Author: Jvantheterrible
Date: September 18th-24th, 2000
Rating: NC-17, assuming the boys make
up...
Disclaimer: You know, I am soooo sick of
writing this damned disclaimer in. If you’re on Part 9 already, you KNOW who
the guys belong to. So there. And as IF I’m making any money off of this. Hmph.
Author’s Notes: Thanks for reading, if you’ve
come this far. And, thanks to all of you (Lyrical Soul and m. Butterfly and B.
Branham and Michele T. and Tesa) who send constant feedback and egg me on. You’re as inspirational as the Man Himself.
By the way...is there anyone else out there who’s as appalled as I am that
Robert Patrick is supposed to be the “new stud in town”? Christ...as IF. Mr.
Duchovny, I hope your solo career goes as well as David Caruso’s...that’s what
you get for biting the hand (and the fans) that feed you. You get ONE good
movie script and suddenly you’re the shit, huh? Hmph squared. M’kay, I’m off
the soapbox...for now.
Feedback: To Rllnslvr@aol.com.
**********************************************
I flop down on the couch and try to catch my breath.
Running was DEFINITELY not a bright idea. I don’t care at the moment. The only
thing I give a good goddamn about is threatening to leave me and I swear to God
I’m having a panic attack...can’t breathe. Fox is leaving me. Leaving US. He
wants to go home. Home? I thought this WAS home. Shows you how much I know.
DAMN him.
I lay my head back and concentrate on breathing; one deep
breath after another, and within minutes I have my composure back. I’m still
trying to relax twenty minutes later when I hear him come in, shutting the door
quietly behind him. My body stiffens instantly despite my attempt to keep my
cool at his return, and I feel the couch dip as he seats himself next to me.
I flinch when he tries to touch my shoulder, causing him
to pull his hand away. “What do you want from me, Fox?” I ask him, my head
still back, eyes still closed, “I mean, really. What has this all been about,
anyway?” I slowly lift my head and open my eyes to meet his gaze; he’s
sweating. I wonder if it’s from running or from dreading coming back here.
“I don’t know, Walter.” He shakes his head at me, and I’m
instantly angry again. I get up off the couch and pace back and forth in front
of the television, separated from him only by the coffee table. I’m sure if he
had his choice that there would be a much larger obstacle between us.
“What the fuck do you mean, YOU DON’T KNOW, Fox?” I shout
at him, grabbing my side and massaging it to alleviate the cramping there. “You
don’t KNOW? You either love me or you don’t,” I growl at him, “So which one is
it? Have you been lying to me all this time? Or did you just need
someone...ANYone...to help you through losing Dana?” He winces at my use of her
name, and I feel the slightest bit of guilt.
I’m so pissed off that my usual tolerance to his behavior
has been eradicated, and I’m not sure that it will return anytime soon. “Ohh,
did I hurt your feelings, Fox? I’m SOOO fucking sorry,” I spit out at him, “I
took a fucking knife in the gut...and THIS is the thanks I get? ‘Oh Walter, I can’t
lose you too...I love you too much to lose you...so I’m leaving’,” I mimic his
words, refusing to stop even as the tears gleam in his eyes, “You’re not LOSING
me, Fox! You’re throwing me away like some...some THING that’s no longer of any
use to you. DO YOU KNOW HOW THAT MAKES ME FEEL?” I shout at him, not even
affected by his lower lip trembling, feeling infinitely worse now than I did
when I left the park.
The tears streaming down his face do nothing to calm me,
only infuriate me further, and I give up on yelling at him. I run upstairs and
slam the bedroom door shut as hard as I can, tearing my clothes off and running
a lukewarm shower, hoping that it will cool me down; I’m burning up from anger
and a workout that I wasn’t physically OR emotionally ready for, and I feel
like my head’s going to explode at any moment if I don’t calm down. Ignoring
the tepid water, I climb into the stall and sit on the tiled floor, pull my
knees up against my chest and wrap my arms around my shins, rocking back and forth
in the chilly spray.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, only that I must
be in some sort of zone or something because I don’t realize that Fox is in the
bathroom with me until he’s shut off the water and wrapped a towel around my
shoulders. He helps me up, chattering teeth and all, dries me off and walks me
into the bedroom, rubbing my arms the whole way to try and warm me up. Once we
reach the bed, he pulls the covers down and eases me in, lying down next to me
after he’s removed all of his clothes, wrapping himself around me despite my
trembling, holding me as close as he can without hurting my side. Within
minutes, I stop shaking and it’s my turn for tears as I whisper my apology to
him. I can feel him nod against the back of my neck, his lips brushing across
my skin over and over again as I pour my heart out to him, pleading with him
not to leave me, not to quit us. I finally fall asleep, dreams held at bay by
my very exhaustion, his body wrapped around mine the only thing making me feel
grounded. He’s gone when I wake up; he didn’t even stick around to accompany me
to the hospital to have my stitches taken out. I’m on my own again, and I have
a horrible feeling that I may remain this way for a very long time.
