Title: To Dream of Trust
Author: eggplant goatgirl47@yahoo.com
Pairing: M/O
Rating: NC-17
Keywords: slash, light BDSM, angst
Warning: It's sad.
Disclaimer: Does anyone really care at this point?
Timeline: This takes place not long after Mrs. Mulder
has killed herself and Samantha has become "starlight"
(ugh). Forget anything happened on the show after
that. For some of you, this will be easy.
Summary: Mulder has a new lover.


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

"Who would not rather trust and be deceived?" 
--Eliza Cook 

"You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you
will live in torment if you don't trust enough." 
--Frank Crane 


"Good boy." When I'm in my normal life, what I think
of as my real life, I remember the words with
embarrassment. I try not to remember them. When I'm
here with him, in what seems like my dream life,
naked, kneeling with his cock in my mouth, the words
fill me with such pride. Warmth spreads into my chest,
my groin. Everywhere.

I lose myself in the feel of his flesh on my tongue.
His cock is so hard, so soft, so big. Tangy fluid
drips down my throat. No condoms. I got tested after
our first time, but he didn't show me proof that he's
clean. He told me he was and his word was good enough
for me. I believed him without question, although in
my real life sometimes I get a twinge of worry. I know
very little about him, only that he's become almost
everything to me. Almost.

"Good, good boy," he whispers, almost reverently,
taking my head in his hands and quickening the pace.
He fucks my face hard, almost throwing me off balance,
but I open my throat to him and keep sucking with all
the passion I feel. My hands are bound behind my back,
and I'm blindfolded, but his fingers wound tightly in
my hair keep me upright. My own cock is straining
painfully in its cage, the large buttplug pressed
against my prostate, but I'm so focused on his cock,
on pleasing him, that I hardly notice.

A jet of hot come shoots down my throat and I swallow
it all. I've learned not to gag after a great deal of
practice. A great deal. He leaves his softening penis
in my mouth, and I suckle it for a moment, pressing my
nose against his pubic hair. I savor his scent-a mix
of soap and sweat, and something I can't place,
something I love-while I lick him clean. Finally he
pulls out of my mouth and strokes my hair. "That was
the best yet, little one," he praises me, and I can't
help but smile. "Those lips were made for sucking."
With that he helps me to stand and kisses me deeply,
fucking my mouth with his tongue just as he did with
his cock moments before. 

I still can't see, but I can tell he's guiding me over
to the livingroom couch. He draws me onto his lap and
pulls my head down to kiss me some more. He's the most
powerful kisser I've ever encountered. My cock throbs
in its cage, almost numb with pain.

"Tell me, little one," he says as he releases my
mouth, "would you like me to free your pretty cock?"
He strokes my ass with one hand, putting slight
pressure on the plug with one finger, and brushes my
nipples lightly with the other, just barely tugging at
the rings that hang from them.

I have to clear my throat to speak, and still my voice
sounds tight and small. "Yes please, Mr. Wren." That's
what he prefers I call him. The first time he met me
at a club I was investigating as part of a case, he
introduced himself as Theodore Wren, but that I should
call him Mr. Wren. I hadn't been in a gay bar since
college. 

I was at Oxford in the early eighties. Cocaine was
consumed like beer, everyone was having sex with
everyone else, and I was seventeen, on my own in a new
country. Mr. Wren reminded me of an English Literature
tutor I had my first year of school there, Mr.
Hanford. Mr. Hanford was a brilliant lecturer, very
distinguished, and told me one afternoon, after an
in-depth discussion about Oscar Wilde in his office,
that he would like to introduce me to the pleasures of
my prostate. I was nervous at first, terrified
actually, but he reassured me as he gently lowered my
trousers and bent me over his desk. He made it sound
as if every young man of any sophistication should
experience this at the hands of a mentor, as if we
were conducting a time-honored experiment. That first
time he used his fingers, but soon he was fucking me
whenever he could get me alone, giving us both
pleasure. I continued my sexual education in and out
of Mr. Hanford's office, with any man or woman in
England willing to educate me, which turned out to be
quite a few. It's a wonder when AIDS started popping
up a few years later that I had escaped unscathed.

