Lovers In a Dangerous Time

These fragile bodies of touch and taste
This fragrant skin this hair like lace
Spirit's open to the thrust of grace
Never a breath you can afford to waste
 -Barenaked Ladies
 Lovers in A Dangerous Time (Bruce Cockburn)

Part one: Dreaming

"I should go," he says, rising from the bed and reaching for the pants tossed over the chair.

"I wish you wouldn't," is the reply from the depths of the bedsheets.

He zips up the pants, foregoes the undershirt, and pulls on the white dress shirt with the understated grey pinstripe.

"I don't think this was such a good idea," He frowns down at the front of the shirt, which is now buttonless and a little torn from earlier enthusiasms.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." The other man sounds like he's smiling. "Or did I read the signals wrong?"

"Something like that," he replies cryptically, scooping up shoes, socks and jacket and heading for the closed bedroom door.

"We could talk about it."

"Nothing to talk about," he says, discovering the door is locked.  He sighs quietly, tries the knob again, then looks back at the man in the bed, saying, "ha ha. Now open the door. I have to go."

"Nothing bad will happen if you stay, you know," says the man in the bed. "Come on." He almost sounds like he's pleading, but he sounds like he's still smiling, too.

"Look, I'm tired, and I just think I should get out of here." He's talking to the man in bed, but facing the door as he drops his shoes and slips them on over bare feet.  "We can talk tomorrow, all right?" When there is no reply, he turns, a little more upset now, and says, "please, just open the door."

The other man is no longer in the bed.

He turns back to the door, and the other man is there, blocking the exit.

"Come back to bed," says the man at the door, reaching out to touch his cheek.  He flinches and backs away, demanding "let me out."

The other man takes a step towards him, and he retreats, even as he's thinking he should just bully his way through, cowboy it up and force the other man aside, force the door open, force the barricades down…

"Let me out," he says again, disgusted with the petulant whine that his voice has suddenly become.

"You can stay.  You know you can stay.  It's all up to you, but you know you can stay for as long as you want."

This makes no sense to him, but the other man has moved aside now, and the door is ajar.  He lunges for it, dropping the clothes in his hand, not noticing, focusing only on that opening, that last chance to escape before…before…

The door slams behind him and he is nowhere.  All around him is white and formless.  He can hear distant pounding, and the other man calling for him, but when he turns around the door is gone, and there is only white mist and white walls and white stretching up and out in every direction.  Still, he can hear the other man's voice:

"Come back! Come back now!"

Instead he moves away from the voice, forcing himself to step forward into nothingness, feeling more afraid of what might be behind him than of what's ahead.

It's like walking through invisible taffy, and as each step becomes more difficult, as he feels invisible barriers hampering his progress, he can only think that he has to get out of here, that he can't look back, that it has to be easier than…

"Please stop."  The other man's voice is the softest trace of a lost murmur in his ear. "Please don't go."

He shakes his head violently, like dislodging a stinging insect, and the voice, still pleading quietly, fades away. 

He takes one last step, feeling the muscles in his legs quivering with the strain, although there appears to be nothing holding him back, and then he hears a 'snap', like the world's largest rubber band being flung from the fingers of a mean six year old, and suddenly all resistance is gone.  His center of gravity shifts to dance teasingly in front of his nose and he falls, knocking the wind out of himself.

The stark whiteness is gone, replaced by dappled greens and golds, and a familiar wet, earthy smell that makes him feel nautious and immediately sets his nerves to singing "Ave Maria."

He gets slowly to his feet, breathing stenorously through his mouth, feeling like he's just run a marathon. Looking at himself, he realizes he is still in the remains of his suit, shirt open, bare ankles chafing against the rough wool of his trousers

"Why are you here?"

He whirls at the sound and finds himself face to face with a small, dark-skinned boy with grenades strapped to his chest.

He remembers this boy, but doesn't know why.  Before he can speak, he hears the rubber band 'snap' again, and the boy disappears.

"This isn't the way."

Another voice, behind him, and he turns and sees a young soldier, eyes dark, wide and frightened, dressed in torn and bloody khakis.  His face is smudged with ashes and dirt.

"You have to go back," says the soldier.

"I can't!" he replies.  "I can't go back there!"

"You know that's not true." The soldier shakes his head sadly and raises his gun.  "You are just afraid to go there."

"I'm not afraid!" he protests hotly.

The soldier shoots him.

He clutches his chest and blood pours through his fingers and he falls over on his back, gasping for air.

A shadow looms over him and he cringes, trying to turn over, trying to crawl away.

"No!" he cries.  "No, please, no." He doesn't know what he's pleading for, he only knows that he is afraid.

A hand presses over his, and the jungle spins sickeningly around him.  He struggles against the pressure on his chest, but the hand is implacable, and even as he knows that he's dying, he knows that he is being given a choice-the choice-

"Live," says the little boy, his face suddenly appearing before him, too old eyes in the childish face large and solemn.  Then he bursts apart as the grenades explode, temporarily blinding him.

"Live," says the soldier, who takes the place of the little boy as soon as he can see again, but who is shredded in a hail of gunfire as soon as he speaks.

"Live a little," says a man in an orange jumpsuit and a matching baseball cap.  His face begins to melt into a familiar visage, one with eyes like ice and hair like flame.

"I-I-No!"

Part 2:Waking

Fox Mulder woke with a gasp and sat bolt upright, clutching at his chest.  He looked down, expecting to see blood in his hand, but there was none. He gulped air for several seconds, then put his hands over his face.

A soft touch on his shoulder made him jerk away defensively.

"Easy, Fox. It's me."  Walter Skinner pulled his hand back.  "Another nightmare?"