***************************************************
The trip to the hospital is less than thrilling, and now
my side isn’t aching...it’s itching like a motherfucker. Gotta love healing
flesh wounds. Christ. I stop by the liquor store on the way home to pick up
some of my very favorite scotch. I figure if Fox is really truly gone, then
it’s going to be a looong afternoon - several of them, in fact. What better way
to pass the time than to be self-medicated? At least I can sleep my way through
this...this...whatEVER it is that has transpired between us. I’m still at a
loss as to what’s happened and I don’t intend on spending the rest of my
medical leave dwelling on it. I have two glorious fun-filled weeks left and I
intend to enjoy them to the best of my ability. Now, if I can just talk myself
into believing that...
Talking myself into it doesn’t work, but drinking does. I
am well and truly ripped a mere two hours after returning home from the
hospital. The phone hasn’t rung once; I know this because it’s been sitting
silently next to me on the couch. I’ve spent a fair amount of time staring at
it, willing it to ring, but it’s not obeying. I snort drunkenly at my own
hopefulness as I change the channel on the television, clicking over and over
again in vain to find something to watch - anything at all to take my mind off
of Fox Mulder. It’s not working so I get up and pour myself a fourth helping of
scotch at the bar; I figure it’s best not to have the bottle in front of me,
and eventually I’ll be too wasted to get up for another glass.
I’ve been reduced to this already, and it hasn’t even been
twenty-four hours since he left. I can’t imagine what kind of state I’ll be in
in another two or three days, but I’m sure it will closely resemble my frame of
mind after Dana died - locked up in the condo by myself, drinking myself into a
stupor, not eating, not showering, not shaving, not caring. He’s going to New
York tomorrow and he hasn’t even called or stopped by to say goodbye. Well, I
think as I toss back the rest of my drink sourly, if he doesn’t care, why
should I? I wish it were that simple. Goddamn you, Fox.
***************************************************
The phone rings in my ear, nearly giving me a fucking
heart attack; I sit up in a daze, realizing that it’s pitch black in the condo
- I must have passed out. Mission accomplished. I’m dying for a drink of water,
but I grab the phone and husk out a gruff, “Skinner.”
“Walter, it’s me,” Fox says, “I wanted to see how your
appointment at the hospital went.” He pauses, waiting for my reaction to his
call, no doubt.
“Fine, it went fine. What time is it?” I ask him groggily,
my speech still slightly slurred.
“It’s nine-thirty...are you alright? Do you want me to
come over? Have you been drinking, Walter? They told you not to do that, you
know,” he starts, and I cut him off in mid-lecture.
“I’m fine, Fox. And no, you don’t need to come over,” I
tell him, licking my lips with what little saliva I can muster, trying
desperately not to sound too hung over at this time of the evening. My head
hurts already, and it’s not even morning.
“Walter, really, I don’t mind...my flight doesn’t leave
until one tomorrow afternoon, and I could just stop by for a while -” oh, so
now he wants to comfort me? What an asshole.
“NO,” I tell him staunchly, “I told you, I’m fine.
Goodni...goodbye, Mulder,” I tell him, and then I hang up. There. That was
easy. I put my elbows on my knees and put my face in my hands, cursing myself
for turning down his offer to come over. Hell YES I want him to come over. I
want him to bust through my front door and take me in his arms. I want to kiss
him like there’s no tomorrow, suck his cock until I feel like I’m swallowing
all of him whole, fuck him until neither of us can move. I get hard at my own
imaginings, and suddenly I need to throw up. I barely make it into the bathroom
to empty the booze out of my system; I wish it were as smooth coming up as it
was going down.
