat in the yard.
The weather is perfect and it seems as if everyone is
outside. I see a woman holding an infant, and force
myself to push thoughts of Scully and William out of
my mind. 
Frohike made an understatement when he said his
friend's house wasn't in great shape. It's about ten
miles outside of town, tiny and alone at the end of a
dirt road. It's made of crumbling adobe, and has
electricity, but no running water. I wonder who's
paying the electric bill. There's a pump in the back
yard and two buckets to carry water in. There's an
outhouse. Walter and I wander around, silently taking
it all in.
Inside, there are three rooms, including a
closet-sized kitchen with a large aluminum basin and
an electric hotplate with two burners. No sink, no
oven or stove. The main room has a wooden table and
three chairs with blue paint peeling off of them, and
not much else. Through a doorless passageway, the
bedroom contains two sturdy cots crowded in the
corner, stacked with blankets, but without sheets or
pillows.
"I guess we'll have to buy a few things in town,"
Walter says without inflection.
I laugh, and Walter turns and smiles at me. It's
my first normal laugh in a long time.
We spend our first afternoon shopping at the
local mercado. I can't believe how cheap things are.
There are enough tourists around that we don't stand
out too much with our American dollars and accents,
although we're not buying the same types of things as
the tourists. No tacky trinkets for us--only a few
pots and pans, cheap linens, and enough food and water
for the next few days. Walter buys a bunch of shrimp
for dinner. At first the crowds and clutter feel
almost comforting; I can be lost in it all, but before
long I feel oppressed. My new skin still feels
slightly bruised, and anytime someone brushes past me
I wince. The bright sunshine starts to give me a
headache despite the cheap sunglasses Walter bought me
when he noticed me squinting. I've been spending too
much time isolated in motel rooms. By the time we
carry everything to the car and pack it in, I'm
exhausted. This is the most physical activity I've had
in weeks.
Back at the "house," Walter makes up one of the
cots for me and tells me to get some rest. "I'll wake
you for dinner," he says before retreating to the
"kitchen." I have strange, undefined dreams of
floating in thick fluid, of being cold. It's
unpleasant, but not a nightmare. I wake up a bit
queasy and headachey, which is a big improvement over
waking up unable to breathe. The smell of garlic only
makes me feel more nauseated though.
I lie there listening to Walter putter around in
the next room, chopping mostly. It's comforting. It
reminds me of the sounds that used to come from the
kitchen while I was growing up, before Samantha was
taken, before I was left to make peanut butter
sandwiches for myself for dinner.
He eventually pokes his head through the doorway
and sees I'm awake. "Hey," he says quietly, "you
hungry?"
Ordinarily I know the smell would be
mouthwatering, but I'm not hungry at all. In fact, I
think eating might make me vomit, but Walter will want
me to say yes. He's been trying to get me to eat more
every day. But then he also wants me to be honest with
him. I'm having trouble remembering what the question
was.
"You ok?" he asks, coming further into the room.
"I feel a little sick," I finally say, deciding
on honesty.
"Did you have a bad dream?" he asks me, sitting
on the edge of the cot.
The question makes me feel as if I'm about five
years old, but I don't care. It feels good to have
Walter here to care about me, even though he still
won't hold me. "Not really," I say.
"Maybe you got too much sun," he speculates.
"You're not used to it." He gets up and leaves the
room, still talking. "Let me get you a bottle of
water. You might be dehydrated." He comes back with
one of the gallons of water we bought at the market
and sets it beside me on the cot. 
I drink straight from the jug since we didn't buy
any cups.
"Better?" he asks after I gulp down about a quart
of water. I didn't realize I was that thirsty.
I nod and hand the jug back to him. My stomach
settles immediately, and my head feels better too.
"I'll have to remember to remind you to drink,"
he says, more to himself than to me. He sounds a
little irritated, and I realize that he shouldn't have
to remind a grown man to drink water. I really am a
mess. "Are you hungry now?"
I'm surprise to find that I am, and that whatever
Walter made, it smells delicious. He takes my hand and
helps me up. I'm tempted to keep holding his hand as
he moves toward the kitchen, but I let him go.
The shrimp is amazing. He made it with a lot of
garlic, onions and peppers, and didn't overcook it.
The rice is perfect too. I eat so much I feel like I'm
going to burst, and I'm dead tired.
"Mulder, why don't you wash up in the kitchen and
get ready for bed," he finally says after our silent
meal. "I filled one of the buckets with water from the
well, but don't forget to brush your teeth with the
bottled water, ok?" 
I get up with what seems like a great effort and
move towards the kitchen. I stand in the middle of the
tiny room for a few moments, forgetting what I meant
to do. I really have to pee all of a sudden, but I'm
not sure where to go. Walter appears beside me,
holding out my toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. I
take them and brush my teeth while he watches. He
hands me the jug of water when I'm ready to rinse.
"I have to pee," I say when I'm finished. I'm
having trouble keeping my eyes open.
"Ok. I used the outhouse before, and it wasn't
too bad, but it's dark out now." he trails off.
I'd forgotten about the outhouse.
"We'll get a flashlight tomorrow," he continues.
When I make no move to go outside, he asks, "Do you
want me to go out there with you?"
I don't answer, but we go out back together,
Walter leading the way. I can see the tiny wooden
shack beneath the bright moonlight. Inside it smells
bad, but not as bad as you'd expect. I guess it's been
a while since anyone's used it. There's a wooden bench
against the back wall with a hole in it. I step in,
pulling the rickety door shut behind me, and immersing
myself in nearly complete darkness. I unzip my pants
and aim towards where I think the hole is. While I'm
peeing, I start to get the strange sensation that the
walls are closing in on me. It's too dark in here, and
the air suddenly feels thick and hot. I can't breathe.
They've got me again, and this time I'll never be
free. It's so dark. I feel myself pinned down, in
pain. I scream and scream.
Hands are on me, and then arms are around me,
holding me. I'm lifted and turned upside down. I
struggle, screaming, but then I hear Walter's soothing
voice. "Calm down. It's ok." Walter is here to save
me.
I'm on my back, and now I can see. Walter is
sitting on the edge of the cot stroking my hair.
"Ssh," he says quietly. "It's ok." 
They don't have me. He must have removed my
clothes because I'm in my underwear. I'm here with
Walter, safe. I start to cry. I curl onto my side and
put my head on Walter's thigh. 
"Ssh," he continues to say. 
After a while he moves to get up, but I clutch at
his leg, wanting to tell him to stay, but unable to
speak. Instead, a strange little whine comes from my
throat. 
"I'm just going to get ready for bed," he assures
me while prying my hands from his leg, "I'll be right
back. I promise."
I reluctantly release him, and instead clutch the
blanket to my chest. Walter leaves the room. I try to
calm myself, but I feel alone and panicky. Somewhere
in the back of my mind I know I'm being ridiculous,
that I'm acting crazy, but I can't stop quietly
weeping while I wait for him to return. 
"Drink some water," he says when he returns,
holding the now quarter-full jug out to me. 
When I don't reach for it, he comes closer and
sets it beside me on the cot. I sit up, but I'm
shaking too badly to drink from it. Walter helps me
lift it and hold it steady so I can drink. When I'm
finished, he sets the almost empty jug on the floor by
the cot and strips down to his t-shirt and briefs,
then pushes the second cot against mine. He covers it
with a sheet, grabs another pillow and blanket,
removes his glasses, and places them beneath his cot.
Then he crawls under the covers and takes my hand. His
hand feels big and warm and dry against my cold,
clammy palm. 
"I've got you," he whispers. Without his glasses
on I can see how tired his eyes look. "Do you think
you can sleep?"
Before I can even think about what I'm doing, I
press my lips against the back of his hand and then
rub my whiskered face against it. He lets me. I
finally find my voice, but realize as soon as words
begin to come out of my mouth that I'm saying too
much. "Will you ever love me?" I ask.
His hand flinches in mine, but he doesn't take it
away. "Mulder, we'll talk in the morning," he says.
"Try to sleep."
"Please answer me," I plead, trying not to start
crying again. I know I sound desperate and pathetic,
but I can't stop myself. I need to know.
"Ssh, Baby," he says, his voice so soft I can
barely hear him. "I already do."
I'm too overwhelmed to speak. Despite the hard
metal edges of the cots, I lie across them to press my
face against his chest. He's still gripping my hand
with one of his, and with the other he rubs the back
of my neck.
"We'll talk all about it in the morning," he
whispers. "Sleep now."
I slip off into sleep clutching at him as if my
life depends on it, and I don't dream.