Mr. Hanford died of a heart attack the summer after my
second year; he was fifty. I was grieving, but
couldn't talk to anyone about it. I went to his
funeral and struggled not to cry while watching his
wife and two daughters weeping openly at his
graveside. I felt as if I'd killed him, as if his
death was punishment for my lack of restraint when it
came to sex. I thought of how horrified my mother
would be if she knew what I'd been up to, how my dad
would think of me as a dirty faggot. Most of all, I
thought of my little sister. Since she disappeared
when I was twelve, I had vowed that I would someday
find her. She could still be alive, waiting for me to
save her, while I was off being a sex toy. 

By then I was determined to return to the States and
work for the FBI, thinking it would help me to find
Samantha. My Literature studies shifted instead to
Psychology, with an emphasis on criminal behavior. I
was nineteen and decided that from then on I would be
a serious, upstanding citizen. I only dated the most
reputable, least adventurous women. Phoebe's idea of
wild sex was doing it missionary style on Arthur Conan
Doyle's grave. I liked sex with women, but there was
always something missing, a hole I filled with a
secret porn habit. In the past several years, porn had
become my sex life.

The night I met Mr. Wren, I was waiting to see if a
man named Rupert Soles would show up at the Crowbar. I
suspected that he was a shapeshifter who had lured
several gay men to be experimented on, although Scully
just thought he might be an ordinary serial killer. I
hadn't told Scully, or anyone, I was going there,
knowing that they would say that there were no clues
linking this bar with Rupert Soles. I had a feeling
though, a feeling that turned out to be wrong. 

Ever since my mother had killed herself, and I'd
learned what happened to Samantha, I'd started to
wonder why I was doing all of this. What was the point
of finding out the truth if it just bit you in the ass
when you found it? What was the point of saving the
world from alien colonization if the world was such a
crappy place to begin with? Whenever such fatalistic
sentiments began to creep into my consciousness, I
would immerse myself in another case, trying to lose
myself in something outside of me perhaps, but it
wasn't enough anymore. Scully was my closest friend,
but it seemed as if she was just tolerating me lately.
Our relationship had come to resemble codependence
more than any actual affection. I needed
something-someone-to tether me to this life because I
didn't know how long I could continue to drift in such
emptiness.

Rupert never showed up. I stayed sipping a beer for
about three hours. Several men approached me, even
though it was Tuesday and a pretty slow night, but I
turned them all away. One guy was a little persistent,
rubbing his groin against my thigh. I pushed him away,
but not too roughly. I wasn't in the mood to start a
fight. He suddenly grabbed me by the balls, sending a
jolt of pain through me, but a large, masculine hand
clamped down on the guy's wrist before I could get it
together enough to break it myself.

"Let go," was all the voice attached to this new hand
said. It was a deep, commanding voice, a voice that
you couldn't help but listen to. The hand on my balls
loosened as the new hand continued to grip its wrist.
When I looked up, the guy who had grabbed me was gone,
replaced by a tall man about ten years my senior. Mr.
Hanford, was my first thought, although of course that
was absurd. They had similar silver, wavy hair, and a
distinguished profile, but that was where the
similarities ended. This man was bigger, broader, and
had piercing blue eyes, unlike Mr. Hanford's warm
brown ones. I realized this man was holding my hand.
"Are you all right, little one?" he asked, stroking
the back of my hand with his thumb, a look of deepest
concern in his eyes.

"I.I." I was torn between expressing gratitude to this
man for "saving" me, and asking him who the hell he
thought he was, holding my hand and calling me "little
one" of all things. After all, I couldn't have been
more than an inch shorter than he was, and in another
moment I would have broken the molester's wrist
myself. I was a trained FBI agent, for God's sake.
"Thank you," I finally said, still a little flustered.
His thumb still moved back and forth on my hand, and I
made no move to pull away. 

"My name is Theodore Wren," he said, leaning in close,
almost whispering in my ear. "You may call me Mr.
Wren." I smiled at that, thinking of my old tutor. I
suddenly felt shy, hesitant as I was when I was
seventeen. I let Mr. Wren continue to hold my hand,
and didn't object when he lifted his other hand to
gently stroke the back of my neck. I couldn't remember
the last time anyone had touched me with such care and
I leaned into his palm and closed my eyes for a
moment. I'd only had one beer over the past three
hours, but I felt a little drunk.