I stand up wearily after I flush the mess down the toilet
and drag myself up the stairs to bed, miserably alone and already dreading
waking up tomorrow. Pathetic and pissed off as I’ve ever been, I finally manage
to fall into a restless sleep, tossing and turning around the bed so much that
when I do wake up early Sunday afternoon, the bedding is torn apart at the
corners - just like my heart as I realize that Fox truly is gone...gone from
the city, gone from my home - what I thought was OUR home - and gone from my
life.
***************************************************
He doesn’t call me again, and the next few days pass in a
drunken unmemorable haze. By Wednesday, I am an absolute basket case, reduced
to lying in bed with the scotch on the nightstand; I’m on my second bottle now,
having finished the first one Tuesday night. It was a horrible ordeal, but I
did manage to drag my ass out of bed long enough Wednesday morning to put on
some clothes and walk to the liquor store. I ignore the stares that greet me
from passersby, and I can only imagine what they see; to them, I’m a pathetic
old drunk, scruffy and most likely unemployed, barely worthy of the glance
they’ve afforded me in the first place.
Little do THEY know that I’m a key player for the
F-B-fucking-I, practically born for a suit and tie...and I’m lovesick over my
one remaining star subordinate, who just happens to be a man...a very sexy
man...and oh GOD do I miss him. I ignore the looks of disdain as I make my way
back to my condo, the doorman even doing a double-take as I pass him. I’ve
lived here for five years and he barely recognizes me, giving me a tip of his
hat and a quiet, “Mr. Skinner,” as he holds the door for me. I nod back at him
and hang my head as I make my way to the elevator, clutching my brown paper bag
tightly to my chest as though someone might take it from me, and wishing
silently that someone would.
It’s only been four days, yet it’s been long enough to
reduce me to a shadow of who I used to be - WHAT I used to be. What was I? I
was half of something important. Something that mattered infinitely more to me
than my job of the past twenty-plus years. Something that irrevocably changed
my life for the better, and since it’s gone - since HE’S gone - threatens to
destroy my very being. I love him that much, and he doesn’t even care. How
could he do this to me, I think as I grab a clean glass from the bar and strip
off my clothes piece by piece as I head up the stairs to the bedroom, paper bag
still in my arms.
I scoff at the reflection that greets me in my mirrored
closet doors as I enter the bedroom, naked save for “tightie-whities” as Mulder
used to call them, the memory itself giving me a chill. I climb back into bed
and pour myself a fresh drink, gulping half of it down in one go and nearly
choking when the phone rings. It’s the first time in four days that it’s rung,
and I jump at the sound, answering it immediately after the first ring.
“Hello?” I manage, my voice somewhat shaky.
“Walter? Walter, are you there? It’s me,” he says
excitedly, and I can barely hear him over the din in the background, “We’re
going up in a helicopter to scope out this thing’s territory,” he continues,
“Its home is on the outskirts of the city, and I want to get a full view so I
can narrow down its travel habits...we’ve got to go now, but I wanted to tell
you that I...Walter? Hello?” He says, his phone beginning to break up.
“Mmmfine,” I mumble back to him, unimpressed that he’s
called me to relay his excitement, certain that he can’t hear my reply, “Have
fun... mssyeewww,” I slur at him, and then I break the connection. I toss back
the rest of my drink and ignore the tears that burn my eyes as I pour myself
yet another. I slam that one as well, and pass out mercifully in front of the
television that Fox insisted on placing in the room; perhaps it really IS a bit
too early to be drinking...
************************************************
The haze that’s surrounded my brain for the past few days
reasserts itself when my eyes open some three hours later, and I focus on the
television. I guess I was watching CNN when I passed out, and there’s some
report on about an accident somewhere. I shake off the scotch-goggles and
listen to the reporter as he goes on and on about an investigation of some kind
that was in progress when the ‘copter went down...further information is
flooding in, and it appears that the crash was in New York, over some rural
area...five people killed, no names being released pending notification of
families.
I am not aware of the importance of the report as I swing
my legs over the side of the bed, shaking my head to try and clear the buzzing
in my ears. Funny, that buzz has been there pretty regularly for the past few
days, and I wonder if perhaps I should find another outlet for my grief over
losing Fox when the phone rings. I grab it, hoping that it’s Mulder, puzzled
when I hear an unfamiliar voice on the other end calling me ‘Mr. Skinner’.
“Yes,” I say, fighting the all-too-familiar throbbing in
my temples, “Who is this?”
“Mr. Walter Skinner, Assistant Director of the FBI?” The
voice says.