In the morning I find myself alone in the
bedroom. The sunlight is bright in the room, and I
know it must be late morning. Walter's out in the
livingroom sitting at the table looking through some
papers. He looks up when I enter and says, "Good
morning, Mulder," and smiles a beautiful smile. 
"Good morning," I say before heading out to the
outhouse. I hesitate for a moment at the door to the
little shack, but it's lost all of its threat in the
daylight. 
When I return to the house, Walter says, "Sit
down and I'll get you some breakfast." He gets up and
brings in a roll and a sliced up orange on a paper
plate. "I can make you some coffee and eggs if you
want."
"Coffee sounds good," I say, beginning to nibble
at the roll. It's dry and slightly sweet.
I watch Walter putter around in the kitchen,
boiling some water on the hotplate and putting a
spoonful of instant coffee in a small ceramic bowl. I
don't know where the bowl came from--we didn't buy it
yesterday. He waits for the water to boil, actually
staring at the pot. I wonder if I imagined what he
said last night, if it was a cruel dream. As I suck at
a wedge of orange, which is the best orange I can
remember ever eating, incredibly sweet and juicy, I
look over at what Walter had been reading. It's a
printout from the Internet, information about post
traumatic stress disorder. I drop the orange back to
my plate. Specifically, the sheet is about medications
for the treatment of PTSD.
Walter startles me when he places the bowl of
coffee in front of me. "No cups," he explains. "Be
careful, it's hot." He sits across from me, looks at
the papers, and then looks back to me. "I want to talk
to you about that. I printed it out before we left the
States."
"Why?" I manage to ask, although I already know
the answer.
"Mulder, you're a psychologist, you know you're
exhibiting all of the symptoms of PTSD, don't you?" he
asks, looking directly at my eyes. I look away. He
takes my hand between his two larger ones. I want to
pull away, but his hands are so warm. "I'm familiar
with the symptoms from 'Nam," he continues. "Mulder,
I've had the symptoms myself at times. That was a
pretty bad flashback last night, am I right?" I look
up again, and realize that what he said about himself
must be true. Although I've seen Walter in some pretty
vulnerable situations-under threat of going to prison
for murder, or lying in a hospital bed near death, his
veins grotesquely distended-it's hard to think of him
afraid of his own memories. "One of the benefits of
being here in Mexico," he explains, still holding my
hand, "is that it's relatively easy to get ahold of
prescription drugs without a prescription. I think you
should try some medication."
"What do you prescribe, Dr. Skinner?" I ask
sarcastically, torn between anger at his presumption,
and resignation, knowing he's right.
"I know I'm not qualified," he admits, squeezing
my hand tighter, "but I did some research. We can
decide together what's best. Do you agree that
medication might be a good idea?"
I'm on the verge of denying it, but then I nod. I
look down at our clasped hands and ask, "Did you mean
what you said last night?"
"Yeah," he says immediately, "I meant it. But I
don't think sex should enter the picture until you're
more..." he hesitates, "yourself. Ok?"
I'm impressed by his bluntness. We release each
other's hands simultaneously, and I pick up my bowl of
coffee and take a tentative sip. It's bitter and
almost too hot to drink. "So, doctor," I say after
setting the bowl down, "what do you prescribe?"
We spend the next hour or so discussing my
symptoms-depression, anxiety, mood swings, nightmares,
flashbacks-and which medications best match my
symptoms. It's surprisingly easy to talk about myself
in such clinical terms. I can pretend we're discussing
someone else altogether. Some other crazy guy. We
don't talk about the causes of the problems I've been
having because we both know what those are, or at
least I imagine Walter can guess the gist of it all.
All the fucked up things in my life he doesn't have
personal knowledge of he's read about in my thick
personnel file. Ironically, discussing my own
psychiatric treatment makes me feel the most normal,
the most together I've felt since returning from the
dead.
"Do you want to go to the beach?" Walter asks
once we've decided on two different drugs. The thought
of swimming in the ocean, of my body being tossed in
the waves, is incredibly appealing. I smile, and
Walter runs his hand over my stubbled cheek. "You're
beautiful when you smile," he says. 
I feel myself blush and press my face harder
against his palm.
"Shave and brush your teeth, and we'll head to a
pharmacy and then the sea," he says, standing up.
I still don't feel quite right, and I still wish
I was back home, but for the moment, at least I don't
feel like killing myself. I figure that has to count
for something.










Title Being Honest (part 7 in the "Laying Low"series)
Author: eggplant goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Pairing: M/Sk
Rating: NC-17
Category: Angst
Author's note: I still have never been to Ensenada,
although it sounds nice,
doesn't it? I'm also not a psychiatrist, nor do I play
one on TV, so
forgive me if I got the medications wrong…
Feedback: I will weep bitterly without it. 

Summary: The relationship deepens... 


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We go to the beach every day for the next two
weeks. The first day Walter was worried about me
swimming out too far, that I'd get sucked out by the
undertow, especially with the cast on my left wrist
bound tightly in plastic bags and rubber bands. He
stood on the shore waving his arms for me to come in,
and I thought something was wrong. When I got to him,
breathless, and he told me to be careful, all I could
do was laugh. My big papa bear was worried about me. I
reminded him that I grew up on an island and
practically lived in the ocean every summer of my
formative years, and he followed me back out into the
gentle waves of the Bahia de Todos Santos without
further comment. 

Two weeks later, I let the waves carry me out
into the bay once again. If I lie still on my back in
the cool water and close my eyes, I can pretend I'm in
a womb, that I have my entire life ahead of me.
William comes to mind, as he does about every other
minute, and I can't pretend anymore that I can start
fresh. I barely got a chance to see the little guy,
and I miss him so badly it physically hurts. To think
that before Scully asked me for my sperm donation that
I was convinced I'd never be a father. I didn't think
I could handle it, and I guess I'm proving myself
right. 

I start heading back to the beach and see Walter
swimming parallel to the shore, the muscles in his
shoulders glistening in the sun with each powerful
stroke. He seems to sense me approaching and stops,
his shiny head bobbing above the waves. Both of us
have turned a golden-brown in the past two weeks, and
I can sometimes pretend I'm on vacation with my lover.
Back at our little crumbling house, Walter washes my
hair over the basin every day, which is enough to get
me hard, although he either doesn't notice, or
pretends not to notice. I know he said he doesn't want
to get physical again until I'm "better," but the wait
is killing me. I want to taste his cock again, even if
it's through latex, and I long for the feel of him up
my ass. Maybe that will ease my emptiness. 

I'm so much stronger than I was when we got down
here, and I even think the medication is helping. I
sleep better, I haven't had anything approaching a
flashback in days, and I'm gaining weight. I somehow
feel more real, or maybe the world around me seems
more real. The faces of the tourists don't seem to
loom pasty and balloon-like around me in the markets,
and our Mexican neighbors have started to look at us
less suspiciously when we take our evening walks,
which makes me feel less paranoid. In short, I'm ready
for whatever Walter wants to do to me. 

"You ok?" Walter asks when I float in front of
him without speaking for too long. He asks me that
about fifty times a day 

"Just thinking about William," I blurt with my
newfound honesty. Walter keeps stressing openness and
I'm trying hard. After a lifetime of cautious reserve,
it's not an easy task. 

"Frohike said they'd contact us no matter what if
he had any big news, good or bad," he assures me,
treading water. 

I don't know how the Gunmen could contact us here
under the radar, but they've proven their
resourcefulness in the past. There's nothing I can do
about it anyway, which I guess is what bothers me the
most. I've always been a pretty proactive guy, and now
that I'm feeling better physically, it seems unnatural
to be hanging out at the beach while my baby and my
best friend, not to mention the rest of the world, are
in danger. 

Walter runs a hand over my cheek, down to my bare
shoulder. We bob in the waves for a few silent moments
before I surprise him by giving him a peck on his wet,
bald head before swimming away. He swims after me and
I let him catch me once we get to where we can stand.
We splash and wrestle, laughing, until he finally
captures my mouth in a hot, salty kiss. 

When he pulls his lips away, still holding me
around the waist, I say, "Do you think I'm ready yet?"


Walter knows what I'm talking about, but doesn't
answer. He kisses me again, and then looks at me for a
while as if weighing the pros and cons. "You know this
is all new to me," he says, his blush visible, even
beneath his tan. 

It makes me feel better that his concerns have
shifted from whether I'm ready to whether he's ready.
It makes me feel powerful, which is the opposite of
how I've felt in such a long time. "I'll show you,
Walter," I promise him. "I want you to make love to
me." I kiss him deeply again, not caring that there
are people all around us, including children. I'm not
sure if such behavior is acceptable around here, but I
don't care, and Walter doesn't seem to either. 

"Let's go back to the house," he says,
practically dragging me to the shore. 