"What's your name, little one?" he asked in that same
soft voice when I didn't speak.

"Fox," I said, startled at my own voice. I hadn't told
anyone to call me that in years, thinking it sounded
stupid.

He smiled softly, but didn't make any of the annoying
remarks people had made about the name in the past.
"I'm going to kiss you, Fox," he said simply, before
leaning in and pressing his lips to mine. I hadn't
kissed a man in about twenty years, and I'd forgotten
what it felt like, how strong, how demanding a man's
lips could be. There wasn't even any tongue involved,
but I became lost in the kiss. "Would you like to
leave?" Mr. Wren asked politely when he broke away. I
nodded.

We held hands out into the street, and he led me to
his car. "I'd like you to come home with me, to spend
the night," he said. When I stiffened a bit, he pulled
me into a gentle hug, rocking me slightly. "Don't
worry, I'll take care of you," he said.

I found myself babbling into his shoulder about how I
was an FBI agent, why I was at the bar that night, and
how it wasn't a good idea to go home with strange men.
He didn't react as I thought he would, freaked out
that I was FBI on a stakeout. Instead he just said,
"if it will make you feel safer, we can get a hotel
room." I immediately agreed.

I went into work late the next day. We'd stayed up
most of the night fucking. First he did me on my hands
and knees on the bed. As he got close to climaxing, he
pushed my chest down and held my wrists tightly
against the mattress. I'd forgotten what it was like
to be fucked by a man, to feel overpowered. It felt
like being high on cocaine, a feeling I hadn't had
since I was nineteen.

We slept for a few hours, until Mr. Wren awakened me
with a finger up my ass. It was too soon for either of
us to get it up again, but I still writhed and groaned
beneath his touch, and eventually got half hard. "Pull
your knees up, little Fox, so I can see you better,"
he said, working a second and then a third finger into
my already loosened asshole. I complied and lost
myself in the sensations. "Touch yourself, little
one," he said, and I did, stroking myself to a
mini-orgasm. He retreated to the bathroom to wash his
hands, and returned with a wet washcloth, which he
cleaned me with. "Such a pretty thing," he whispered
into my mouth before claiming me in a kiss and
wrapping me in his arms.

We slept for a few more hours-probably the best sleep
I'd had in months-and in the morning I sucked him off
in the shower. I hadn't given a blowjob in forever,
and know I was clumsy about it, but he didn't say
anything, just held me tightly in the cooling water
and whispered, "what a good boy you are," in my ear. I
don't know if anyone had ever called me that in my
life. It felt silly for a moment, but it mostly felt
good, warm. We exchanged phone numbers and parted
ways.

I told Scully I was late because I hadn't felt well
that morning, and she believed me, considering I was
pretty spacey for the rest of the day. After the buzz
of a night of incredible sex had worn off, I didn't
know what to think about what had happened. I was a
grownup. I was entitled to have sex with whomever I
wanted. Why did I feel so weird about it? It was then
that I realized that we hadn't used condoms. How
idiotic could I have been? And how could the thought
have never crossed my mind? I was jumpy for the next
couple days, figuring that I'd never see Mr. Wren
again, and that I should probably get an HIV test.
When Scully asked me what was wrong, I said "nothing."
I could tell she didn't believe me, but I couldn't
imagine how she'd react to my story. Even though she
hadn't made the best choices of bed partners in the
past, I knew she would judge me. And for some reason I
didn't want her to know I was gay, or bi, or whatever
I was. Maybe it was that Catholic thing that scared
me. Or maybe I was judging myself.

A week passed, during which Scully and I went to
Kentucky to investigate, without success, the spirit
of a vengeful man trapped in the body of a horse, and
Mr. Wren hadn't called. I figured he'd just wanted me
for the night, and while this gave me some measure of
relief, deep down I thought of him longingly. In my
mind I'd built him up into a savior of sorts. He'd
rescued me and made me feel treasured. I didn't want
to admit that I even wanted to feel rescued and
treasured, but there it was. I wanted it.

"Hello Fox," the voice on the other end of the line
greeted me-deep, smooth. My groin immediately tingled.

