"What the hell took them so long?"
"Mulder."
"They didn't even find anything."
The postmortem report on the third body, thick as the file was, had come up empty. Skinner didn't reply. There wasn't any point. Mulder knew as well as he did how long these things took. They hadn't been kept waiting. He was simply falling prey to the same frustration that Skinner had been carrying around with him for the last two months. It was typical of him not to think of that, too focused on his own need to make progress, greedy for absolution. But there just wasn't anything to be found.
When he hadn't been watching Mulder get his brains fucked out, Skinner had spent the last month sifting through pathologist reports, sketches and specimen photos of the first two bodies. The killer's marks were the last in a long list of many. Each man's body had already been a roadmap of decline, falling apart under the strain of everyday concerns like food and drink and shelter. Years of uncertain survival had turned their bones brittle, their kidneys dysfunctional and their livers rotten. Even alive, their medical files would have been small novellas. By the time the killer was done with them, forensics had managed to expand them to biblical proportions. Yet Fielding had been able to tell him nothing he could use. At some parts, the profile read like a rave review though he had remained rational enough not to tax Fielding with that fact.
Victimology was another deadend, which was more than just plain good luck for the killer. From legwork done amongst the usual haunts of the homeless, photographs of the dead men in hand, it was clear that these were not crimes of opportunity. These men had been carefully chosen. Both of them were remembered by other street people for their absolute withdrawal from even those marginal points of social contact. They spoke to no one, kept to themselves and somehow, lived from day to day. According to Fielding's profile, it was this isolation that had made them attractive to the killer. That, and the fact that each man would have borne a close resemblance to Mulder, even before the surgery was carried out.
Skinner glanced at Mulder. He had slumped back into his chair, his outburst over and seemingly forgotten. Taking his cue from him, he turned back to his own notes and took up where he had left off. The day had slowly led itself out of a strained and uncomfortable silence into a more companionable one as Mulder had concentrated on getting up to date with the investigation. The ease with which he let the killings absorb him had Skinner wincing, even as he lingered there in the basement, wanting to watch the profiler in Mulder at work, wanting an intimate knowledge of every last thing that made him tick.
Mulder hadn't made any comment but Skinner was uncomfortably aware that he was nobody's fool. At some point, though, he had looked up, caught Skinner's eye and given him one of his sweet, crooked smiles. Knowing they were rarely seen outside Scully's immediate vicinity, Skinner had taken it as a sign of peace between them. Gratitude had washed over him and he had returned the gesture, unable to keep all the answering relief off his face.
It was afternoon now, and his thoughts came unerringly to Scully as they had intended to all along. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to feel a little more hopeful. Manning would have his head for bringing her onto the investigation as he planned to do. Mulder would too, for that matter but Skinner thought they were past the point where Mulder's comfort zone could be given precedence. And Scully was necessary to Mulder. He had thought so all along but Manning had, at that time, not given Skinner any slack to play with. With the advent of the third body, things were different.
This UNSUB had appeared at the worst possible time for Manning. He was already fielding the blowout from some high profile cases that had gone nowhere. Lobby groups and victims groups had been more vocal than usual. Washington was muttering and fingers were looking for a place to point. Manning was desperate to see this case controlled, solved and stowed away from the light of day for all time. He would give Skinner his way in this. And damnit, Scully was necessary. He had seen her magic Mulder back to himself more than once. White magic. And it worked too, if Mulder was anything to go by. Manning would just have to learn to defer.
He wondered yet again, as he often did, when he thought of the two of them, why it didn't upset him that Mulder would always find a way to come back to himself for Scully. But it never did; that was just the way it was. In many ways, he thought she had a bigger claim on Mulder than he was ever destined to, but then again, a little Mulder went a long way, didn't it? As long as he got his rightful share of the apple, why compare the size of the bite? A faint impatience stirred within him at that undisciplined thought. Who said he wanted any share of Mulder at all, in the first place?
Feeling a little like a worm struggling on a hook, he turned resolutely back to the files spread out in front of him and gave them his full attention for the next couple of hours. Soon enough he began to realize that something wasn't quite right. But he couldn't damn well see what it was.
Mulder chose that moment to frighten him with one of his displays of telepathy. "There's something wrong with the bodies."
Skinner nodded. "I was just thinking that. I can't work out what it is."
"I think we're looking at this in the wrong way," Mulder replied. "But I'm not sure yet what the right way is."
Skinner made a noncommittal sound, knowing that Mulder didn't need a response so much as a sounding board. Holding his tongue, he watched him flip open the files from the beginning yet again and start reading. He remained silent even as he noted, with a touch of despair, Mulder's hand reaching for more sunflower seeds, scattering empty husks over the edge of the desk. The ones that didn't get battered underfoot into the carpet sat in the grooves left by his chair, testimony to his habit of rocking on its back legs. It was difficult to like this man, it really was. Wanting. Now that was easy. He was used to thoughts of Mulder invading him at will, hooking into him and snipping out parts of him, like elves rearranging the furniture, never sure what was left over once they were done.
