It was late when he finally got here.

I had spent the evening doing what I do best -clenching my jaw, analyzing my own ineffectiveness, wallowing in a little self-loathing, and worrying about him.

Word had come down from on high-Mulder was out-gone, done, finished at the Bureau. Kersh had finally had it, apparently, and after all was said and done, Doggett, Scully the X-Files and I were still standing, and Mulder was out for the count. 

I ignored the sick feeling in my stomach just thinking about it brought on, worried a little more about where Mulder might be, and tried to make something resembling supper. Luckily, the smoke alarm didn't go off, but the pasta was inedible just the same, so I opted for my second entrée choice: scotch, no mix, just enough ice to take the burn off the alcohol.

I had brought home enough files for a week of evening's work, and completely ignored them, pacing restlessly around the apartment instead. 

He'd said he might be late, but this was ridiculous. Of course, he'd still been employed when we spoke last; still part of the organization that had been practically his entire life. It was true that we'd often spent time together, idly fantasizing about what our future would be like if we weren't both living federally funded lives, but for the most part, it was just talk. We both needed the Bureau, in ways we couldn't even define, although I suspect I understood him more than he thought. 

He was still searching, still questing, still trying to find answers, sometimes to questions that hadn't even been asked. Having the resources at hand, not to mention access to guns, cars and a weekly paycheck, had made the search just a little easier for him. And now…

I detoured from my aimless wanderings to add more scotch from the bar to my glass. Then I found the couch, the television remote, and some more concern for my lover. I knew he'd acted rashly under pressure before…once or twice…hell, he'd come as close as anyone I know to eating a bullet over the whole DOD/Scully's cancer/alien hoax thing, and that was peanuts compared to all this.

We'd talked some about it. About his abduction, his memories, his death. Things seemed to be getting better, although we'd met with a disaster or two along the way. Mulder is nothing if not tenacious, though, and on every level he's gone about trying to piece his life back together the best way he knows how. I don't think I could ever tell him how proud I am of him, or how amazing I think he is sometimes. I only saw him get taken, and I still haven't shaken the effects of that. What must it have been like for him? On some things I can only guess. He's as open and up front about as much as he can be, but we still haven't talked about how his night terrors have come back with a vengeance, or about his appetite, which is sketchy at best, or about that little thing that happens once in a while when he and I are…

Not a place I wanted to go then, not a place I'm going now.

So I turned on the television and started flipping through the channels, sipping my scotch and searching the news stations, concerned that there might be news of him doing something drastic, something I couldn't name but that my stomach recognized, twisting with worry. In the back of my mind, I think I was also hoping to catch some late breaking story about a certain Deputy Director with more attitude than brains having fallen to his death from the top of the Hoover Building.

I got neither story, and wasn't sure how I felt about that. On one of the seemingly endless number of video channels, a song was playing, and I immediately recognized it-Mulder had been singing it in the shower just two days ago-

I thought about getting myself another drink, and decided against it, tempting as it was. What had started out as concern and general unease was rapidly turning into something resembling a full-fledged panic attack, and alcohol wasn't going to help it. I closed my eyes, still listening to the television, and tried some creative visualization. Mulder had suggested it to me some time ago, explaining that he had been using it for years. The results weren't always perfect, but they were guaranteed to keep one from taking hostages during particularly dry budget reviews. I had to stop, though, when my general happy thoughts (paperwork done, days off, a cabin in the woods) started turning into visions of the NC17 variety.

Nothing seemed to be helping, and I finally relented and allowed myself one more drink, a smaller one than the first two, hoping to restrain my thoughts, which were getting more and more chaotic.

I kept channel surfing without paying much attention to what showed up on the screen; a habit I'd picked up from Mulder, as late night started turning into something most people would call early morning. Then I finished my drink, and without warning, found myself falling asleep as I listened to Ron Popeil extolling the virtues of spray on hair.

I snapped awake the second I heard the key in the lock. 

I groaned as something in my back twinged when I sat up, and I saw the figure in the doorway freeze at the sound.  Then he closed the door behind him and stood in front of it.

"Hey." I gave him our standard form of greeting as I stood up, but he didn't reply. Just stared at me from across the room. He was still in the suit he'd worn to work that morning, but the jacket was gone, as was the tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and the shirt itself was horribly wrinkled, as were the wool dress pants. 

His eyes were wide and dark, and his expression utterly inscrutable. I recognized that face from any number of meetings where I'd had to read his beads about anything from ditching his partner to losing his cel phone. It was the face he used when he was incredibly upset and was damned if he was going to let anyone know about it.

I waited with what I thought was incredible patience for him to say something, but gave up after a minute or two when it was apparent that he wouldn't.

"It's late." I didn't mean to growl, but obviously I didn't sound as tender and loving as I had hoped as I saw his shoulders tense up, and he dropped his gaze to study his shoes for a moment. He recovered and looked back up at me with that same blank expression that was betrayed only by something sick and sad and about age four in his eyes.

"I was out walking," he offered lamely.

"All night?"