"Hello Mr. Wren," I said quietly, feeling my face
flush. He brought out a bashful part of me I'd thought
was long-gone.

"I'd like to spend some time with you this weekend,"
he said. It was almost as if I could feel his voice on
my skin. "I'll take you to dinner this evening."

"Ok," I agreed immediately. Mr. Wren rarely asked
questions. He just said what would happen.

"We're going somewhere nice, so dress for it, little
one. Now tell me where you live so I can come pick you
up." I gave him the address without pause and said
goodbye.

I looked down at what I was wearing-the rumpled suit
I'd been wearing all day. I had an hour in which to
get ready, and I suddenly felt as if I was back in
high school, frantic about what I could wear. I took a
quick, five-minute shower, shaved for the second time
that day, brushed my teeth, splashed on some cologne I
rarely used, and rummaged through my drawers.
Definitely the black silk boxers. I considered for a
moment not wearing underwear at all, but then thought
the boxers would be sexier. All I had in my closet
were suits, and all of my other clothes in the drawers
were of the jeans and t-shirt variety. I guess I would
have to go with a suit. I chose my best Armani-an
olive green one I rarely wore for work. I just went
with a white shirt and conservative tie, not sure what
else would go with olive green.

By the time the buzzer sounded, I was trying to
breathe steadily and not sweat. I buzzed Mr. Wren up
and within a minute, I was letting him into my
apartment. My apartment was tidy, but I still wondered
what he thought of it. Did he approve of the size, of
the décor? He didn't give me any clues, instead
stepping close and running a rough hand over my smooth
jaw. "You look and smell delicious, and that color
brings out your beautiful eyes," he said before taking
my mouth with his own. It was a thorough, possessive
kiss that left me gasping for air. "Our reservation is
for eight o'clock," he said, leading me out to his
car, a hand firmly on my lower back. His car was a
luxury sedan, and I wondered, amazingly for the first
time, how Mr. Wren made his money. He was obviously
wealthy. The interior was gray leather, the windows
lightly tinted. Before pulling away from the curb, he
leaned over and kissed me again. I realized that,
while I'd been on plenty of dates, I didn't think I'd
ever been taken on a date.

I didn't think to ask where we were going, but it was
taking us a while to get there. Mr. Wren drove with
his hand stroking my thigh, and by the time we reached
our destination, I was hard as a rock, worrying that
I'd leave a wet stain on my pants soon. We came to a
stop in the parking lot-thank God it wasn't valet
parking-and Mr. Wren stared pointedly at my erection.
"Well, little one, it won't do to go into the
restaurant like that," he said, a faint tease in his
voice. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and
handed it to me. "Why don't you give yourself some
release?"

"Here?" I asked, incredulous, although I took the
handkerchief from him.

"Yes, little one," he answered reasonably as he pulled
my zipper down and reached in past black silk to free
my cock. "No one can see in here, and I would like to
see you touch yourself."

I gulped nervously, but my erection hadn't flagged. It
didn't seem that Mr. Wren was going to do anything
about it, so I took myself in hand and started to
stroke. Mr. Wren gave me encouragement, telling me how
beautiful I looked between deep kisses, his hand on
the back of my neck. He made sure the handkerchief was
in place when I came with a cry, and then cleaned me
off and tucked me back into my pants.

"Now you're ready for dinner, isn't that right, little
one?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr. Wren," I said, feeling that I'd certainly
worked up an appetite. He smiled.

The restaurant was one of the finest in DC, a tiny
French place with only a few tables. The waiter didn't
blink an eye when Mr. Wren ordered for me, assuring me
that I would love whatever he'd gotten me. And I did.
I hadn't eaten in a fancy restaurant in forever, my
job lending itself more to fast food and greasy
diners.

"So, Mr. Wren," I said, initiating conversation for
the first time since I'd met him, "what do you do for
a living?"

Mr. Wren looked surprised for a moment and then
chuckled. "How thoughtless of me," he said, "I've
barely told you anything about myself. I've made a
fortune in finance." Coming from him, the explanation
didn't seem like bragging, just a statement of fact.
He named a well-known investment firm, and explained
that he'd been able to retire earlier that year and
now was enjoying spending his money. He held my knee
beneath the table and looked into my eyes. "I'd like
to spend a good deal of it with you," he said
seriously.