Mulder spat a saliva-coated husk straight out onto his palm, making a displeased sound. It was examined cursorily and then deposited without further ado, onto the carpet, where it joined the rest of the husks. Jesus, Skinner thought to himself, desperate to stop a rusty guffaw, swelling in his chest, from finding its way out. He was obsessed with a man who ate bird treats with all the poise of a five year old. The little lick of humor that the thought brought to the edge of his mouth, felt good, even as he pressed his lips firmly shut against it in surprise.
It wasn't as though he didn't laugh. He'd like to know where that rumor started. But Mulder had arrived as Sharon had begun to leave him, a time when he had acknowledged the loss of simple things like friendship and humor as something that had happened to them years ago. There was truth in what she said; he had left her long before she left him. In all this sterility, Mulder's sly cultivation of the absurd had been impossible to ignore. But a year later, it still startled Skinner when he responded to it. He was not yet used to the idea of sharing a sense of humor with someone again. And he wasn't sure he could ever get used to the idea that it was Mulder.
Mulder spoke then, breaking the flow of his thoughts. "I know what's wrong."
Skinner sat up and took notice. "What is it?"
Mulder drew a breath and then launched into what, Skinner realized, with a sinking heart, was one of his more pithy lectures.
"Anyone who watches the movies knows now that the average serial killer is white, mid20s and male, right? Right. Okay, say we start with that. The thinking is that we can also divide serial killers, for the main part, into two categories. The majority of them usually target the 'bad people' - prostitutes, crackheads, the homeless. Okay. Then the Bundy types who go after young flesh - schoolboys, schoolgirls - young, defenceless and impressionable. On the face of it, our guy falls into category one. But what's the problem with that?"
He paused, mainly to draw a breath, but Skinner took the opportunity to answer the question.
"Our guy's not concerned with the homeless really, is he? They just provide a convenient pool from which he takes his victims, without anyone missing them right away. Right? He's concerned with you."
"Right," Mulder said. "And he doesn't really fit category two, either, does he? I mean, you don't see much of the helpless schoolgirl in me, right?"
Skinner tried to bring his twitching mouth under control, without success. Visions of Mulder in pigtails and a school satchel continued to assault him. He knew better than to share them and settled for saying mildly, "Hell lies that way, Mulder."
Mulder sent him a withering look. "What I'm getting at, Walter, is that this guy is a serial killer who won't fall into the profiled boundaries. So we need to think again - forget Fielding's profile - about what's missing. Why is he killing these men?"
This time Mulder paused deliberately, one leg swinging from the knee, to and fro, skimming the air. Skinner responded, weighing in recklessly.
"To make a point."
Mulder nodded in approval. Skinner knew he was behaving like a goddamned puppy but couldn't stop himself.
"These aren't his first bodies. They're too professional and impersonal. There's nothing of him left behind."
Mulder raised his hands and clapped Skinner, slowly, four times. Oddly enough, it was an amusing gesture coming from Mulder. Had it been anyone else, he would have been at once humiliated and unspeakably angered. As it was, they shared a conspiratorial look before Mulder took over again.
"Exactly. We've been concentrating too hard on these bodies. We won't get anything out of them. He knows what he's doing now; he's had time to hone his skills. We need his first bodies, born out of need and so, by necessity, experimental. He was an amateur then and he will have made mistakes."
"You're sure about this?" Skinner asked, caution flaring up at the prospect of fresh hope.
"Absolutely. There are other, older bodies. In the beginning they always leave something of themselves behind, Walter. If someone had picked up on it then..." Mulder bit his lower lip and after a moment, only said, "If we're going to stop him, we have to find those bodies. Even if we have to go back as much as ten years, it's our only chance."
Skinner frowned. "Wait a minute. Neither Kroeger nor Bagnio are in their mid-20s. You said it could conceivably be either of them?"
He regretted his words at once as he saw a far greater truth than his question had anticipated, gather in Mulder's eyes, bruising them to a dark, unhappy moss-green.
"I think he's been doing this for a very long time."
Skinner exhaled, feeling an icy dread slip down his spine. More good news. Unnerved and made impatient by the understanding in Mulder's face, he got up and went to the window. Breathing hard, he kept his back to him as he fumbled with the top button at his collar. He was astonished to find that he couldn't get a grip on it, fingers slipping off the suddenly alien landscape of starch and buttonhole.
"Fuck!" Black spots danced behind his eyes and he nearly swung at Mulder when he found him at his side, capturing his shaking hand in his own and setting it aside.
"Relax," Mulder said, his fingers gentle at Skinner's throat. "This'll be open in a minute. Then you can breathe. Just relax."
Finally he felt the steel bar at his neck give way. Closing his eyes in self-defense against Mulder's scrutiny, he took a couple of long, shallow breaths.
"I'm okay," he murmured, feeling his own hand give the lie to his words as it lay, cold and still, in Mulder's. His body seemed unable to obey his mental prompts to move a more comfortable distance away.