Back at the house I quickly locate the lube and
condoms. We're soon out of our giftshop swimming
trunks, writhing on a couple of blankets we've laid
out on the floor. His skin is salty and warm and I
take on the task of licking every available spot on
his body. He returns the favor. We maneuver ourselves
into a sixty-nine position on our sides, and after
rolling condoms on our erections, I'm shocked when
Walter barely hesitates to engulf my cock in his
mouth. Maybe I won't have to show him so much after
all. We mutually suck each other for a while, moaning
our pleasure, but I want him in my ass. I've waited
too long. 

I move away from him for a moment and then get on
my hands and knees, pushing my butt out towards him.
"Fuck me, Walter," I pant. 

He doesn't answer, and I look over my shoulder to
see him fumbling with the lube with shaking hands.
When he's coated his cock he looks up at me. "Do I…do
I just put it in?" he asks nervously. "The hole seems
so small." 

I try not to laugh. "Just go slowly," I assure
him. 

He gets up on his knees behind me, but he's still
hesitant. "I don't want to hurt you." 

"You won't hurt me. Why don't you put your finger
in first?" I suggest. I figure when he feels how hot
and tight a man's ass is, he'll have to get his dick
in there. 

He reluctantly probes me with one finger, but
soon gets the feel of it, and pumps his finger in and
out all the way. "That…that feels good," he admits. 

"Think of how it'll feel on your cock, Walter," I
whisper. His thick finger feels wonderful, and he even
scrapes over my prostate without meaning to, but I've
got to have his cock in me soon or I'm going to die.
"Please fuck me." 

He answers my begging by kneeling up behind me
and pressing the head of his penis against my anus. He
takes it slowly, too slowly, but eventually gets the
head in past my sphincter and sighs deeply. When he
doesn't move beyond that I pant out, "Everything ok
back there?" 

"Yeah, yeah," he says as if speaking is an
immense effort. "Can I…can I go in further?" 

"Jeez Walter, please," I practically shout,
losing my patience. "Fuck me, please!" 

He pushes in further and pauses again. "I'm not
hurting you?" 

"No," I insist, trying to keep my cool, "feels
great, Walter. Keep going. Give it all to me." 

He finally gains some confidence and pushes all
the way in. I groan with the pleasure of being filled
at last. He catches on quickly and starts a steady
rhythm, pumping into me as I'm sure he's done with
women in the past. It's gentler than I'm used to, but
still feels incredible after waiting for so long, and
because it's my Walter. 

He doesn't speak while he fucks me, overwhelmed
by the experience, I hope. The only sounds in the room
are our grunts and moans and flesh on flesh. He seems
too preoccupied to deal with my hard-on, and since
he's supporting me with both hands, I'm able to stroke
my own cock to completion despite the cast on my left
wrist. After I come into the condom which I never
removed, he lets out a quiet roar and comes into his.
He drapes himself over my back for a moment, panting,
before pulling out and tipping us both onto our sides.


"That...that was incredible, Mulder," he says in
awe. 

"I told you you'd like it," I gloat, already
feeling as if I'm falling asleep. He reaches around me
and removes the condom from my now soft cock. I close
my eyes and listen to him stand up and pad out of the
room, I assume to clean himself up and dispose of the
used condoms. I'm barely conscious as I feel him
carefully wipe my ass with a wet cloth. 

"I love you," he whispers before I drift into
sleep. 

"You're phenomenal," Walter sighs in my ear,
running a big hand over my sweat-slick belly. Both of
us, limbs entwined, take a moment to catch our
breaths. It's the fourth time we've made love in as
many days, and each time seems more intimate, although
it still doesn't feel quite right. We'd done it
face-to-face this time with him on top, my ankles
resting on his shoulders. Walter turns on his side,
and pulls me against his chest. I nestle my face
against his sweaty neck and breathe in his scent.
There's a pleasant ache in my ass, but I wish Walter
wouldn't treat me like spun glass. He's always oh so
gentle, oh so considerate, and I'm not used to that.
The tender treatment makes me feel guilty, or
dishonest somehow. 

I lick at my lover's perspiration, eliciting a
quiet moan from him. Walter lowers his face to mine,
and captures my lips in a sweet kiss. "Harder," I
murmur against Walter's mouth. "Kiss me harder."
Walter obliges me, thrusting his tongue in more
aggressively, but it still doesn't feel like enough.
"Harder," I plead. Walter possesses my mouth with his
tongue, but still with the utmost care. I taunt
Walter's tongue with my own. "Make it hurt," I insist.


Walter pulls his tongue out and looks at me
curiously. "Honey, I don't want to hurt you," he says,
bemused, before moving in for another powerful, yet
harmless kiss. I pull away this time and turn my back
on him. "Fox, what's the matter?" Walter asks,
caressing my back. 

"Nothing, just tired," I snap. 

"Don't give me that," he says, looking over my
shoulder. "You were sucking my tongue down your throat
two seconds ago. What is it?" 

"Nothing," I insist, feeling pissed off at him
all of a sudden. 

"Fox, we talked about being honest," he says in
that tone that means he's trying very hard to be
patient. "If this is going to work you have to be
honest with me." 

"What are you going to do if I'm not honest?" I
ask, knowing I'm sounding brattier by the minute, but
unable to stop myself. 

"What do you mean, what am I going to do?" he
asks, the irritation finally apparent in his voice.
"This—our relationship—just isn't going to work
without it. We talked about this. We agreed." 

"So, that's it? It's over?" 

"No!" He pulls me roughly over onto my back.
Finally, I've gotten a rise out of him. "Mulder, what
are you talking about? What just happened here?" 

"Maybe you should punish me or something," I say
quietly. 

"What?" he says, stunned. He stands up and walks
across the room. Naked, flushed, and angry, he
couldn't be sexier. 

"Maybe you'd feel better if you hit me," I say in
as reasonable a voice as I can manage. I sit up and
sit cross-legged on our blankets, putting on the
bratty pout that usually got a rise out of past
lovers. 

"What are you talking about?" he pleads, now
looking more dismayed than angry. "I don't want to hit
you. What's going on?" 

I stand up and move close to him. I reach out and
hold his flaccid cock in my palm. It remains soft.
"You wanna fuck me again?" I husk in my best bedroom
voice. "I'd be honest if you cuffed me and fucked me
really hard, if you made it hurt." 

Walter grabs my shoulders and holds me at arm's
length, a look of disgust on his face. "Fox, I don't
want to hurt you, but I want you to tell me right now
why you're acting this way." 

"What way?" I ask coyly, trying to press myself
against him. 

"You know what I'm talking about," he insists,
still keeping me away from him as if I'm a piece of
rancid meat. 

"No, actually I don't, and I wish you'd enlighten
me," I suddenly shout, feigning confusion, although I
do know exactly what he's talking about. "I guess
you'll have to beat it out of me." I'm so angry it
scares me a little. I don't seem to have any control
over what I'm doing or saying. I lewdly rub my crotch
against his thigh, although he's still holding my
shoulders away from him and the position is awkward. 

"Mulder, back off," Walter says, giving me a
shove. 

"Or what?" I taunt, coming back towards him. 

"Or nothing," he says, now sounding more tired
than angry, but shoving me away again nonetheless.
"I'll just call this whole thing off." 

"So, it's over then," I say, finally backing off
and lowering my eyes. I'm trying not to cry. 

"It's not fucking over!" Walter shouts in
exasperation. "I love you, godammit!" He moves across
the room and starts pulling on some clothes without
looking at me. "I'm going for a walk," he announces
when he's got his shoes on. He looks me in the eye.
I'm still completely naked with drying come on my
stomach, and between my thighs, and under his gaze I
feel disgusted with myself "When I come back, maybe
you can explain to me what this is all about. For some
reason you're trying to get me to hit you, and that's
not going to happen." 

"It's ok if you hit me," I say quietly, near
tears. "I don't mind." 

"Well you fucking should mind, Fox," he says.
When I look up, he's staring at me hard, before he
turns on his heel and leaves the house. 

As soon as Walter walks out the door, I know I've
ruined everything. I can't help a sob from escaping my
throat, which quickly turns into steady weeping. I
pull at my hair and then back into a corner, sliding
to the floor. If only Walter would take his belt to my
ass, or just fuck me hard enough to hurt, it would be
ok. Why won't he? No one else has ever had any qualms
about it. Almost every other lover I've ever had
seemed to know what I needed without me even having to
ask, and those who didn't know took very little
persuading. Why should Walter be any different? I was
made to be hurt. My father knew that. The aliens knew
that. Cancerman knew it. Phoebe and Diana knew it.
Krycek knew it. Kersh knew it. At times the hurt is
the only way I've known I was still alive. How could
Walter deny me that? There's one thing Walter is
certainly mistaken about—there is no way he loves me.
By leaving, he's just proven that I fall far short of
what he wants. 