"And thinking." 

I knew what he'd been thinking about, and he knew that I knew. It was there in his eyes. The twin mirrors of his soul, if I wanted to be poetic about it. No matter what Mulder might say or do, one look into those changeable, oddly coloured eyes could tell me more about his motivations, his emotional state, call it what you will, than anything that might come out of his mouth. I knew he'd been walking around thinking about what he was going to do with his life now, how this latest blow might affect his ability to seek out the truth, where he could go for information, now, not to mention rent money. I suspected that there was probably some proprietary worry for the X-Files division as well, as he's always been just a little too protective of his little copy room in the basement, and I knew he wasn't crazy about Agent Doggett. Then, of course, there was the whole Scully thing too, the pregnancy, his relationship with her. He had a lot to think about, and, while I had been worried as hell for most of the night, I couldn't hold on to it now. I thought I understood, and I was just glad he was here. 

We watched each other for a few more minutes in silence, and when the next words came out of his mouth, they sounded shaky and frightened, although he was trying valiantly to smile, to appear like he was just making some smart-ass comment.

"D'ya still love me?"

Christ! Of all the things that I was worried about him worrying about, that wasn't something I thought he doubted. Typical Mulder, I thought, shaking my head. Never mind abductions, death, rebirth, psychological scars so deep they'll never fade. Never mind his partner, her new partner, his old partner, or where he fit into that mess. Never mind having more enemies in the Bureau than out of it. Never mind all of that; what had apparently driven him all night was me.  My feelings. Towards him. As usual, he assumed that whatever had happened was no less than he deserved, and that everyone he loved and trusted was going to dump on him as a result.

I love my man with all of my heart, but sometimes he is as dumb as a bag of hair.

The growl was deliberate this time as I sat back down on the couch and barked "Get your ass over here, boy."

He didn't have to be told twice.

He was sitting at my side in less time than it takes to tell, and in my arms a fraction of a second later. For just a moment as his arms went round me I thought he might start crying, and my protective instincts rose to the fore.  But when he didn't, I decided that no amount of patting, crooning and tenderness was going to prove anything to him, or help him through this in any way. I could think of only one course of action that would wipe away the hurt and mistrust in those eyes, and it wasn't a difficult decision. I tossed aside my Flo Nightingale drag for the time being, and took his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. 

He opened his mouth, perhaps to utter some witty comment about my surly nature, or maybe to apologize for something he probably didn't do, but I didn't wait to hear it. Just covered his slightly parted lips with my own and licked my way in. He tasted like bad coffee and good scotch, and I thought he might have been doing a little more than just walking. At that point, though, I didn't much care if he'd been go-go dancing all night at Rumours, so long as he was here, now, and kissing me back, which he was.

His tongue flicked over my lips, and I bit at his, still holding his face. Then I tangled one hand into his silky hair, holding it firmly though not painfully, and dragged the other hand roughly down the front of his shirt. Buttons flew as I tore it open and I tasted his muffled protest more than I heard it.

"Shut up," I warned softly, pulling away just long enough to form the words, then nudging his chin up to bare his throat. I thought I could see his pulse actually beating there, and I zoomed in on it, licking and sucking at his neck in a way I knew he loved. I kept my grip on his hair tight, and ran my other hand roughly up his torso.

Digging my fingers into the firm flesh of his chest made him groan and nipping at his Adam's apple made him whimper, both good indications that he wasn't about to ask any more stupid questions at this time.  

I found a nipple with my thumb, then with my mouth, and his hands felt strong and warm on my head as he held me to his breast. Not that I was planning on going anywhere anytime soon. I know just how sensitive certain parts of my lover's body are, and since I was on a mission tonight to drive any and all negative thoughts right out of his head, I figured a little extra attention here and there would be a step in the right direction. If his inability to articulate anything beyond my name was any sort of clue, I was on the right track.

I reached blindly for his zipper, felt hard heat beneath it, and thought I might show a little mercy as he thrust into my hand. Freeing his cock from his pants quickly earned me an affirmation in the form of a breathy 'yes-oh-yes', but I didn't know if he was convinced of my sincerity just yet, so I left him hanging, as it were, and pushed him back on the couch, covering his body with mine and giving up his now slightly worse-for wear nipples in favor of his equally swollen lips.

He didn't seem to mind, although it appeared his patience might have been wearing a little thin, as his hands tugged at my sweater, then slipped underneath it, and his tongue danced in and out of my mouth. He was exploring every inch of my bare flesh that his questing hands could reach, and suddenly I had an added incentive for tonight's performance.

Television, movies, romance novels, and even on line pornography will assure you that, in the heat of the moment, your clothes will fly from your body as if by magic, without any discomfort or distractions for you or your partner. That the incredibly intense passion that is flowing between you will overcome any and all obstacles as the two of you soar off into the heavens of orgasm together, and that every moment with your partner will be a shared exercise in grace and bliss.

Yeah, right.