"You're sure?"
He reached for words again, reassured by the sound of his voice. "It just turned my stomach for a minute. He walks around every day just like you and me."
Mulder thumbed his palm for a moment in silent sympathy and he jerked like a fish in a net, his teeth clenching against his reaction, always the same, no matter how inopportune the moment. IwantIwantIwant.
Then Mulder was saying, calmly, "It happens. It doesn't make a difference how close you get to things like this or how many times you do it. It's not something you - I - get used to. It's not something I want to get used to, you know?"
Skinner nodded to show he'd heard and they stood that way for a minute or maybe two. Then he carefully disentangled his hand from Mulder's and stepped away.
"I'm alright," was all he said but he glanced at Mulder, caught his eye and made sure he saw that it was alright, that he was grateful.
"A pizza with everything, couple of beers - that's my all-season cure," Mulder said with suitable gravity, a smile at the back of his eyes.
Skinner looked down at his watch and was surprised to see it was well past the end of the day. Assent, to what seemed like the best plan he'd heard all day, was on the tip of his tongue when he remembered he'd asked Scully to meet him, after hours. He couldn't imagine having that discussion within the confines of the Bureau.
Regretfully he shook his head. "I've got something I have to do, Mulder."
The suddenly wistful look that crossed the other man's face had him offering up excuses and confessions. "If I could get out of it, believe me, I would. Beating a fair share of pizza out of you is a much better way to spend the evening."
Mulder raised a polite eyebrow, signalling his disbelief. "Got a hot date, Walter?"
"I've got an appointment, Mulder. One that I might have a chance of getting to on time, if you'd stop talking."
"Hope you get lucky."
Skinner rolled his eyes and would have left it at that but Mulder pressed on, in an alarming break from their informally set down rules. "Anyone I know?"
Irritated at feeling himself grope for a suitable lie, Skinner spoke without thinking. "Christ, Mulder. What is this, prom night? I've got something to do. I told you. I can't get out of it. All right?"
It came out harsher than he had expected and louder than he wanted.
Mulder nodded his head to himself a few times, as if he had just confirmed some private hypothesis, and said, "All right, Walter. All right, then."
Something in his tone made Skinner's pulse speed up uneasily. If he could, he would have chosen to take that back. Mulder folded easily; it didn't take a genius to work it out. Words that wouldn't leave a mark on any other person, could scrape him raw and bloody. Skinner knew all this and he would have taken his words back if he could. But he couldn't and he saw no point in apologizing, not when Mulder was already spoiling for a fight. Experience had taught him that Mulder would consider himself handled. And if that didn't set him off completely, nothing would.
Instead he took refuge in practicalities. "I'll need the car. You can catch a cab back to the house. Or we can do it the other way around."
Mulder shrugged. "I'll catch a cab."
Skinner tried to hold on to his temper, acknowledging he was mostly to blame for this. Even so, part of him was pissed as hell at the unwanted aggravation. It took two, damn it. Why did Mulder always, always have to jump on everything? Any other day, he would have tolerated it, sure of his welcome. Things were different now with Mulder's little secret flapping noisily between them. Now he didn't know what to say that would sound neutral. He didn't know what he might say that would make him sound like he was on the wrong side. He wasn't even sure he knew which sides were which. His mouth was capable of coming up with anything when Mulder stood there, looking at him like that, like a defiant rat expecting to have a piece of poisoned cheese rammed down its throat.
He tried logic. "If you didn't think everything was an attempt to fuck you over, it would be easier to deal with you. So it came out wrong, but you jump on everything. Stop being so goddamned paranoid."
He heard himself at the end of that, giving orders. That wasn't how he had wanted to say it, either.
Mulder reacted predictably. "Wow, is this the pep talk, Dad?"
He hardly heard the jeering note in Mulder's voice. The look in Mulder's eyes had sent him diving into his memory and came up with a still-frame from the tapes he had had to watch: Mulder under some anonymous body, blood at the corner of his mouth, staring beyond the other man's shoulder at precisely nothing at all. Oh now wait just one goddamn son-of-a-bitch second. He meant to say that aloud but instead he stood quite still, his breath coming short and light as Mulder slid himself into his suit jacket with angry grace and left, without another word. He stood there silently and then walked over to Mulder's desk after a moment or two, slowly gathering up all the papers which Mulder hadn't seen fit to take with him, forcing his heartsickness to gentle into a peevish irritation. Did Mulder think he was on holiday, for chrissakes? Had he forgotten this was a question of life and death?
Knowing he was being slightly ridiculous, he nevertheless began fuming. When he got back tonight, he didn't give a shit what Mulder thought he was going to do with his evening, be it something as mundane as watching TV or as tiresome as sulking in isolation. They were going to work up a Plan B, working on this new theory he'd put to Skinner, and that, goddamn it, was all there was to it. Buzzing with a pleasantly righteous anger, Skinner put both their piles of paper into his briefcase and stalked off down the corridor, his coat flapping in his wake.