I don't know how long I stay crouched in the
corner before Walter returns. I look up with my watery
eyes when he squats in front of me, but quickly lower
my face into my hands. 

"Oh, Honey, I'm sorry I yelled," he says, taking
my good wrist in his hand. "I'm not leaving." 

I flinch away from his touch. I don't want anyone
touching me. All They had done was touch me. Their
touches were so cold. Steel pins and blades, and cold,
rough fingers. I'm so cold, and it's so dark, and I
can't breathe. 

"Open up, Fox," a deep, gentle voice says from
far away. "Open your mouth." 

I'm afraid of the narrow drill that will bore
into the roof of my mouth if I open it, but the voice
is so nice. I trust it. I feel a pill pressed to my
tongue, and then a glass of water pressed to my lips.
I drink deeply and sloppily, suddenly aware of how
thirsty I am. Strong, gentle hands help lift me from
the floor and move me to lie down, and then I drift
into sleep. 

I open my eyes to see Walter sitting on the edge
of the cot beside my own, watching me. "Hi, Fox," he
says. "How do you feel?" 

My mouth feels a little pasty, and Walter hands
me a cup of water. When I'm finished drinking, I say,
"I think I'm sorry," although I'm not sure yet what
I'm sorry for. "What did I do?" 

"You didn't do anything," he assures me, stroking
my hair out of my eyes. It's gotten pretty shaggy. "No
need to apologize. I gave you a Xanax before to calm
you down. Was that a flashback?" 

The Xanax explains my cotton mouth. I've been
taking Zoloft every day, and we also got the Xanax for
emergencies in case I freak out. This is only the
third time in over two weeks we needed it. "I don't
know," I say. "I guess so. I thought they were going
away." 

"The drugs aren't a cure, Fox," Walter says,
still stroking my hair. Could he really still love me
after all the trouble I've given him? 

"I know," I say. It's nothing he hasn't said
before. I sit up and rub at my eyes. I'm still naked,
but Walter put a blanket over me while I was asleep,
which I now hold in my lap. 

"Are you up for a talk?" Walter asks. 

I don't want to talk about it really, but I know
he won't easily take no for an answer. "Yeah," I say. 

"Why did you say I could hit you before?" he
asks, taking my hand in his. "Did you really want me
to hit you?" 

"Maybe," I say. 

"Why?" 

"I don't know," I say, although deep down I do
know why. I've thought about the reasons behind my
streak of masochism in the past, but I've never had to
voice my thoughts to another person. 

"Try to explain," he insists, not allowing me to
pull my hand from his. 

"I…I've always been into kind of rough sex," I
start. 

"Ok," he says when I fail to elaborate. "Why?" 

"I don't know," I say again, getting annoyed. Why
does he always have to ask why? Isn't it enough that I
told him the truth? "I just need it." I finally pull
my hand from his and stand up, letting the blanket
fall to the floor. I stand naked in front of the
window, knowing there's no one outside to see me, and
not caring if there were anyone watching. 

Walter stands closely behind me and puts a hand
on my shoulder. "I don't mind getting aggressive in
bed sometimes, Fox," he says softly, "but I'm not
going to hit you, or hurt you in any other way." 

"I'm used to it," I practically whisper. 

"Could you get used to something different?" he
asks, running his hand down my bare back. 

I turn to face him, trying to hold back tears.
Even with the medication, I still get annoyingly weepy
at times. "You're so gentle," I try to explain. "It…it
hurts more than being hit." 

"What?" he says, confused. "What do you mean?" 

"It's hard to explain." 

"Try." He refuses to let me get away with
anything. Part of me resists his relentless prying,
but when I look into his concerned, warm eyes, I can't
deny him anything. 

"I don't know." I struggle to find the words.
"It's like I'd have to repay you and I never could." 

"You don't have to repay me for anything," Walter
insists, gripping my shoulders. "Fox, I love you and I
want you to feel good." 

I can't help a few tears from spilling over,
which he wipes away with his thumbs. "You'd be
disgusted by what makes me feel good." 

"Tell me," he says, pulling me into his arms. "I
promise I won't be disgusted. You could never disgust
me." We stand that way for a while, me weeping quietly
on his t-shirt-covered shoulder, him soothing my back
with his strong hands. 

I can feel the words building in me, fierce and
harsh and finally push away from him, shouting, "I
like to be choked. I like to be spanked, with a
leather belt especially. I like handcuffs, and I like
to be fucked hard, so it still hurts days later. I
like to be used. I like all that, but there's no way
you'd do it, right?" I'm crying now in earnest, and
hold my cast to my chest. 

Walter approaches me with an outstretched hand,
but I back up further. He drops his hands to his sides
and speaks evenly. "Those desires are not that
unusual, Fox. There's nothing to be ashamed of." 

His acceptance somehow makes me feel even more
frustrated and angry. I know that my desires aren't
that unusual. I've got videos that make me seem like a
blushing virgin. He doesn't get it. "But you won't do
any of that," I spit out. 

"Most of it, no," he admits. "But not because it
disgusts me. Some of it's not safe, but it also just
doesn't make sense to me. I thought you wanted me to
take care of you." 

His naiveté would be charming if it weren't so
irritating. "Too much care hurts," I say, getting my
tears under control, and speaking as if to a slow
child. 

"Explain that to me," he demands, clenching his
teeth. I know if he'd admit it to himself he'd realize
he wants to hurt me too, just like the others. 

"I can't, goddamit!" I shout, pulling at my own
hair, I'm so aggravated. "I need everything to be
hard. Otherwise I'll disappear." My tears start again,
and I feel my anger draining away like water, leaving
dry despair in its wake. 

"Disappear?" He approaches me again, and I don't
resist as he puts an arm around my shoulders and leads
me back to sit on a cot. 

"I can't feel anything," I explain through my
tears. "Everyone hurts me. I can take it." I want him
to understand that I'm not weak, that I can't be hurt,
although it's obvious to both of us that that's a lie.


He wraps a blanket around my shoulders and sits
beside me. "You shouldn't have to take it, Fox," he
says quietly, rubbing my back. 

"I don't know how not to," I sob, giving up on
hiding anything from him. 

"Oh Honey, we have to change that." 

"I don't think I can change." The thought of
changing terrifies me for some reason. Even misery can
become comfortable if you live with it long enough. 

"Anyone can change," he insists, turning my face
towards him and giving me a whisper of a kiss. "I've
changed." 

"How?" I ask, not having any idea what he's
talking about. 

He pulls my head to his shoulder and strokes my
hair while he speaks. "When I was married to Sharon, I
never said what was on my mind, what was in my heart.
It drove her crazy. Am I like that now?" 

I think about how closed off he always was at
work, how he wouldn't confide in Scully and I even
when his life was in danger. Even though he's the same
person now at his core, he's so different in that one
important way. Now he seems to wear his heart on his
sleeve. "No," I answer, sniffling. 

"That's because I tried hard to change," he says,
still running his fingers over my scalp. "All this
talking I'm doing now, do you think that's easy for
me?" 

"It seems that way," I say, although I know now
that it can't possibly be easy for him. 

"Well it's not," he states matter-of-factly.
"Sharon would barely recognize me right now. I was
never a big cuddler," he adds before kissing me on the
top of my head. 

"Why did you decide to change?" I ask 

"Because of you, of course," he says before
tipping my face up and kissing me deeply. 

"Me?" I gasp, when he lets me breathe again. 

"Yeah," he answers with a smile. "Once I decided
to take care of you, to love you, I knew my old ways
wouldn't work. You needed me to be honest and open. I
wouldn't hurt you by holding anything back." He eases
me back and lies beside me, pressing the full length
of his clothed body against my naked one. "At first I
didn't tell you how I felt because I didn't think you
were ready, but then I realized you needed my honesty.
You've been lied to too often." 

I slip my good hand beneath his t-shirt to feel
his warm, furry chest, and he runs a hand down my back
to my ass which he lightly caresses. We spend a few
moments dueling with our tongues. 

"So, do you think you're ready to make some
changes?" he asks when we come up for air. 

"For you?" I ask. 

"For me and you," he says, giving me a peck on
the nose. 

"Ok," I agree. 

"Can we start by you telling me why you were
baiting me to hit you before?" he asks. Lying face to
face, our noses practically touch. 

"What if I don't know the answer?" I whisper,
closing my eyes. 

"That's ok," he reassures me, "but try to think
of why." 