Part of me wanted to say something about how he didn't
need to spend any money on me, but all I did was sit
quietly and blush. He took my hand in his while we ate
our dessert, not seeming to care if anyone saw.

He brought me back to his home, an old two-story
townhouse in downtown DC. I always wondered who lived
in these houses that were probably worth millions. His
tastes in home decorating were of course impeccable,
and he led me to the enormous beige leather couch in
the livingroom. The leather was supple, almost
buttery. There was a baby grand piano dominating the
room, and I wondered if he played. Before I could ask
he said, "Why don't you take your clothes off and come
sit here with me."

>From anyone else, the request would seem odd, but it
seemed like a perfectly normal request coming from
him. I removed each item of clothing slowly, aware
that he was watching me, and placed them neatly on a
chair. When I was completely naked, I stood up
straight, unashamed. He'd only removed his jacket and
tie, but it didn't bother me at all as his eyes roved
over my body. He made me feel as if I was something
incredible. It had been a long time since I'd shared
my body with someone, and although past lovers had
complemented me, I'd never felt incredible before. 

"Come here, Fox," he said quietly, beckoning me over
to the couch. He pulled me down beside him,
practically into his lap, and spent long moments
exploring my mouth with his tongue, exploring my body
with his fingers, especially my nipples which were
raised to hard points. My cock was hard again and
leaking, but he didn't touch it at all. He stopped
kissing me, and maneuvered me so my legs were draped
over his lap, my body pressed to his, my head leaning
on his shoulder, my ass on that soft leather. With one
hand he stroked my hair, and with the other he
continued to tease my nipples. "Fox," he whispered
directly into my ear, "you like that I take care of
you, don't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Wren," I said into the hollow of his neck,
feeling a dreamy combination of relaxation and
arousal.

"I think we're a good match," he continued. "Will you
continue to trust me to make decisions for you when
we're together?"

Trust. It had been one of the major issues of my life.
"Trust no one," Deep Throat had told me, and it had
become something of a mantra for me. I'd found there
were very few people in this world that could be
trusted. Even my parents hadn't proven trustworthy. I
trusted Scully, sort of. There had been moments of
doubt even there. But Mr. Wren wasn't asking for trust
beyond the bedroom. Obviously there was something in
me that craved his control, that wanted him to make
the decisions, not about the x-files, or my quest for
truth, but about my body. I didn't want to give up
control of my life, just this one small part of it.

"Yes," I heard myself answer, not knowing what
decisions he would make, but knowing that I wanted him
to make them.

He rocked me for a while until I was almost sleepy, my
erection mostly wilted. My eyes were closed, but I
could feel Mr. Wren slipping something over my penis.
I looked down to see him securing a golden cock ring
at the base. He smiled when I looked into his eyes.
"Have you ever worn one before?" he asked, stroking me
back to erection. The ring began to dig into my flesh,
an uncomfortable, yet arousing sensation.

"No," I said, clinging to him as he stroked me.

"I'll remove it when I feel you're ready to come," he
said. "You'll want to come before I let you, but
you'll trust me to make that decision, won't you?" he
asked.

I didn't answer, because I knew it wasn't really a
question.

He led me from the livingroom to his bedroom, which
was huge, a high king-size bed at its center covered
in fluffy comforters and pillows. He laid me down on
my back, my ringed cock jutting toward my stomach. He
stroked my chest, my abdomen, my thighs, ignoring my
cock. I heard my own moans as if they were coming from
somewhere else. "Please." I pleaded, thrusting my
pelvis toward his hands.

Mr. Wren smiled, continuing his stroking everywhere
but where I wanted it. "So lovely," he whispered. I
lay panting on the bed as he removed his clothes. He
gathered a few of the feather pillows from the head of
the bed and wedged them beneath my lower back. He took
my ankles and pushed my knees to my chest, fully
exposing my ass. I instinctively gripped my thighs,
holding my legs in place.