He managed to get as far as half-way down it before a voice called out, "Sir? Sir?" He wheeled around, barked an uninviting "What!" and regretted it immediately. The agent chasing him took another five minutes before she was able to compose herself sufficiently to talk to him. Jesus Christ. Anyone would think he was a werewolf or something. What the hell was wrong with people? Had they nothing better to do than go around quaking with fear at the sight of him? Some days, he gave serious thought to what was in the drinking water around here. Well, nearly serious. Serious enough to worry himself faintly, until he threw it into the mental file marked 'For Mulder's Amusement Only'.
That thought underlined the difference between then and now, all over again, and he barely managed a civil expression as he waited her out. In the end, she only stammered out a routine request for a sign-off on some documents. He stood there, clenching his jaw and finally took the nervously offered documents from her hand, signing each one as he held it against his briefcase, balanced precariously on one upraised knee. He felt like he was carving his name right through the paper and onto the leather.
By the time he managed to extricate himself, it was 6:20 p.m. Scully would be waiting. He already knew that she would struggle to find the small, out of the way bar he had given her directions to and no doubt arrive in a less than conciliatory state of mind. He had seen no reason to tell her that he had gone in to bat for her. Now he wondered if that, too, hadn't been an error in judgment. He was more convinced than ever that Mulder would benefit from having her around. The question remained, how much to tell her? The answer would depend on whether Scully let her resentment rule her. If she did, he would have to give her more than what he wanted to disclose, and without a doubt more than Mulder wanted him to disclose.
Mulder had no intention of going straight back to the house and Scully had her cell switched off. He had a vague memory of something about dinner with an old friend. It had sounded like enough of a smoke screen for him to suspect it was a date. So instead of finding himself a cab, he walked down Pensylvania Ave, away from the Bureau. His feet set themselves one in front of the other in an aimless pattern, his mind turning over the conversation with Skinner. Prom night. He felt a flush creep into his cheekbones and kicked out summarily at a bottle top lying on the pavement, in his way. He tracked it out of the corner of his eye as it careened into traffic and circled a small depression in the road before coming to a lop-sided halt in it. A place for everything and everything in its place. Where did that kiss fit into the conversation they had just had?
Instead of answering the question, he stopped and looked up at a sign above his head that was blinking with the persistence that only half-broken neon signs could muster up. The 'B' was missing in JOEY'S BAR but that was okay by him. It seemed otherwise unobjectionable from the outside and he was confirmed in his opinion when he went in. It was, for the most part, occupied by a suited and booted after-5 crowd, a hum of good humor running through the place. It would do for a place to get started, he thought, licking his suddenly dry lips as he realized he had made up his mind well before this instant.
Now this he understood. For one brief moment, he stopped to consider just how angry Skinner was going to be. He thought about the fact that he was a serial killer's fantasy. The guy could be anyone; he could even be here. He thought about the fact that his personal life wasn't so personal any more, if what Skinner had told him about the surveillance and the tapes had been anything to go on. Mulder thought about all these things but they weren't real to him just then. He could sit there and go through the motions of debate or admit that he had already made up his mind.
He chose the second of those two options and seated himself at one dim corner of the bar, a few empty bar stools between him and the nearest group of people. All the reasons why he should go back to the house died down after a while into a thin, familiar sense of misgiving that his mind ignored as a matter of habit. After two beers in the space of an hour, he slowed down a little, nursing the third carefully. There were hours yet to be spent and he didn't want to have to end things early. With practised ease, his mind skittered around the expected climax to the night, jumping instead to the lesser of the two evils. He thought about that kiss and wondered why Skinner had never asked him how he felt about seeing his own face staring back at him in all those files.
To be fair, he hadn't asked Skinner how he felt about seeing Mulder's face, either. But he hadn't wanted to. Skinner, on the other hand, whether he knew it or not, desperately wanted to ask him a whole shitload of questions. One of them, clearly, was written all over his face each time he looked at any of the scene photographs of the bodies. Closer to the truth, it was clear from what wasn't written on Skinner's face. When he thought Mulder wasn't looking, the other man would flip open to one of the photographs and stare at it. Times like those, the small signs of life that did populate his remote features, would disappear entirely and he would sit there for minutes, expressionless and unmoving.
It couldn't be about a simple fuck. For one thing, there could be nothing simple about an AD of the FBI fucking a male subordinate. When that AD was Skinner and the subordinate was him, it made even less sense. Mulder's credibility rating at the Bureau was lower than his insurance rating. If Skinner had wanted to hit him up with a fuck-buddy proposition, he could have done it with impunity, whether Mulder said yes or no. Even if he had been stupid enough to file a complaint, no one would have taken his word over Skinner's. Any which way he looked at it, he couldn't see that as a reason for Skinner to seek him out and make an ally of him. But even more simply, if all Skinner wanted was a fuck, he could find it a million other places besides his workplace. He would never look for it at work, not a man who had worked his way up to an assistant directorship, not a man who had let go of a marriage for it.