"Um…I think maybe I felt like you hitting me," I
pause and search for the words, "was the price I
should pay for you making me feel good." 

"Ok, good," he praises me and gives me another
tender kiss. "Why do you feel like you should pay a
price for feeling good?" 

He really won't let anything go until it's
resolved. "I don't know," I almost whine. "It's like I
don't deserve it." 

He smoothes the hair from my face. "What did you
do that you don't deserve to feel good?" he asks,
dismayed. 

"Sometimes I just feel like I'm a bad person," I
say. "Like I'm selfish." 

He chuckles for a moment, but stops when he sees
my hurt look. "Fox, forgive me for laughing," he says,
rubbing my stomach, "but you are possibly the most
selfless person I have ever encountered." 

"No I'm not," I protest. "You don't know how many
times I've called Scully in the dead of night, woken
her up and dragged her from her cozy bed just to help
me with my agenda. I've done it to you too, haven't
I?" 

"Yeah Fox," he concedes, "but your 'agenda,' as
you call it, is pretty much saving humankind. You're a
noble soul. You're a true hero." He smiles at me with
pride I don't feel I warrant. 

"Yeah right," I sneer. "What have I actually
accomplished in the past ten years?" 

He pulls back and stares at me. He begins to
speak quickly, emphatically. "God, where should I
start? I can't count the number of lives you've saved,
starting with your time with the VCU, up until your
last case. You've saved my life and Scully's life
numerous times. You've uncovered a conspiracy to
enslave humankind, and even though that fight's not
quite over, you've laid the groundwork for Scully,
Doggett and Reyes to possibly bring the risk of that
happening to an end once and for all. Shall I go on?" 

"It doesn't feel as if I've done that much," I
say. Somehow all of the mistakes I've made stand out
in my memory more than any accomplishments he's
mentioned. "I usually feel like a failure." 

Walter studies me for a long moment. "At the risk
of being overly Freudian," he says with a wry smile,
"tell me about your mother and father. How did they
treat you?" 

"Ugh," I groan. "You know, I've been in therapy
before." I think of how many people, starting with the
guy my parents sent me to after Samantha was taken, up
to the woman I was forced to talk to at the bureau the
last time I killed someone in the line of duty. They
always ask about good old mom and dad. 

"Only because you were forced to, right?" he
asks, again as if reading my mind. 

"True…" I admit. 

"Will you answer my question?" 

"This is old ground, Walter, but if you must
know, my parents put a lot of pressure on me to excel,
and neither were particularly touchy-feely," I rattle
off as I've done to therapists of the past, neglecting
to mention my dad's drinking and temper, and my mom's
emotional absence. Nor do I bring up the fact that
both of them constantly badgered me about finding
Samantha as soon as I had the resources to look for
her, as if I had misplaced her in the first place like
a set of keys. "Believe me, I've already analyzed ad
nauseum their role in my self-esteem issues." 

Walter smiles, placing his palm against my face.
"Ok, Fox, we won't trod over that well-worn path
then." 

I nestle my face against his neck and without
thinking ask, "Why didn't you and Sharon ever have any
babies?" 

He stiffens against me, and I wish I could take
the question back. I keep my face pressed against his
warm skin so I don't have to look at the pain in his
face that I can feel radiating from his body. "Uh…we
tried, but I uh…I apparently shoot blanks." He
hesitates but continues when I don't comment. "The
doctor thought maybe I was exposed to something in
'Nam. Sharon wanted to adopt, but we never did. I
think she could tell my heart wasn't in it even though
I never said anything. Just another reason she left
me." 

I press my naked body tightly against his clothed
one and try to convey my sympathy non-verbally. We lie
that way for a long time. I love him so much. 

"I should make dinner," he finally says against
the top of my head, shifting slightly. 

I still hold him tight. "How can I miss William
so much when I only knew him for a couple of hours?" I
ask him, tears rising unexpectedly in my voice. 

"He's your boy," Walter explains simply, cupping
the back of my head and holding it against his
shoulder. 

That night after a delicious meal of fresh
yellowtail, a short, stocky man with leathery skin and
an uneven moustache comes to our door. He says
something in Spanish and holds an envelope out to
Walter. I hover behind him inside the house. I'm still
wary of strangers. Walter thanks the man and after he
closes the door we stand looking at the letter in his
hand. It's addressed to Robert Fiske at an address I
didn't even realize was ours. The address is typed and
there's no return information, but the postage shows
it's from Ohio. Deciding that it's not a bomb, and
realizing that it's not going to open itself, Walter
tears it open and we read it together. It's from
Frohike. We both laugh, realizing that the best way
for Melvin to get in touch with us without alerting
anyone to our location would be the most low-tech way
available. God knows what the story is behind the Ohio
postmark. 

The message is cryptic, but the gist of it is
that Scully, Dogget and Reyes ("the staff") are making
progress, and that William ("the small package") is
fine. Kersh ("the mule") has resigned after coming
under investigation, and Scully et. al. have
infiltrated the "inner echelons." They've found a
weakness in the "machines," which we assume refer to
the replicants. His last line makes it hard for me to
breathe for a moment, not out of anxiety, but from
excitement and joy. "You'll be home in no time. I'll
be in touch." 

Walter and I celebrate with sex of course, and I
don't even mind that he doesn't hurt me. 


Title: "Coming Home" (Final, yes final, part in the
"Laying Low" series)
Author: eggplant goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Pairing: M/Sk
Rating: NC-17
Category: Angst, h/c
Feedback: It makes me prance with joy.
Notes: Thanks to Bertie and Laurie for their help, and
thanks to everyone who has sent me such motivational
feedback for this series. 
Summary: It's really happening, the end of my
life-long mission. And then what?

It's the night before our flight and I can't sit
still. I pace around our San Diego motel room,
adjusting the color on the TV, rearranging the clothes
in my bag. I had my cast removed this morning, and
wrist to forearm I'm skinny and pasty. That's probably
what my whole body looked like when Walter first found
me in the hospital. That time seems so long ago and
hazy now. 
Walter urges me to sit down and relax a few times
until he finally asks, "Do you want a pill?"
The dirty look I shoot his way is my only
response.
"Mulder," he says, attempting to settle me down,
"things are looking up now. Let's try to relax for our
big day tomorrow." He reclines against the headboard,
his hands casually laced behind his neck.
"Walter, no need to patronize," I admonish. "I'm
not five years old."
"I just don't like to see you so anxious," Walter
continues, ignoring my comments. "Excited yes, anxious
no."
I was excited at first about seeing Scully and
William, and getting back to my life, and I still am
excited about seeing Scully and William, even though
she was a bit reserved when I talked to her on the
phone. It's getting back to my life that I'm not so
sure about now. 
As soon as we got back to the States, Scully gave
us the lowdown over the phone. She, Doggett, and
Reyes, with the help of the Gunmen, basically brought
the whole show down. Sixteen men have been brought up
on numerous counts of conspiracy and treason for
trading internationally in government secrets,
diverting government funds into illegal accounts, and
organizing secret and unlawful "projects" using
government property and funds. The "projects" include
everything from medical experimentation on unwitting
human subjects, to acts of biological warfare, to
building high-tech aircraft, and the list goes on. 
As for the aliens, the military were able to
round up twenty-seven "super soldiers," which are
apparently mechanically suped-up alien-human hybrids,
once Scully figured out that high-powered magnets
caused them to basically implode. There has been no
sign of other alien activity on earth so far, but at
least now those in power in our country are convinced
that they actually exist.
I'm going to have to testify against all the
people in the shadows I've been after for years. It's
really happening, the end of my life-long mission. And
then what? Will I be reinstated at the FBI? Do I want
to be? Will Walter and I just set up house and live
happily ever after? I can't picture it somehow.
"How about a massage?" Walter asks tentatively,
and just to keep him from bothering me I pull my shirt
off and flop down on the massive hotel bed face-down.
We decided to splurge on a luxury hotel after all the
flea bag motels we had to stay in. 
"Massage away," I say.
I haven't had a whole lot of massages to compare
it to, but this has got to be one of the best massages
in the world. He uses hand lotion, his strong fingers
finding all of my tight places as if by radar. I groan
as he zones in on the hard bundle of muscle in my
lower back and works the tension away. He shifts a bit
from his seat on the backs of my thighs, and tries to
pull me onto my side.
"Let me get your pants off," he says in his
deepest, sexiest voice.
I laugh as I turn to give him better access. "Oh,
so this was just a ploy to get into my pants."
"You bet," he says, unbuttoning my jeans, and
tugging at them.
I wriggle, and he pulls, and soon my jeans and
boxers are discarded on the floor, and Walter, still
fully clothed, starts kneading my ass.
"Mmm," I moan, "I never realized my butt was
sore."
"Inside or out?" he asks, before dipping a finger
into the cleft of my ass.
I wiggle my butt, encouraging him, and say,
"Maybe you'd better find out."
He slips a lotion-covered finger into my hole,
and finds my prostate with little trouble. For a
recent gay sex virgin, he's certainly caught on
quickly. He adds a finger and massages me inside for a
while, eliciting escalating panting from me. My
erection is trapped uncomfortably beneath me, so I try
to raise my ass, despite his weight pinning me down.
"Walter, please," I pant, "get your clothes off.
Fuck me."
He wastes little time in following my
instructions, practically running for a condom, and
soon he's easing his length inside of me. He still
always takes his time when we have sex, and treats me
as if I'm precious. I know that a lot of people would
kill to have their lovers treat them this way, but it
still makes me feel uneasy. I tell myself that I'm
just not used to it, and that his style will grow on
me. After all, he gets me off every time, and I do
love him. If only he would be a little more forceful
and take control. I want him to make me lose myself. I
don't want to be able to have so many thoughts running
though my head while he's fucking me.
"You're so beautiful," he grunts out as he
thrusts into me, keeping a steady rhythm while he
strokes my cock. "I love you so much, Fox."
When he says things like that to me it makes me
want to cry, but instead I come, and he soon follows. 