I managed to avoid crushing him, which was a good thing, although I caught a clumsy elbow that would have sent my glasses flying had I not removed them earlier in the evening.  He struggled with the tightness of my pants and I fought a small war with a shirtsleeve that didn't want to come loose. Oddly enough, all our clumsy maneuverings just seemed to excite him more, and I know I was sporting quite possibly the stiffest hard-on of my life.

I was down to nothing but a sock, and his shirt was still hanging off of one arm when we hit the floor. Luckily, my ass broke his fall. The startled sound I made as the air was knocked out of me made him giggle, but I cut the sound off as I bit his earlobe and stroked his cock.

He immediately found that non-verbal place again, and his hips jerked hard against mine, crushing my hand between our bodies and driving me further into the carpet. I squeezed a little harder as I felt the first signals of rugburn across my ass, and immediately decided that if I was too old for couch sex, we were both definitely too old for the floor.

We made it as far as the coffee table.

I could remember buying the thing, and the way the fellow at Ikea had gone on and on about the sturdy nature of this particular table. I also remembered thinking at the time that the salesman had looked a little like Mulder as he extolled the virtues of the wood, the finish and the incredible durability of the thing. 

As I lifted my lover and myself off of the floor, I hoped like hell that the guy was right.

I pushed and he struggled and I lifted and he helped and then I was kneeling between his legs as they draped over the end of the table, his ass in the air and his cock trapped beneath his body.

Suddenly, the furniture salesman was in my head: "…an added convenience with this model is this tiny drawer, perfect for holding your television remote, your TV guide, any small thing you might need for entertaining in the living room is right at your fingertips…"

He was right.

The lube was half-empty and the condom was old though not expired, and I remembered finding them there the first time and blushing at the apparent lecherous nature of my lover, and wondering if he'd hidden similar items anywhere else in the apartment. I think this was the first time I'd opened the drawer since Mulder had been taken from me, and I know it was the first time I can remember saying a silent prayer of thanks to a furniture salesman as I was preparing to fuck someone.

I didn't take a whole lot of prep time, but I don't think he minded. At the first touch of my hand on his ass, he squirmed and gasped, and as my fingers entered him slowly he cried out my name in a strangled voice and started to turn over.

I liked him just where he was, and I gave him a little crook of my fingers, a wordless suggestion that he would perhaps be just fine as he was, while my other hand snaked down between his legs and pulled softly.

He'd never been so agreeable, although trying this in the office might have gotten us in a bit of trouble. Or at least raised Scully's eyebrow a time or two.

I could feel pre-cum slicking up the head of his cock, and a shudder worked through his body, so I abandoned him briefly to sheath myself then adjusted his hips and my body for easiest entry.

He was hot and tight but oh-so-ready, and the ease at which our pairing was accomplished made the entire scene all that much sweeter for me, and I suspected, for him as well. I stilled once I was completely embedded in him, just relishing the feel of him, real and whole and wanting me as much as I wanted him.

Then I felt his muscles tense, and it seemed he was trying to move again, so I moved first, pumping in and out of him with a couple of hard sharp thrusts that got his attention and made him groan. I stretched out over him and pulled his arms forward, wrapping my hands around his forearms and holding him firmly in place, finding a rhythm that suited both of us. I found the pulse point on the side of his neck that I'd been attached to earlier and nipped at it, then just licked and nuzzled at the spot, knowing I would be leaving marks by the time I was done and knowing he'd be happy about that.

His ass was moving back against me as hard as I was pushing forward, and I had a quick moment of concern for his cock, hoping like hell that the varnish on the wood table was as durable as promised.

He apparently had no such worries, and was rubbing himself vigorously back and forth across the table, alternating between what felt like an attempt to escape from beneath me and an equally desperate attempt to draw all of me into himself.

I pulled my mouth off of his neck with a satisfying smack, redoubled my efforts as I felt the muscles in my groin tightening in that good, familiar 'you're about to see stars, Walter' way, and put my lips next to his ear. Blowing a little brought him close to the edge, too, if that sudden added tightness was any indication. Then, as my orgasm boiled out of me and I crushed him to the table, I whispered:

"I love you, you son-of-a-bitch. I always loved you. I will always love you. I love you, Fox."

We wound up back on the floor.

The force of his orgasm knocked us both back, and, as I noted the wet puddle on the coffee table, the nasty full-condom sensation on my receding erection and the not uncomfortable weight of a panting sweaty Mulder sprawled across my chest, I thought maybe he had gotten the point.

Both of us concentrated on finding enough oxygen in the room to keep from passing out, and after a few minutes he looked up at me, eyes shiny, lips swollen and wet, and he grinned and gave me the softest kiss on the cheek.

"That was…unexpected," he said.

"It shouldn't have been."

"I know." With a tremendous groan he got to his feet and held out a hand. 

I stripped off the condom and threw it under the coffee table, for once in my life not the least bit distressed about what that particular item might be doing to the feng shui of the room. 

"Let's go to bed," he suggested.

"It's morning, Mulder," I replied.

"Yeah, but I've got the day off."

It wouldn't be the last word on the subject, but it was enough for now.