Mulder didn't think it could be put down to the goodness of Skinner's heart - in itself a controversial proposition - either. He wasn't stupid. Having progressed far enough to tell Skinner's expressions apart from one another, it wasn't exactly an advancement to pick up on the 'let's-fuck' vibe. Not that it was just a matter of fucking, as he'd already spent three beers establishing, which raised the question of what exactly it was. His own repertoire ranged from fuck to suck. That was it. If the urge to expand that concept into sleepovers and sunny weekends ever came over him, even he knew better than to test it out on Skinner. The fact that Skinner was a man didn't figure in it. And he's got the tapes to prove it. The fact that Skinner was his boss, on the other hand, did figure in it. That was a level of tragedy too obvious for even Mulder to stoop to. If he was going to fuck his life up, he wanted to go about it in a slightly more ingenious way.
Which wasn't to say he was averse to getting naked with Skinner. Far from it, if that little scene in Skinner's office was anything to go by. Then that puts me in charge of you, Agent Mulder, am I right? Mulder's beer made little waves against the glass and he put it down, staring moodily into its depths. He was half-hard already. Then there was that fucking motherfucker of a kiss. Oh yeah, if he hadn't been averse to Skinner before, he could get hard within a minute of sighting the bastard now. For all the good it would do either of them. The essential facts hadn't changed. Whatever Skinner wanted, it was just as unlikely to turn into something now as it had been then. Because it would be just as stupid now as it would have been then.
Unlike this, which is just such a great idea. Mulder shrugged off that thought, relieved to find himself at the bottom of his fourth beer, and as such, unable to follow that line of reasoning to anywhere concrete. It was an effective enough technique to keep him at the bar until closing time, without going near the topic again. He reeled out obediently with the rest of the die-hard clientele, cast his now hazy gaze about him and found his bearings. The walk sobered him up a little but mainly he was still plenty drunk. He didn't drink often enough to hold his alcohol well. Soon enough, he came to the set of unmarked doors laid back into the brick-paved wall. He felt a stupid grin hijack his mouth as he remembered his fear, the first time around, that he was about to walk into a boardroom or somewhere just as sobering. For his money, he still thought the lack of a name was a tacky way of underlining the underground nature of the place.
He had no trouble getting in even though he found himself at the end of a line of around twenty to thirty people. It took little effort to catch the eyes of the unsmiling block of granite behind the security ropes. He felt a little stupid and self-conscious as he let his mouth soften and fall open a fraction as the man looked him over but he knew from experience that the feeling would soon fall away from him. Mr Grim beckoned him over. He took his time walking to him and had to fight from rolling his eyes at the smug look on the other man's face. Obviously guarding the gateway to paradise involved just enough power to give his ego the boost it needed to go from overinflated to ludicrous.
"Want to get in, do you, boy?" Mulder was shown him a perfect set of teeth, neverending.
He was torn between his everpresent desire to make a fool out of a fool and the need to get what he came for. In the end he settled for a mysterious smile and let the man slide one large hand into his hair, holding it in a slightly painful grip. The other hand settled on his ass, squeezing both buttocks before releasing them, the better to land a hard blow, square in the middle of his ass. Mulder gasped, his hands reaching up to clutch at the other man's hips. There was something pathetic about getting turned on by such a stupid piece of playacting but opportunity was...opportunity.
And of course, there was an up side to having low standards. Goodbye stupid feeling, hello happy cock. He knew that there were people, both in the line, and standing around, who were watching him. He heard a jeering remark or two being yelled out but didn't bother to tune in. He kept his attention on the dull ache that had begun to settle into his ass and the rough hand that was caressing and pinching the flesh there, through his pants. Swaying forward, he urged the hand at his hip to move around and stroke his crotch.
Mr Grim, however, shook his head, saying with bovine sadness, "We're not allowed to fuck the clientele, pretty boy. It's a goddamn shame is what it is."
"Who knew we had so much in common?" Mulder agreed, pushing back into Mr Grim's hands anyway.
One more squeeze of appreciation and then he was propelled inside with another hard slap to send him on his way, bringing his cock all the way up to Just Happy to be Here. Mulder wondered if there was some minimum standard his cock meant to enforce. Mr Grim shouldn't even make it to Holiday Inn ratings. None of them should. He ignored that last thought and made his way to the bar, looking and being looked at, feeling his walk transmute into a prowl. No one really caught his eye and he took his time over another couple of beers. He sat through two long attempted pick-ups masquerading as dissertations on the art of pleasure. Both were relatively easy to stave off. There were perks to the whole 'I chase aliens' lifestyle.
Sooner than he thought, he was drunk enough to go into the backroom. His 'Special Guests Only' pass was checked and he supposed it said something about him that he kept it right there in his wallet, next to the everyday debris of life. It slotted in perfectly next to his video card, two cards away from his bank card, three cards away from Reggie Purdue's new phone number and four cards away from his subscription to the American Sceptic. Hell of a life. He had Frohike convinced anyway. How any of the Lone Gunmen could know what that innocuous, unmarked card stood for, he had no idea. That it was Frohike who had casually linked the place to the card, in between stripping off the face on it and replacing it with Mulder's, was truly disturbing.