After we clean up, we snuggle in bed, just
kissing and touching
"More relaxed now?" he asks, caressing my chest
beneath the covers.
"Yeah, I guess," I say. After a moment I add, "I
don't.I don't know if I can handle the hearings."
"You've handled a lot worse," he says before
reaching over and turning off the light. We find each
other by touch and hold on tightly. "Remember, they
won't be public."
Because of the "delicate nature" of the case,
the hearings will be kept classified. It's amazing
what the government can get away with while telling
everyone else such things are against the law. I hate
the idea of keeping more secrets, but I have to admit
that just announcing to the public at large that
aliens are among us probably wouldn't be such a good
idea yet. But Walter has assured me after talking to
Scully, Doggett and Reyes at length that these
hearings are for real, and that they have the full
backing of the Director and even the President. My
breath quickens a little.
"Fox, what are you scared of?" he asks, running
his hand over my flank to soothe me.
"I don't know," I say. "I guess it just doesn't
seem real." His touch calms me, and I'm getting
sleepy.
"It'll be ok, Hon," he whispers in my ear. "I'll
be with you the whole time."
With those words I'm able to sleep soundly.

It's seven PM when we get to DC, and the first
thing I want to do is see Scully and the baby. She
knows what time my flight was expected in, so I don't
even call her. At my insistence, Walter just drops me
off there before we go to his apartment. I, of course,
don't have an apartment anymore. I tell him I want to
go in alone, and he doesn't question me, instead
watching me go to the door of her building before he
drives off.
I'm trembling with excitement with an idiotic
grin on my face by the time I get to her door. I don't
know how I expected Scully to greet me, but the scowl
when she opens the door is certainly not what I had
envisioned. She's pale and thinner from the last time
I saw her, and she was pretty pale and thin then.
She turns away, leaving me standing on the
threshold. No hug, no kiss, no "Come in and see
William."
I shut the door and follow her. She stops at a
playpen sitting in the center of the living room and
scoops up our son. He's so big! Last I saw him he was
just a squirming little thing, and until I lost my one
William picture, that's the only image of him I had in
my head. But now he's fully alert, gazing at me with
curious, big, blue eyes, clutching his mother's blouse
in his little fists. The poor kid's got my nose, but I
don't think I'm being biased when I say he's still one
damn good-looking baby.
I feel tears welling up at the sight of him, but
I manage to choke out, "Can I.can I hold him?"
Scully still doesn't say anything, increasing my
discomfort, but she reluctantly hands him over. I
don't have much practice holding babies, but it's
easier now that he's bigger and doesn't seem like a
wrong move might crush him. I prop his diapered bottom
on my arm so he's sitting up facing me. He immediately
reaches out and grabs my nose.
"Hey Will," I say, "you recognize your daddy,
don't you?" I turn to smile at Scully, but she doesn't
smile back.
I move to the overstuffed couch and sit with
William on my knee. I bounce him a little bit and he
smiles and gurgles in response, his arms raised with
excitement. "Scully," I ask, still keeping my eyes on
William, "what's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" she asks, incredulous. "What's
wrong?" She snorts in disgust. "Mulder, I'm not sure
what you think's been going on all the time you've
been away, but I haven't been sitting here happily
playing mommy the whole time." She starts pacing.
"William was kidnapped, almost sacrificed by some
insane alien cult. I've been running around like crazy
trying to keep him safe. If it wasn't for the Lone
Gunmen, Doggett and Reyes, William and I would
probably be dead by now, and no one would have been
held accountable for any of it." She takes a deep
breath as if she's only getting started, and I watch
her, keeping still, holding William close to my chest
as if he'll protect me. "And now you just waltz in
here, looking healthy and tan, wanting to play daddy
now that everything's safe. I really used to expect
more from you Mulder. I used to look up to you." By
the time she's finished, she looks as if she's about
to cry, but as always, she pulls herself together.
I finally open my mouth to speak, but I have
trouble getting words out. "I. didn't.didn't Frohike
tell you I couldn't.couldn't contact you?"
She hesitates for a moment, her brow creased, as
if reconsidering what she's about to say, but then she
plows forward anyway. "He said you would be in danger,
that we would be in danger if you stayed, but I guess
I expected you to try to do something." She walks over
to me and abruptly lifts William off of my lap,
clutching him tightly. He lets out an annoyed whine.
Looking me up and down, she says, "I didn't expect you
to be sunning on the beach."
"I.," I start to say, but then realize that I
have nothing to say. Although I know she's being a
little bit irrational-what could I have been doing
except keeping out of sight?-part of me, a big part,
knows that she's right. I can't imagine how she would
take the news right now that Walter and I are lovers,
that we've been playing house for the last month. I
feel the blood drain out of my body as I think of
Scully and William being in danger while Walter and I
fucked. And now here I am with empty arms. 
I don't feel right. I feel hollow and cold. I'm
in the darkness again, and the sharp spikes pierce my
wrists, my ankles. I try to scramble away, to resist,
but they pin me down. I stop breathing as the drills
bore inexorably up my nose and through the roof of my
mouth. I deserve this, is my last thought before the
circling blade descends once more into my chest. I
don't even scream.
"Mulder, God Mulder, what's wrong? What's wrong?"
I hear Scully's panicked voice, but I can't
answer, can't uncurl my body, can't open my eyes,
afraid of what I'll see. And then I see and feel
nothing.