“Yes, dammit, yes, that’s me, what is it? Who is this?” I
growl, fixing my gaze once again on the television, still unaware as to what’s
happened and pissed off at the possibility that someone from the Bureau has
found my home number while I’m supposed to be recuperating.
“Sir, this is Officer Lyons from the New York State Police
Department. I’ve got some news about one of your agents...one Agent Fox Mulder,
sir,” he says seriously. Christ, what the hell has Mulder gotten himself into
THIS time, I wonder, still watching the television coverage of the burning
wreckage somewhere in...did they say New York?
“What has Agent Mulder done now, officer,” I reply
tiredly, certain that Fox has managed to blow up something or crash a police
car or at the very LEAST lose his cellphone again; Jesus, that’s seven phones
this year alone!
“Sir, I’m very sorry to report that...well, we haven’t
really confirmed it yet, but Agent Mulder was scheduled to have been on the
flight that was registered this morning,” the officer says, and suddenly I feel
like I’ve been punched in the gut. Not just the gut; my entire body is
screaming on the inside, alarms going off in my brain, making my spine tingle
and my toes curl before Officer Lyons even finishes his spiel.
“What? Officer, WHAT?” I nearly yell at him, panic taking
over, my eyes glued to the television as I try to make sense out of why this
man is calling me...in relation to the story on CNN...and why isn’t Fox calling
me to tell me about it?
“Assistant Director Skinner,” the officer continues, “Sir,
I’m very sorry, but it appears that Agent Mulder was in the helicopter that
went down this afternoon,” he finishes, going silent after his news is out.
I feel like a huge hole has been opened up in the very
middle of me; like I’ve been shot, and everything inside of me has been
wrenched out quite forcefully. I look down to make sure that I’m still in one
piece, feeling like I’m in a million different pieces at the moment, caught
between shock and disbelief, my gaze going back to the television as my
attention is pulled back to the phone at my ear.
“What,” I whisper into the receiver once again.
“Sir, Agent Fox Mulder was scheduled to be in the
helicopter, sir. It went down this afternoon at oh-three-hundred,” he says
again, and I immediately hang up on Officer Lyons and try Fox’s mobile number.
There’s no answer, just an “Out of Service Area” message. No. This can’t be.
This isn’t happening. I know it, I think to myself as I scramble out of bed and
run downstairs, certain that this is all a scotch-induced nightmare as I switch
on the television in the living room and change the channel to CNN, watching in
horror as the footage of the flaming aircraft is played over and over and over
again.
“No,” I say aloud, “No, there’s been a mistake,” I gasp to
no one as my legs give out beneath me and I drop to my knees on the floor, “NO,
NO, NOOOO,” I scream, dropping the remote and covering my face with my hands,
refusing to watch the newsreel any longer. “It can’t BE,” I cry aloud to no
one, images of Dana Scully bleeding beneath my hands flooding my mind, her
gurgling echoing in my alcohol-addled brain, “NO, FOX, NO,” I cry, tears
sliding down my cheeks as I draw my hands into fists and pound on the floor,
“THERE’S BEEN SOME MISTAKE,” I scream to no one, “IT’S A MISTAKE...FOX IS
NOT...DEAD,” I continue to rant as the newsman repeats the story, “I LOVE HIM!
HE’S NOT GONE...HE’S INVESTIGATING A LIZARD-MAN, THAT’S ALL...that’s
ah-ahhhllll,” I sob into my hands as I kneel helplessly in front of the
television and shake my head and listen to the continual coverage of my lover
burning while my heart breaks and explodes into a million pieces inside my
chest.
**************************************************
Some time later I wake up, my eyes sore and swollen, my
arms tired from clutching my knees to my chest in what appears to be a fetal
position if the ache in my back and my biceps is any indication. What a fucking
nightmare, I think to myself as I sit up tentatively and rub my face, surprised
at the slight moisture that meets my fingertips. I pull my hands back and stare
at them as though they’re alien, unsure that they truly belong to me.
I hear the television, and I stare up at the screen and
see that the channel has changed from CNN, which I dreamt about earlier, to
MSNBC, which is sporting what must by now be the millionth showing of the
helicopter crash in New York. Much like the death of JFK, Jr., MSNBC is not
happy unless all one billion of its viewers have seen every single angle of
this particular tragedy...tragedy? Wait. This WAS a dream, wasn’t it? I mean,
really, come on. The New York helicopter going down was just a figment of my
drunken imagination...so is this newscast, right?