His thoughts petered out, making room for visual cues once he got into the backroom. There was a show being put on. He joined the makeshift audience and looked at the slightly raised stage. A naked man, in his mid-twenties, was standing awkwardly in shadow. There was a hum of interest in the room. Slowly, a light swung onto his face and upper body and Mulder could see the very real agitation there. It was the look of someone who had begun to think twice about what he was doing. Finally. Something interesting. He remained standing but shifted back against a wall, knowing his work shirt stood out from the general leather and after-dark clothing on display around him. Not that it meant anything. He'd learnt the boring way how difficult it was to separate what was on show from what was for real. But he still preferred not to stand out.
After a suitable stage pause, a tall, muscled man who was clearly the host of the show, walked out of the shadows. He was dressed in black leather pants and a matching leather vest that left his arms and chest bare. Mulder supposed it would have looked unbearably corny if he hadn't had the restraints and a long, coiled whip in one hand. And even then, the menace of that hand rested largely on the understanding that in this place, those were not toys and they were not used for fun. The naked guy was being introduced - Anthony something or the other. Mulder wondered if anyone had told Anthony this and whether he had believed them and gotten up here anyway. He wondered it because Anthony didn't seem entirely unwilling.
Not as unwilling as others Mulder had seen led up on that stage, at any rate. There was no club muscle at hand to block off the only exit from the stage and his hands and feet were not tied in advance. If the man was drugged, he didn't look it. In fact, the host seemed to be having trouble securing the restraints and Mulder saw something blur from his hand to the man's flesh before his legs were splayed out. Then the host was showing him to the crowd and another hum, a louder one, went through the men and women pressing into the room. Mulder turned to survey them. They looked like a pack of carnivores watching a wounded animal stagger around on its last legs, waiting for it to fold up and die. Well, and was that so bad? He was here too, after all. Something for everybody and don't confuse it with anything it's not. But he didn't think that Anthony up there, really understood what he'd agreed to. Otherwise he wouldn't have agreed. He'd probably still be up there, but he wouldn't have helped himself get there.
Taking another look at the guy, Mulder saw the slightly wild movements of his head, as he tried to escape the first and inevitable punch to the face. Maybe it had been a dare or something. Either way, the adrenalin was beginning to fade and boy wonder was getting a dose of reality. He didn't seem like he was going to get off on any of this though no doubt he could be made to come. Probably would too. His hands were still opening and closing into fists. Mulder wished someone had told him that there wasn't any way he could release the restraints himself. It didn't seem all that sporting to let him hope he could still get out of doing this thing. He could tell, even from where he was standing, that the guy still held out hope that he could maybe say no or something and it would all end.
It wasn't a good-looking face to begin with, even before the uneven bruise began to bloom on the right cheek where the host had punched him. The mouth was a little lop-sided and the eyes were set too close together. Anthony looked more like some kind of nocturnal rodent than one of the performers titilating the clientele at the less discreet clubs. That's what people came here to see. The real thing. That's what the club's slogan was and that's what had caught his eye when he had been going through a wallet that wasn't his own. He didn't know that it lived up to all the fanfare but he'd been able to meet the type of man here, in this room, who knew what Mulder was looking for. The type of man who was willing to provide it without too many words being exchanged along the way.
There was a sharp crack on stage and Anthony screamed, a highpitched shriek without any real conviction in it. When Mulder got a good look at him, he saw that his bottom lip was split open. He had been hit across the mouth this time. The host's fist was stained with bright splashes of red. A discreet but steady trickle of blood made its way down the right side of Anthony's mouth. He tried to look past the bright light that was shining straight at him to somewhere off stage, maybe trying to find his friends or his lover or whoever had persuaded him into having this done to him. Mulder felt his cock move up a gear from its semi-hard state and reached down to stroke himself, wanting to speed up the slow pulse of pleasure a little. Nothing personal, Anthony. Just how life is.
The blows kept on coming, with pauses to let the guy suck in some air. Occasionally the host reached out with one hand and, slicking it with some kind of lube from a tube placed next to him, gave Anthony's cock a swift working over. It was kept erect by a cock-ring and not through any pleasure felt by the guy who, by now, didn't have enough breath left over to scream with. Mulder could hear him whimpering though. "No more, no more." He frowned at the thought that even in this kind of situation, one human being said much the same thing as another.
He closed his eyes. He didn't want to see Anthony any more. It was enough that he could hear the sounds of the blows and the answering moans of pain, getting hoarser by the minute. He wondered absently if the guy's voice would hold out much longer. The whipping hadn't even begun yet. He could consider these things calmly because they made it easier to imagine he was the one up there, taking the blows, making those sounds and shedding that bright river of blood. So it was nothing less than necessary that he take a personal interest in the manner and nature of Anthony's pain; a temporary kinship.