When I open my eyes I forget where I am for a
minute. Scully's. I'm at Scully's. It's almost
completely dark in the room except for the light from
under the kitchen door, and I'm lying on her couch
bundled in blankets. Too many blankets. I'm hot and
sweaty, so I kick them off to see I'm still dressed
except for my shoes. I can hear Walter's voice coming
from the kitchen, quiet and strained.
".on medication for it, and he was doing well
until now." He sounds pissed. 
"I didn't realize.," Scully says weakly.
Across the room I see that William is sleeping
soundly in his playpen. How long have I been asleep?
"So you assumed the worst of him?" Walter asks,
his voice rising in volume, and then falling into an
angry whisper again. "How long have you known him,
Scully? Almost ten years now, isn't it? Have you ever
known him to be a coward? Can you imagine what it was
like for him to go through what he went through? He
was a fucking mess when I found him in the
hospital-practically suicidal. I swear his nightmares
almost killed him a couple of times. He'd actually
stop breathing."
"I didn't realize." Scully says again, this time
with tears in her voice.
I know I should get up and let them know I'm
listening, but I feel so heavy. It's strange to hear
myself discussed in the third person.
"God knows you've been through a hell of a lot
too, but I won't let you pile guilt on him. Thinking
about you and that baby is all that kept him from
offing himself for a while," he says.
What he doesn't say, maybe because he doesn't
realize it, is that he became a large part of what
continued to keep him alive.
I'm really thirsty, so I finally peel myself off
of the couch and pad towards the kitchen. My muscles
ache as if I recently ran about twenty miles. It makes
me wonder what I did before falling asleep.
I knock softly to warn them of my presence, and
Walter immediately yanks the door open.
"Hey, you ok?" he asks, pulling me in for a
tender peck on the cheek. Scully looks on, her mouth
gaping. I guess I won't have to tell her about me and
Walter after all.
"Can I have a glass of water?" I ask, my voice
unexpectedly raspy, not looking anyone in the eye.
Scully snaps out of her stunned catatonia and
scrambles for a glass, fills it at the sink, and hands
it to me. I gulp it down and go to the sink to fill it
again.
When I'm done drinking and the tense silence is
too much for me, I ask, "So, what's going on?"
"I.I think you had a flashback," Scully stutters,
looking as if she'd rather be anywhere but in this
kitchen. When no one says anything else, she
continues, "I thought it was a seizure at first, but
then you eventually calmed down and fell asleep, or
passed out and then fell asleep, and your heart rate
and breathing got back to normal." She's babbling
while she fusses around the kitchen, putting dry
dishes into cabinets, and then moving them around in
the cabinets when there are no more to put away. "You
were just sleeping, not unconscious, so I didn't call
an ambulance. I called AD Skinner since he's been
with.uh with you lately and might know what happened.
He thinks it was a flashback. Was it a flashback,
Mulder?" For the first time she stops moving and looks
into my eyes.
"I guess so," I say, feeling shy. I really don't
remember what happened.
"We talked," Walter says simply, staring
pointedly at Scully.
Scully looks from Walter to me and then
hesitantly says, "Mulder, I'm sorry I was so harsh
earlier. I've been under a lot of stress since William
was born, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I
know there was nothing you could have done for us, and
how horrible that must have been for you." She
hesitates for a moment, and then approaches me and
wraps her arms around my waist, pressing the side of
her face against my chest. At first I just stand
there, being hugged, but then I raise my arms and hold
her tightly. I relax into her embrace, resting my chin
on the top of her head and closing my eyes. This is
the homecoming I wanted. It feels so good to have her
approval again. In the back of my mind I still hear
her angry words, still believe them, but she's holding
me, and she's not angry now.
What a turn-around. My behavior must have been
pretty frightening for her to so readily apologize.
Either that or my Walter is incredibly persuasive,
although listening to the tail end of his "poor
Mulder" speech has made me feel a bit on the pathetic
side. I don't know what to say in response to Scully's
apology, so I just hold her for a while until we
mutually back away from each other.
I wipe a few stray tears off my face. There's
another awkward silence during which Walter watches
me, Scully's eyes go back and forth between Walter and
me, and I try to look at nothing, but watch them both
surreptitiously.
"Uh, so," Scully says, breaking the silence, "you
two are.uh.together?"
"Seems that way," Walter says with a degree of
confidence I don't feel. He comes to my side and laces
his fingers with mine. I don't flinch, although it's
hard not to when I'm under such scrutiny. "Is that
going to be a problem?"
"No.no," Scully insists. "It's just a surprise."
She's looking at our hands, and then mostly up at
Walter. I realize the surprise is mostly that Walter
swings both ways. Probably nothing surprises her where
I'm concerned. She's undoubtedly noticed the
occasional gay video interspersed with my collection
when searching my apartment for clues while I was
missing. And then of course there was that time I
tried to get it up for her and couldn't. Maybe this
will make her feel better about that.
"Not an unpleasant surprise I hope," Walter says,
challenging her to have a problem with our
relationship.
This conversation is tiring me. I still feel achy
from my earlier freak-out, which I'm glad I don't
remember very clearly.
Instead of answering, Scully looks at me, but
speaks to Walter. "Mulder looks like he needs more
rest."
Being spoken about in the third person while I'm
in the room irritates me, but I am fading. I lean into
Walter's side, trying to keep my eyes open.
"Come on, let's go home," he announces, leading
me out of the kitchen by the hand. I wonder where he
means by "home."
As we're moving through the living room, I stop
and pull my hand from Walter's, navigating my way to
the playpen. I can feel Walter and Scully's eyes on my
back as I lean over and look at my son. I reach down
and run a finger gently over his hair-he still doesn't
have much-and then down over his cheek. He's so soft
it's hard to believe. I want him to sleep this way
forever, in complete peace. I say a silent prayer-to
whom I don't know-that his dreams are never like mine.

The next several days are a blur of briefings,
meetings and hearings. The strangest thing is that I
don't recognize one name or face in the bunch of
suspects. It turns out Cancerman and that impeccably
groomed British guy I saw blow up in his car weren't
even the ones in charge. My father certainly wasn't
either, and Kersch was just a low-level lackey. It
occurs to me that Walter could have been Kersch,
almost was for a while, hiding evidence to protect me
and Scully, but he's stronger now and doesn't take
shit from anyone. I wish my father, not to mention my
mother, had been as strong.
Doggett and Reyes go on at length about how I
laid the groundwork for what they accomplished, how
we'd probably all be dead or enslaved if it wasn't for
me, but I can't help feeling a little jealous that
they are the ones who finally got anyone to listen.
Spooky Mulder can shout about aliens and conspiracies
for years and all it gets him is scoffed at and the
occasional disciplinary hearing, and straight-arrow
John Doggett makes a peep about the same things and
within a year he's got the Director on his side. I
know I'm being childish and ungrateful, but it's just
not fair.
The second morning back in DC I go with Scully
and Walter to the lab to view the remains of Billy
Miles and the other hybrids that have been destroyed.
A team of scientists is studying the remains which
look like flattened metallic vertebrae. They twitch
every so often, but settle down when exposed to a
magnet that descends out of an armored hatch in the
ceiling. When that happens, everyone has to clear out
of the room so their fillings aren't ripped out. 
Walking past the rows of distorted metal parts, I
feel as if I'm not quite in my body. The overhead
fluorescent lights permeate the room, casting
everything in an otherworldly glow. It's as if a heavy
iron door in my brain swings open, letting in a flood
of bright light. I remember everything, the intense
light, and then the darkness. The pain. In my dreams I
only get flashes of what they did to me, but now I
remember every detail. Time was unknowable there-one
moment to the next could have taken a year or a
minute. I was always cold though, always naked, and
always restrained against something that felt like
stone. There were injections that burned and
excruciating probes in every conceivable orifice, and
of course the cutting. My mind would disappear, and
when I came back to my body, I was always stunned to
be alive, that somehow they had split me open and I
wasn't dead. I lost my voice from screaming, became
numb to the pain, and then everything was dark and
empty for a long time. When I woke up in the hospital
and saw Scully's face, it was as if it had never
happened.

I open my eyes, not realizing they had been
closed, to see Walter's concerned face hovering above
me. There's a cool, damp cloth on my forehead. It
feels nice.
"Hey, Fox, you ok?" he asks, removing the cloth.
I look around. I'm lying on a brown leather couch
in what appears to be someone's office, my feet
propped up. Scully is standing close by, her arms
crossed, her face unreadable. No one else is in the
room.
"I remember everything," I tell them. My voice
sounds slow and echoes in my head. "It was terrible."
Scully steps forward and asks urgently, "What do
you remember? Your abduction?"
Walter strokes my damp hair.
"Yeah, the whole thing," I say. My voice starts
to feel stronger, and I sit up, planting my feet on
the floor. "Before I was getting little bits and
pieces, but something about seeing those things in
there." I trail off.
Scully looks pained. I wonder how much of her own
abduction years ago she remembers, if hearing about
mine upsets her because she remembers a lot, or
because she remembers nothing. We'll have to talk
about it at some point, but now is not the time.
Walter still looks worried, sitting beside me on
the couch. He takes my hand in his and says, "I made
an appointment for you, with a psychologist."
If we're not going public with the information
about aliens, how can he expect me to talk to a shrink
about it without being committed? "I don't know
Walter.," I begin to object, but he cuts me off.
As if reading my mind, he says, "She'll be
briefed on the situation, Mulder."
I don't object, figuring we can argue about it
later. I rub at my face and my hair, trying to wake up
completely. "Where are we?" I ask, again looking
around the unfamiliar office.
"When you went into some sort of fugue state and
then passed out, Dr. Bentley, the head of the team,
kindly let us use his office," Scully explains.
I vaguely remember meeting Dr. Bentley, a tall
garrulous man who seemed delighted to meet me when we
first arrived. It's hard to get used to people
greeting me as if I'm a hero.
"Ready to go home?" Walter asks. "We've got
another big day tomorrow."