It all comes back to me then...the phone call, the scenes
on CNN, me jumping out of bed and running down here to check the news...it’s
not...it can’t be...real. No. I shake my head in negation, even as I watch the
Coroner removing big black bags from the wreckage of the flight that Fox was
supposedly on. I try his cellphone again, and once more I receive the “Out of
Service Area” message. I refuse to listen to the recorded voice, and I begin to
say his name into the phone, “Fox? Fox, are you there? Can you hear me? You
have to come home, Fox. I need you. I need you, Mulder, do you hear me? I mean
it. I need you, and you have to come home now.” I stop speaking when the
recording ends and an annoying busy signal rings in, alerting me to hang up the
phone.
“No,” I say aloud to the empty condo, “He’ll be here. He’s
coming home anytime, and I have to clean myself up and be ready,” I babble on,
oblivious to the fact that his name is now being announced as a casualty on the
television. “NO,” I scream at the television, “YOU’RE WRONG,” I cry out,
running towards the screen and planting my fist into it, shattering the glass
and not even noticing the glass embedded in my knuckles when I pull my hand
back to my chest and hold it against me, blood pouring down the front of my
chest.
“He’ll be here,” I whisper brokenly at the annihilated
console, “You’ll see,” I tell it tearily, looking down at my hand and wondering
vaguely if I should go to the hospital and have it looked at. I pass on that
idea and head back upstairs to the bottle of scotch - my solace. I gulp down
several mouthfuls and drop the rest of it to the floor, ignoring the golden
liquid as it flows out onto the carpet. I head for the shower, pulling off my
underwear and wrapping it around my fist as I step into the steaming hot spray.
I wince at the pain, surprised that I can feel anything, and wash myself down,
suds covering me in bubbly white before I rinse myself off, still whispering to
myself that Fox WILL be home soon.
The underwear that I wrapped around my hand is now soaked
with water and blood, and I snort as I pull off the sopping wet cotton and
throw it into the waste basket by the toilet. I can see the shards of glass
embedded in my flesh, and I smile grimly at the injury as I reach into the
medicine cabinet for Sharon’s old tweezers. Memories flood into my brain of
Sharon and me getting ready for work side by side, me brushing my teeth, her
plucking her eyebrows. That bleeds into Fox and me getting ready, him shaving
by my side as I straighten my tie, and tears roll down my damp cheeks as I pull
the pieces of glass out of my tender and now-swollen flesh.
“Fox, Goddammit,” I mutter as I pick piece after piece of
clear debris out of the back of my hand, “Why,” I ask. Once I’ve cleaned out my
knuckles, I look at myself long and hard in the mirror over the sink. There are
dark black circles under my eyes, and I look gaunt. I must have lost at least
ten pounds these last few days; I had no idea that it would make that much of a
difference, but I really do look like death. I’m pale, need a shave, and my
eyes are red-rimmed and sunken into my face. I never have liked myself with a
beard, but I’m too damned exhausted to do anything about it at the moment, so I
head for the bed and fall down onto it. I stare at the ceiling for a long time,
as though that might help give me an answer as to the happenings in my life these
last several months. Hell, these last few years.
First, my unit in Vietnam. I haven’t thought about that in
ages, but now it feels like just yesterday that I lost them all. All my
friends, my comrades...gone in a blaze of fire. Years later, Sharon...our lack
of communication, and after so many years together, our iminent divorce that
never came to be as she was exterminated before its commencement. Scully, one
of my most prized agents, a beautiful person who showed me just how important
trust was, giving it to me when she refused so many others, even when she was
dying under my very hands. And now, Fox Mulder. I loved him more than I’ve ever
loved another human being; holding him and being held by him erased so many
fears for me. Took away the pain of my past, and renewed me with energy for the
future; a future that would surely last into our golden years.
But he’s gone now. Claimed in a fiery death with no
meaning other than that of ‘engine trouble’. No explanation other than that of
a stranger offering a two-minute phone call as solace. And here I am, left
alone again to deal with the loss of yet another treasured soul. I close my
eyes as tears find their way out of the corners of my upturned face once more,
turning over and burying my face in the pillows, the scent of Mulder drifting
into my nostrils and making me sob that much harder for my loss - this one
being the greatest of all. I drift off with his face in my mind and in my
heart, his name on my lips.