Even drunk, Mulder could see that wasn't the most altruistic reasoning. But he put his hand to his crotch anyway; and he massaged it anyway; and it leapt up and raged against his hand anyway; and he knew that it was just the way it had to be. Using his other hand to pull his shirt out from inside his pants, he pushed it up mindlessly, baring his midriff so he could trail his fingertips over the skin there. His flesh reared up in goosebumps at the feathery touch, familiarity erased by the setting. How odd to be in company while he did this. How it made him want to come. It was suddenly unbearable to have anything between his hand and his cock. He unzipped himself, knowing that he was far enough into the shadows to not be particularly remarked upon. Opening his eyes a crack, he noted hazily that there were people doing far worse. No one would bother him. Unless they wanted to join him and, well, he would see about that then, if it happened.
He pushed himself into his waiting hand, and bit down on his lower lip, moving just enough to keep himself wanting it. Almost as an afterthought, he raised his palm to his mouth and licked at it until it was slick with spit. Then he stroked himself, moving slowly downwards, feeling his cock jump and pulse in his hand. He could smell himself and it was not the high, familar sharpness of defeat but just the scent of his body at the end of a day. Changing his grip into a loose fist, he slid it back up, tightening it as he reached the wet, blunt tip of his cock. Opening it up into a vee-shaped pocket of thumb and forefinger, he stripped his cock from top to bottom, once, just to get the feel of it. Then he did it again, quick, hard, fast, and a few times in succession, his fingers coming away slippery with pre-come.
Slide; tighten; open up and strip. He kept on doing it until his hips, wilfully disobedient, pumped up into his fist of their own accord. It felt so good just to get to this point, to be this excited this easily instead of being in a state of seige, always losing what he most wanted to hold on to. He could still hear the guy on the stage, his whimpers now alternating with terrified, uneven sobs. The host was working slowly and placing his blows with diligence. Moving his hand lower, Mulder rubbed a thumb gently under his balls, fondling them and watching the shadowy shapes move behind his eyelids. He could nearly taste that trickle of blood, warm and sticky, spilling its way out of his own mouth.
He knew in the next instant that it had been a mistake to think of that. Even as he let his other hand wander up his chest, twisting a nipple and then stroking it quiet again, pleasure, liquid and hot, stabbed at him, nearly finishing him there and then. Snarling, appalled at himself, - stupid, unthinking fuck - he squeezed the tip of his cock, willing away the slow, spiralling pulses of heat that always signalled his orgasms. Shivering, his balls tight with protest, he opened his eyes again, just enough to see the stage. The guy had been turned over, his battered face hidden from view. From where he was, Mulder could see his trembling body, taut and securely bound. The strain on his back must be excruciating.
A dark, covetous silence had descended upon the crowd, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of clothing or a quiet moan of encouragement. The host reached for the guy's waist and repositioned him for his own convenience, his hands drifting down, kneading the bare ass. Mulder noted the passivity with which the touch was accepted and wondered if there was a single person in here who wouldn't know now that the guy had no idea what was coming to him. Mulder, on the other hand, had a very good idea. He tried to refocus himself as his cock throbbed violently for a moment, resonant with memory. He tightened his grip until it hurt, wanting to last the distance, knowing he wouldn't.
The host uncoiled the whip. True to form and despite his best intentions, Mulder loosened his grip a little. Hunger clotted his throat even as his hips began thrusting up into his slick fist. So absorbing was the rhythm he set for himself, that the hoarse shout Anthony gave when the whip took its first lick at his flesh, startled the hell out of him. His head jerked up to see what could only be the first of a number of welts form on the guy's back. He was arched in shock, despite the further agony that would mean for his much abused muscles. No more shouting; now boy wonder was making a low, keening noise and Mulder was absently glad to note he still had enough decency to feel somewhat nauseated. It didn't stop his fist from working itself along his cock, though. If anything, it moved a little faster.
Most of the buttons on his shirt had come undone by now and he let himself undo the last three, stroking himself steadily all the time. On the stage, Anthony just wouldn't quit with that noise. Someone whispered something near him. He didn't know if it was directed at him and he didn't care. He knew what he looked like, leaning back against the wall, his shirt hanging open and his pants lowered to mid-thigh, flesh showing where the shirt wouldn't cover it and starkly visible against the shadows. He might as well be as naked as the guy on the stage. This time Mulder didn't deny himself the luxury of moaning aloud. Heard the sigh gather force and come out as a grunt of pleasure, simple and unchecked. All things were permitted at this late stage.