"Look how open you are, little one," he said, kneeling
over me, running his fingers over my thighs, my
perineum and finally my anus. He had brought a tube of
lube to the bed with him and began to coat his fingers
and his cock. He slipped a finger in completely and
immediately zoned in on my prostate.

I could hear myself grunting. My cock, bobbing against
my stomach, close to my face because of my position,
was an angry red, feeling as if it would burst. I was
sweating profusely, but I clung tightly to my legs
holding them in position as he added a second finger.
I didn't even notice he'd added more fingers, but he
must have, because I was stretched almost painfully. I
knew I was moaning, crying, but it was as if I was out
of my body listening to someone else.

Mr. Wren finally removed his fingers and replaced them
with his cock. He eased in slowly, very slowly, and
pulled out at the same pace, nearly driving me mad. My
hands started to slip from my sweaty thighs, but Mr.
Wren held my legs in place. He kept up the torturously
slow pace for a long time. In. Out. In. Out. I
couldn't believe his restraint. Without the cock ring
I would have come long ago.

I hardly noticed when he gradually began to pick up
speed, I was so far gone, but after what seemed like
forever, he was pounding into me. I'd never felt like
this before-like there was a fire deep inside me, in
my head, my chest, but especially my ass, as if all
there was beneath my skin was molten lava.

Just as I felt Mr. Wren shudder and begin to shoot his
come deep inside me, he removed the cock ring. To say
I exploded would be an understatement. It felt as if
my heart and lungs, even my brain flew out of me with
my orgasm, and then there was just darkness.

When I came to, I was lying flat on my back, my legs
down, with Mr. Wren lying on top of me, thigh to
thigh, belly to belly, chest to chest. He was
peppering my face with feather light kisses. After I
felt him kiss each eyelid I opened my eyes and was
surprised to feel tears stream over my cheeks. Mr.
Wren didn't comment on the tears or ask what they were
for, just licked them away with gentle flicks of his
tongue. We lay like that for a while, our sweat and
come sticking us together.

"Stay here, little one, and I'll draw us a bath," my
lover finally whispered in my ear before peeling
himself from me and retreating to the bathroom. I
listened to the water run for a while, drifting, my
mind only filled with my body's sensations. The smell
of sex permeated the air, and my spent cock and ass
felt raw. The rest of my body felt like cooked
spaghetti. I'd never felt better in my life.

Mr. Wren eventually returned and helped me to the
bathroom. My legs were shaking and he had to support
me quite a bit. The tub was, of course, enormous, big
enough for at least four adults. There were Jacuzzi
jets, but they weren't turned on. He eased me into the
still, warm water, and settled in behind me. We didn't
speak, and nothing sexual happened. He just held me,
washed me, and I didn't think I'd felt this right
ever.

Each week my trust grew and Mr. Wren introduced me to
new sensations. One week it was the blindfold, another
having my hands tied. Another week he took me to get
my nipples pierced, assuring me, despite my reluctance
that I would love how they felt and that I could take
them out if it was at all unpleasant. After a few days
of recovery, there was no way I was taking them out.
My nipples had always been sensitive, but now it was
like I had two tiny cocks on my chest. During the day,
as I felt my nipples, permanently erect from the
rings, rub against my shirt, I thought of Mr. Wren and
couldn't wait to see him again.

I loved the butt plug-no hesitation there whatsoever.
I could just imagine it was Mr. Wren's cock, even when
the real thing was down my throat. But now, with the
introduction of this cage on my cock, I'm not so sure.
The multiple sensations are driving me to the edge. Is
it possible for a cock to explode if ejaculation is
prolonged for too long? "Please, Mr. Wren," I quietly
plead, tears beginning to dampen the blindfold.

"Anything for you, my love," he whispers in my ear,
before releasing me. I come so powerfully it feels as
if the top of my head blows off, and then I black out
for a moment. When I come to, my lover has removed the
blindfold and I watch him with sleepy eyes as he
unties my hands and pulls out the buttplug. He gently
wipes the come and sweat from my body, kissing me
softly in between swipes with the towel. We drift off
to sleep lying pressed closely together on the couch,
skin to skin.