I testify at length the next day, answering every
question honestly, practically telling my entire life
story. After all, the X-Files have been my life for a
while now. I even recount everything I remember from
my abduction and my most recent "death" without
flipping out and embarrassing myself. Seeing Walter's
stoic face through it all is what keeps me together.
Every night after the hearings, when we go home
exhausted, I find myself clinging to his solid body in
bed. I never used to cling to anyone. I used to be the
most independent person I knew, maybe except for
Scully, but everything is different now. He's been
keeping the nightmares away.
The night after the last day of hearings I need
Walter badly. I need to be taken hard. We both
collapse onto the bed as soon as we get home. I grab
his shirt in my fists, press my face against his
chest, and say, "Fuck me hard, Walter." My voice is
raw from too much talking and too much need. "Please.
I need it to hurt."
"I won't hurt you," Walter says, pausing to kiss
me deeply, possessing me with his tongue. "I'll give
you what you need though."
I look into his eyes questioningly, and he pushes
me away and sits up.
"Take off your shirt," he says, and I immediately
notice the change in his voice. He's taking charge. 
I shiver and start to frantically work at my tie
and the buttons on my shirt. 
"Slowly, Fox," he insists.
I abruptly stop and look at him. My tie is
hanging askew around my neck, and I've got a couple of
buttons undone. He looks amused at my disheveled
state.
"Slowly," he says again.
I drop the tie to the floor, undo my buttons one
by one and toss my shirt aside too. It takes all of my
will to not just rip it all off. Next, I ease my
undershirt off and drop it as well.
"Your chest is gorgeous," he observes, still in
the same calm, commanding voice. My cock is already so
hard it hurts. "Touch your nipples for me."
I obey as if in a dream, running my fingers over
my chest and then zeroing in on my nipples, rubbing
them into hard nubs. My breath catches, and I have to
remember to keep the air moving in and out of my
lungs.
His gaze remains steady, seeming to freeze me in
place. "Good boy," he says, sending another jolt to my
cock. "Now unbuckle your pants and drop them and your
underwear to your knees.
Again I obey and stand before him, naked except
for my shoes, socks, and the pants pooled around my
legs. I feel more exposed, more at his mercy than I
would feel completely naked.
"Cup your balls in one hand and fondle them." 
Something about the word "fondle" makes my cock
twitch, but I follow his instructions, only rolling my
balls in my palm. I want to touch my leaking cock so
badly, but I leave my other hand dangling empty at my
side. He just watches me for a while, still seeming
perfectly calm, but I can see his erection tenting the
front of his suit pants.
"Take one finger of your other hand and wipe it
over the tip of your cock."
Precome is oozing liberally from the tip at this
point, and it takes all of my strength to not just
start jacking off.
"Taste yourself," he says once my finger is
coated with my own fluid. I lick it off, and then
slowly ease my entire finger into my mouth, sucking on
it as seductively as I can manage. "Now, now Fox, just
do what you're told."
My face flushes with embarrassment, and I remove
my finger from my mouth, waiting for further
instruction.
"Turn around and bend over," he says, and he
might as well have a gun pointed to my head for all
the power he has over me. I turn around and bend over
at the waist, spreading my legs as far as the pants
will allow, and holding the backs of my knees. I feel
lightheaded, and I can't tell if it's because I'm so
exposed for him in such a humiliating position, or
because the blood has rushed to my head.
I can't see Walter, but I hear him swallow, and
then he says in almost a whisper, "Get your finger
slicked up with your precome and put it up your ass."
Oh my God. What happened to my vanilla Walter? I
almost come just from his directive, but manage to
hold it together. I coat my finger with the drippings
from my cock and then reach between my legs and slip
it inside. The position is uncomfortable, but I still
can't help but groan with excitement.
"Fuck yourself for me," he commands, and I
comply, pushing my finger in and out of my ass. I
don't know how much longer I can stay like this before
my legs start cramping.
"Add another finger," he says. I feel as if I'm
drunk. My head is swimming as I insert another finger
inside myself and thrust more quickly. God it feels
good. All that is on my mind is the fact that his eyes
are on me, that I'm doing it for him.
Just when I think I'm going to come, he says,
"God, you're hot. Such a good boy. Now come over here
and lie on your back."
I pull my fingers out of my ass, wipe them on my
discarded t-shirt, and stand up, getting a major
headrush. I start to wobble towards the bed, almost
tripping over my lowered pants.
Walter chuckles and then says, "You can take the
rest of your clothes off, Baby."
I rush to comply, not handling myself with much
grace. My brain is fogged with lust, but I manage to
get rid of everything and collapse onto the bed. I lie
on my back as I was told to do, my cock jutting
towards my belly.
Walter is still fully dressed, which only makes
him seem more powerful. He stands up beside the bed
and runs his eyes over my body for a while. I can lose
myself in his gaze. He walks around the room and picks
my tie up off the floor, and his own from where he'd
earlier draped it over the back of the chair. Once
he's beside me again, without a word he uses the ties
to secure my wrists to the headboard. I offer no
resistance.
"Pull your knees up and spread your legs wide,"
he says. I do so, sweaty and panting without him even
touching me yet
"So beautiful," he murmurs, leaning over to run a
hand across my chest, stopping at each nipple to
briefly squeeze and tug. Little erratic moans come out
of my mouth without my control as he moves his hand
down my stomach, pausing to pet my pubic hair, and
bypassing my aching cock to hold my balls gently for a
moment. I'm keening by this point, afraid I'm going to
come. His hand trails down and with one finger he
traces my moist asshole. "You're so open for me," he
observes with a calm that is in sharp contrast to my
growing frenzy. He removes his hand just as I'm about
to come and steps back from the bed. "Do you want me
to fuck you, Fox?" 
"Please!" I scream, clutching spastically at the
ties that bind my wrists above my head.
"How badly do you want it?" he asks in that same
calm voice while he removes his own clothes.
He's so hot standing there now naked, his cock
huge and hard and aimed at me. "Please!" I shout in
what's dangerously close to a girly scream. I'm soaked
in sweat, my erection painful. "I want your cock so
bad. Please fuck me!"
Walter kneels on the bed, rolls a condom over
himself and applies a generous amount of lube. "That's
all I needed to hear," he says, and with that he rams
into me to the hilt. I've stretched myself enough for
it to not hurt that much, but I still cry out from the
shock of being so suddenly filled. Walter rides me
hard, pressing my knees up against my chest so he can
get deeper penetration while gripping the base of my
cock with one hand to prevent me from coming too soon.
"Mine, all mine," he chants in time with his thrusts,
and I'm too far gone to do anything more than grunt
and moan. His cock rakes over my prostate with each
downstroke, making me feel as if the top of my head is
about to blow off. He stops his movements for a
moment, leaning over to plunder my mouth with his
tongue, with his cock completely filling me. He's
controlling my body completely, every move, every
sensation. At first I was straining against my
bindings, but now I don't even struggle as he takes
me.
He lets go of my cock, and I come with a shout
just from the friction of his belly against me. The
contractions in my ass seem to be enough to send him
over the edge too, and he shoots powerfully with a few
final frantic thrusts.
Once we both remember how to breathe, he pulls
out of me, strips off the condom and flings it aside,
and then carefully unties my hands and kisses my
slightly bruised wrists. I curl towards him and clutch
at his shoulders, raining kisses over his face and
neck. We're both sticky with sweat and come, but I
don't want to clean off just yet. I want to feel the
evidence of our love and lust between us.
"Is that what you needed?" he asks between
kisses.
"Uh huh," I murmur, snuggling against him. He
pulls the covers over us and holds me tightly,
ignoring the mess, which is very un-Walterlike.
"I'll never hurt you," he whispers in my ear.
This man is my savior, I think. He knows what I
need more than I do myself. "I love you so much," I
say, tears springing to my eyes.
"I love you too, Honey," he assures me before I
drift into sleep. "I love you too."

I do end up going to see the psychologist, and
then a psychiatrist to have medication officially
prescribed. They both suggest staying on it for a
while. The psychologist isn't so bad. She doesn't make
me dredge up my past traumas over and over, instead
focusing on ways I can cope now. I've always been more
of a Jungian myself, drawn to all that analysis of
symbols and archetypes, but the cognitive path seems
like the one to follow in my current situation. I
actually start to look forward to our meetings.
It turns out the Bureau wants to hire me as a
highly-paid "consultant" for the new and improved
X-Files, which is mostly an extraterrestrial task
force of ten agents led by Doggett and Reyes whose
goal is to monitor alien activity and prepare for any
future trouble. 
Scully has taken an indefinite, paid family
leave, and I've been visiting William every day,
learning how to be a good father. The Bureau is
certainly being financially generous to Scully and me,
but it's clear they don't want either of us overly
involved. At this point I don't care if they're paying
me off. I trust Doggett and Reyes to do a good job.
It's hard to believe I can say that about anyone
besides Scully and Walter, but they're both good
people trying to do what's right. I know at some point
my curiosity will kick in and I'll start to hunger for
more knowledge about the aliens, where they're from
and what they're like, but I think maybe it's time I
did something else with my life-maybe write a book, or
just practice having a real family for a while.
Walter says I deserve to do whatever I want to,
and incredibly I, Fox Mulder, former self-flagellating
pessimist, agree with him. I'm ready to start over.


The End