Spreading his feet a little wider for balance, he pumped his cock unceremoniously, stressing and pulling, feeling his stomach coil and uncoil itself in sympathy. He was losing his rhythm, his hand uneven with incipient relief. Then, in the next instant and all too soon, he knew he was down to the last few strokes. Once, twice, once more for benediction and then he came, crying out low, bucking against his hand, shuddering and fever-wild. He had his palm flat against the mouth of his cock, trying to silence it, trying to control himself, awareness bleeding back into him. But the feel of his come slipping over his fingers was too much for him and he gave in for a long moment, slinging an arm across his face so it could swallow up the gasps being forced from his throat. Only after that, and still spasming, he rearranged himself, tucking his cock away and doing up his buttons briskly until the slow, languorous tempo he had been living in was lost to him.
He was aware of eyes on him and though others were being watched with equal avidity, he still felt his body tense up with its own misery, bright and particular. Hysteria quivered across his flesh and for a second he thought he might not be able to stitch himself back together again. He hated this moment even more than the nearly immediate need that began banking up all over again, as though he hadn't damn well spent half the night sating it. Belatedly, he registered the relatively normal background noises and realized that boy wonder had shut all the way up. Looking over at the stage, he saw that it was empty. Instead, now there were couples dancing there, swaying slowly to a soft song by a woman whom he didn't recognize but whose voice made him think of deep muddy rivers, swollen with floodwaters.
This time when Mulder thought of the raw welts on the guy's back, he flinched, a world of unease that had passed him by the first time, coming home to roost. But it wasn't enough to stop him casting an eye around the place, looking for a different version of the same seduction. At the same time, he was panicking. The show was over and he was sobering up. He looked away, drooping a little at the notion that he might not after all get what he came for, and caught the gaze of an older man, standing on the other side of the room from him. The man didn't look away, a question in his bright, blue eyes. Mulder was sure he had been watching him jerk off.
He walked over and said without preamble, "I liked what I saw up there."
Blue Eyes looked at him speculatively and then nodded. "I've got a place we can use."
Mulder shrugged, uninterested in the specifics. He followed the older man outside, not even sparing a glance for Mr Grim who was still on the door. Ignoring the proffered business card, Mulder stepped outside, shivering slightly as the cool night air chilled his flesh and evaporated the sheen of sweat on his face and neck. This time. This time. It took a half-hour to get to Blue Eyes' place and Mulder was gratified at the total absence of conversation on the way there. Once the car crunched up a blue flint driveway and they stepped into the house, it became clear that the other man felt something was necessary by way of opening. Fine, Mulder thought. He could do that. He could talk. He could have a drink. Whatever. He sat sprawled on Blue Eyes' couch, looking through the usual, goofy array of coffee table books that everyone, even Scully, seemed to have these days. There was something very comforting about the unexpected normality of this. It beat the fuck out of trying to bleed with decorum in a motel room.
He hummed to himself, holding up the glass this way and that under the bright glare of the light bulb, peering for cracks. He wasn't usually so careful with the wine glasses but it was a special night. Even his hands were shaking. Well that was understandable. For a moment he stood next to the kitchen bench and looked out at the black night, seeing nothing but his own distorted reflection yawning back at him through the window. Then he put down the curved knife he was holding in his other hand, the better to take both glasses into the living room where his guest was waiting.
He made sure the knife was next to a loaf of half-cut bread. His father had taught him many, many things. One of those things had been to pay attention to details. If attention was not paid to detail, well, things went wrong. Then he had had to Learn His Lessons and Pay the Consequences. He'd learnt them all right, one way or another. He'd learnt a thing or two about avoiding consequences too, though. What did his father think of that? No point asking him of course. He couldn't answer any more. His reflection grinned at him from the smoked glass window pane. Life's a bitch.
He shook his head at the window, clucking disapprovingly. The last thing he wanted to do right now was think about that. Tonight was going to be a wonderful night, a night to remember. With that in mind, he poked his head back out into the living room and asked his guest whether he'd like some cheese perhaps to go with his wine. He didn't mind spending some time making him comfortable.
Hazel gray eyes looked up at his question and the younger man replied, "Yeah, okay. Thanks." His voice was laced with a hint of surprised appreciation.
"It's my pleasure," he replied, obscurely moved by the moment and turned away from the other man, not wanting him to see it yet.
He meant it. Anything he did for this man was a pleasure. Soon enough, they would both find out just how much pleasure he could give him. They would learn some lessons together. The thought made him brave enough to come back out with the wine bottle, the glasses and the cheese, on a little platter with a small cheese knife next to it. He tried to control his anxiety. Everything was just as it should be. Perfect. He smiled down at the other man, cataloguing the way his long, long lashes lay against the creamy tint of his cheek. So much unexplored territory. Vaguely he became aware that he was being asked the same question again.
"Sorry," he said, smiling, sincere in his apology. "I didn't hear you again. Wool gathering!"
"No problem." His guest shrugged. "I was just making conversation. I wondered what you did for a living. I've been trying to figure it out."
He wanted to giggle then. It was evident that the irony of their situation was entirely lost on the other man. Instead, he schooled his mouth to a more normal semblance of sociability and chose his words carefully, as he handed over a glass of wine to him.
"Me? Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid. Though I've been told, it depends on how you look at it. I'm a cop."
END OF PART 4