**************************************************
It’s dark when I wake up, instinctively brushing away a
slight tickling against my cheek with my bandaged hand, certain that it’s just
a moth or some such thing in the middle of the night. I remember instantly that
Fox is gone once my eyes are open, and I shut them tightly against the visions
of media coverage of the crash that took him from me.
“Walter,” I hear a slight whisper, and I freeze where I
lie, figuring that I’m dreaming, and I blink several times to clear the dream
from my mind.
“Walter,” I hear again, more urgently, then feel the brush
of flesh against my cheek, the pressure of a hand petting my limp cock through
the sheets. Suddenly, I’m ensconced in heat with no idea where it’s coming from
and my dick is responding with a sense of familiarity...I open my eyes and
stare into a pair of seemingly golden orbs above me. I must be dreaming, I
think to myself, but my body is so sure...
And my body is not mistaken. Fox Mulder is lying on top of
me, his hair matted down to his scalp with the rain that is pouring down
outside, his flesh cold and damp from the storm that has blown in along with
his very arrival. I reach up and wrap my arms and legs around him, pulling him
tightly against me, inch for inch as close as I can get to him. “Oh Fox,” I
murmur, “Oh Christ, Fox, I was.....hoping you weren’t gone,” I tell him,
searching for and finding his lips with my own, drinking him in like a man in
the middle of a desert finding an oasis. “Oh God, kiss me,” I urge him on, our
tongues warring in the darkness, hands searching one another’s bodies with a
newfound eagerness.
He kisses me, his tongue reaming my mouth as fully as it
can, swallowing me as I do the same to him, our juices mixing together in a sea
of wantonness. “Oh God, Fox,” I murmur into his mouth, “Don’t leave me ever
again, please,” I breathe into him as he accepts my plea wholeheartedly, “I
love you so much,” I tell him, grinding my erect cock up against his with all
of my might.
“I promise, Walter,” he gasps back at me, smiling, his
upturned lips meeting mine full force, “ I won’t, I promise,” he groans as he
rubs himself up and down my upper right thigh, his erection missing mine by
mere centimeters, “I love you too, babe,” he tells me as he fucks me with his
body, begging me to go further; needing me to seal the deal. I don’t disappoint
him.
I reach up and yank off the tee-shirt that he’s wearing,
the sound of cotton tearing doing nothing more than turn me on two-fold. With
one arm still around him, I reach down and unzip his jeans, pushing them and
his boxers forcefully down with my hand and allowing him to ease out of them,
using my own feet to push them down the rest of the way and off of his feet.
He rips off my briefs with a single swipe of his hand and
we both moan as we feel the other’s skin meet skin, cock against thigh, and we
gasp together. “Jesus, Fox...I was afraid I’d never see you again,” I murmur to
him, and he smiles and nuzzles against my ear, biting my earlobe as he
whispers, “You’d never get rid of me that easily, Walt,” and our lips meet
again in a searing kiss.
I pull back from his face, tears in my own eyes as I look
deep into his, asking him, “How? I thought...I thought you were gone,” I say,
shuddering against him at the admission.
He holds me that much closer as he replies, “I knew
something was wrong the minute I heard your voice, Walt,” he says gently,
reaching up to wipe away a stray tear from my cheek, “I couldn’t go any further
with my research until I knew you were
alright...so I told them to go on and map it out without me. I was already on
my way home when I heard the reports on the radio, but I just wanted to get
home to you,” he admits shyly, blushing a bit at his own brazenness, “I...my
cellphone was still in my hotel room...I couldn’t get a flight out, so I just
got on the road and headed home after I spoke to you from the airport. I’m
sorry I worried you,” he finishes, kissing my lips and moving down without
losing contact with my skin to reach my chest, teasing each of my nipples,
tracing a trail down to my belly button with his errant tongue.
“Oh Christ, Fox,” I moan, thrusting up against his face,
“I got the call from the officer, and he told me you were gone,” I tell him,
the lump in my throat making my voice no louder than a whisper, “I was sure
you...ohhh, yeahhh,” I trail off as he licks further south, getting up on all
fours so that he looms over me, moving his body down so that he can reach the
object of his lust better.
He takes my cock into his mouth fully and sucks as hard as
he can, making me cry out, “Foxxxsss, oh God, yessss, baby, yesss,” smiling
around me as he works his magic with his lips and tongue. He ignores my thrusts
upwards and continues to suck on me until I’m ready to come down his throat,
releasing me only when he’s certain that my shooting is iminent, finally
allowing me to flip him over so I’m covering him, driving my tongue into his
mouth as my hard-on digs into his stomach.