Monday morning I enter the basement office, feeling as
if I'm entering a cavern. I used to feel comfortable
here. In fact, it used to be the only place I felt
comfortable, the closeness, solitariness and lack of
natural light providing a sanctuary of sorts. Since
I'd been with Mr. Wren, the office had started to feel
more and more oppressive, cold and heavy in contrast
to my warm, light weekend life. 

Scully, too, seemed different. When she first started
working with me, I was of course mistrustful, but soon
I started to enjoy our spirited "discussions." She
kept my mind sharp; she kept me grounded. It got to
the point where we could have a whole conversation
while sitting in a meeting with just a glance or two.
I would kill or die for her, and it seemed she was
willing to do the same for me. 

Now, when I was around her, I didn't feel so connected
anymore. What once seemed like intensity in her
expression only looked like scowling. What used to
feel like invigorating debate now just felt like petty
arguing. This morning she's sitting at her desk,
studying what appear to be 8x10 glossy photos with an
absorption that seems almost comical. "Lighten up," I
want to say to her. "Go get laid."

"Mulder, do you know who this is?" she asks in the way
of greeting before I even put my briefcase down. After
I get my things settled, I take the photos from her
outstretched hand.

For a moment, I stare at the photos in my hand as if
I'm staring at nothing. "These don't exist," I insist
in my head. "These don't exist."

They are surveillance photos of my lover, his strong
profile and waves of silver hair magnificent in artful
black and white tones. My Mr. Wren shaking another
man's hand, talking conspiratorially with another man,
handing another man a sealed envelope, smiling in
friendship at another man. The other man is smoking.
He's always smoking.

I feel the blood leave my body, the photos drop from
my hands.

"Mulder, what's wrong?" I hear Scully say, as if she
is under water. "Do you know him?"

"No," is all I can say over and over as I feel myself
backing up until I hit the wall and sink to the floor.
I'm cold and I can't breathe.

"Mulder," Scully says, alarmed, her voice far, far
away. "My God, what's wrong?" She's touching me,
loosening my tie, but I don't see her. My eyes are
closed. I'm seeing my lover, his arms outstretched,
welcoming me, taking care of me. I'm feeling the man I
trust with my body holding me, taking command of me
with only his voice and his touch. He's let me go and
I'm falling, falling. I'm falling into a place where
no one can deceive me, where trust doesn't exist.

When I open my eyes again, Scully is still crouched in
front of me, saying my name. I can breathe again, but
I'm cold as stone. It feels like my natural state of
being, as if warm blood has never flowed through me.
As if I am a stone. Scully seems to sense the change
in me and stands, stepping back.

"I was about to call the paramedics," she says,
confused. "Are you alright? I thought you were having
a heart attack for a second."

"I'm fine," I say, her old refrain. And I am. I'll
move through my life as if Mr. Wren never existed, as
if I never felt anything for anyone.

Scully looks at me strangely. "Mulder, that looked
like a full-blown anxiety attack, and now you're just
fine?"

I stand and move to my desk, begin to shuffle some
papers, get back to the cases. I'm very tired all of a
sudden, and I know I probably look a bit disheveled,
but I'll be fine. I'm made of stone.

"Why did you have such a reaction to those photos,
Mulder?" she persists. Her voice sounds shrill, but it
can't affect me. "Who is that man? Do you know him?
What do you think he was doing with the smoker?"

"No," is all I say. "No." I know I should be asking
the same questions, but I don't want to know. What was
in that envelope? Pictures of me in the throes of
ecstasy being fucked by a man? Why did he become
involved with me? To blackmail me? It didn't even
matter if anyone knew. To distract me from the
X-files? Well that certainly worked. I should be doing
research on Theodore Wren, trying to find out who he
is and how he's connected to the Consortium. I should,
but I won't. I don't even care anymore.

Scully continues to study me for clues all day, the
consummate scientist trying to solve the puzzle, but
I'm not giving anything away. I'll never give anything
away again. Tonight I will go back to my dark
apartment and eat my takeout dinner, watch some TV,
and sleep alone. And I'll be fine. The past few months
were a dream, I tell myself. I will never dream again.
It's true that you really can trust no one, even
yourself.

Author's notes: Sorry it's so depressing, but a happy
ending just wasn't in the cards. Please send me
feedback if you like it, and keep it to yourself if
you don't. I only want the strokes.