“Mmm, Fox, you taste so good...so alive,” I groan, bucking
against him with my cock, “How do you want me?” I gasp, desperation evident in
my eyes as well as my actions.
“Face to face,” he tells me, lifting his legs up onto my
shoulders, “I want to watch you fuck me, Walter. I want to see how much you
love me,” he tells me, and I nod at him as I go down between his legs and lick
at his tiny opening with my tongue, flicking at it gently at first, then more
firmly as I open him up, caressing him with my lips and tongue to relax him.
“Unnnh, yeah babe, yeah,” Fox moans, begging for more with
his ass as I breach the tight ring of muscle with my tongue and a couple of
fingers, his ankles still resting by my neck, “Nnnow, please, Walt, ohhhh
FUCK,” he spits out, and I smile and pull away from him, spitting in my hand
and coating my erection with several tentative strokes before placing my head
at his entrance, allowing him to adjust to my size before taking him fully.
“Tell me when, babe,” I gasp at him, thrusting gently
against his opening, waiting for his signal, “Goddammit, you feel so good
already,” I murmur to him, and he thrusts up against my cock and takes the head
in fully with his ass, allowing me inside, letting me thrust gently in until
he’s got me all the way inside of him, my prick grazing against his prostate,
my balls resting against his asscheeks.
“OH YEAH,” I cry out, the feel of his tight body around my
cock and the joy of knowing that he’s still alive mingling together to nearly
bring me off already, “Oh God Fox I fucking love you so much,” I tell him,
looking down at him to see him smiling back up at me, then close his eyes in
ecstasy as I thrust into him and pull back slowly, then thrust into him fully
once again.
He grunts once and then again as I press into him fully,
his head thrown back in ecstasy against the pillows where just hours ago I lay
in grief at his passing. I pound into him over and over again in testament to
his survival, and when I’m sure he can’t take anymore, I speed up my thrusts to
meet his and we move together like one giant piston until I shoot deep into his
body and he comes all over both of us, semen spurting up over his chest and
grazing my stomach, pooling mostly in his stomach as I stop moving and plop
down onto him, effectively gluing myself to him. I couldn’t be happier.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I rest against his sticky
chest, never so happy to feel him as I do now, “Foxsss,” I moan, and he smiles
against my cheek, making me smile into his sweaty shoulder.
“Walter, I was so wrong,” he says quietly, “To say that I
wanted to leave you...I didn’t, you know, I never wanted to leave you,” he
says, looking up at me with eyes green with want and need, “I was afraid...I
mean, I am afraid of losing you, but I never wanted to...I mean, I could never...”
his voice trails off as we recover from our passionate reunion, and I simply
gaze down at him as he speaks, not wanting to interrupt him at the moment.
Minutes later, when I’m sure that he has nothing further to say, I speak.
“Mulder, shut up and kiss me,” I tell him, not caring
about anything else that has transpired between us this past week. I roll off
of his chest and lie next to him, both of our chests sticky with spent passion.
He looks over at me and pulls me to him, both of us on our sides, lips and
limbs locked together.
“Walter, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into my ear, “I wasn’t
sure that this was what I wanted for myself...that you were what I wanted...but
now I know,” he gasps.
“I know, Mulder, I know, it’s alright,” I tell him, holding
him close to my chest.
“But Walter, I was a complete asshole...I didn’t realize
that this was what I wanted until I couldn’t be sure that you weren’t there
anymore,” he gasps, clutching onto me with his hands and arms and legs, holding
me close to him.
“I’m here, Mulder. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.
I’m yours, for better or for worse, alright?” I tell him, gazing at him
uncertainly, wondering if my words will make him pull away from me.
He holds me close and rubs his hair against my cheek as he
tells me, “Always and forever, Walter. I’ll never leave you...I promise,” he
finishes, both of us clutching at one another for dear life.
“Always and forever, Fox. Always and forever,” I tell him,
nuzzling against his head, falling into sober slumber for the first time in
nearly a week. This time I know that when I wake up, he’ll be there in the
morning. Always and forever, just like we promised.
**************************************************
Whew. What a relief. NOW what for our boys? Anything? Has
this series worn out its welcome? Let me know at Rllnslvr@aol.com.
Thanks. Take care, and thanks for reading. --Jvantheterrible