"You have to ask?"  Mulder snapped, then immediately looked shamefaced and muttered, "Sorry.  This one was a little worse than usual."  He touched his chest again, briefly.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No!  Yes.  But not now."  His fright-darkened eyes implored his lover, as he tugged gently on the older man's arm.  "Right now, I need to get out of my own head.  Do you know what I mean?"

A nod.

"Can you do that for me, Walter?"

"Whatever you need, Fox."  Walter set aside his glasses and the file he had been reading while Mulder slept, but left the bedside lamp on.  He pulled Mulder into his arms and entwined their legs.  He took his mouth gently, prodding his lips with his tongue until Mulder opened his mouth obligingly, at which point he moved away, nibbling on his jaw instead, then licking at his ear.  When Mulder squirmed, Walter hugged him tighter.

He bit at the sensitive skin behind Mulder's ear and was rewarded with a shiver and a low moan, which made him do it again.  Soothing licks followed, blazing a hot, wet trail down the side of his neck, then up his chin and back to his mouth. 

He bit at the full lower lip, then thrust his tongue into Mulder's mouth, plundering its warm depths, tasting him, testing him…

Mulder whimpered against his mouth and Walter pulled away abruptly.

"Shhh…" he murmured, then took possession of his mouth again as his hands stroked down the younger man's sides; one hand curved around his hip, the other stroked back up his body and around to the back of his head, his thick fingers ensnaring themselves in Mulder's tousled hair.  In this position, Walter was able to pull himself halfway on top of his lover, effectively pinning him to the bed without hurting him.

Mulder gasped as Walter released his mouth and bit at his shoulder, then licked the spot, then bit again, harder, while simultaneously moving the hand on his hip around front to grasp his growing erection.

"Oh-oh-" Hips thrust automatically as Walter stroked him expertly, still cradling his head and bringing his face back up to kiss and nuzzle his lips and cheeks.

Mulder's tongue slipped out to entwine almost delicately with Walter's outside their mouths, then, as the tempo of Walter's strokes increased, he reached up to cup the back of Walter's head and, with what could only be considered a growl, he pushed his tongue into Walter's mouth, doing his own exploring, tasting a ridge of tooth, the smooth plane of gum, kissing him deeply and with something akin to desperation.

Walter pulled back, allowed Mulder to thrust forward a couple of times, then squeezed the base of his cock and kissed away the ensuing groan of frustration, whispering, "steady, Fox…"

"Walter, I-I-" He was crushing the older man to him now, clinging to his neck and breathing the words into his chest.

"Tell me what you want, Fox."  Walter stroked his hand up, down, up, down-

Mulder cried out and Walter's hand stilled again.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough with some unspoken emotion and his own growing arousal.

"Want…" Up went the hand.  "Oh-oh-god-" Down.  "Need you-" Up.  "Ohhh, please…" Down.

He threw his head back and Walter latched onto his throat, sucking and licking, knowing it would leave a mark, wanting to leave a mark, wanting to brand the young man under him, to make him his forever…

He kept up a steady motion with his hand, squeezing and pulling harder in a way he knew he liked himself.

Mulder bucked helplessly into Walter's hand, then his back arched so hard he nearly dislodged his lover and he cried out as his orgasm burst through him, making him see stars…

He came back to himself cradled in Walter's arms.  His lover hugged him tightly and dropped a kiss on his damp forehead.  Mulder ran his hands down Walter's body and realized that he was still hard.  He looked up at the other man, chagrined.

"Oh, Walter, I'm sorry! I-"

Walter put a hand over his mouth, brushed his fingers over kiss-swollen lips, then kissed same, softly but intensely. 

"Shh…" he whispered against his mouth.  "I'm fine.  This was about getting you out of your head, remember?" His voice held a teasing lilt, but his eyes were dark and searching.

"I think it worked," Mulder replied, sounding sleepy and satisfied.

"I think it did, too." Walter petted his hair and kissed him again.  Mulder turned in his arms and splayed his hands across his chest, his thumbs finding the other man's nipples unerringly and brushing across them a little roughly.  Walter made a noise low in his throat, then caught his lover's hands in his own, threading their fingers together.

"We don't have to do anything else, Fox." 

"There's a popular theory among some scientists that we don't actually have to do anything.  We don't even have to breathe.  We just want to breathe because we don't want to die."

"Don't we have a rule about that kind of talk in bed?" Walter tried for a surly growl and failed spectacularly when Mulder pulled his hands away and reached down between them to fondle him experimentally.

"No rules, Walter. Not here. Not now."  Mulder's hands were on his chest again, stroking and scratching lightly and he pushed him down on his back and covered his body with his own. He rubbed himself provocatively over Walter's erection and swallowed the ensuing groan with a kiss.  Then he moved lower, and took a nipple in his mouth

"Well, if you really want to…"

Part 3: Fox

First of all, I've always had nightmares, so it's not like this was something new.  Second thing is that I tend to over-analyze everything-surprise! Always have, even before I got my degree, even before I could spell analyze.  So, I know what this dream meant, and where it came from.  Third thought, and this one is probably the most important one, is that Walter has been here for some really spectacular nightmares, the worst of the lot culminating in a thrashing pre-waking frenzy that blacked one of his eyes-oops. Point being, he's seen this before, so he has no idea that tonight's sojourn into the world of Spooky night terrors had nothing to do with my sister, my partner, my parents, or little green men-or grey. Whatever.  This is usually the case, and what he expects.  But I know what tonight's dreams meant.  I know why I dreamed of fleeing.  I know why it took place in a jungle.  Hell, I even know who the guy in the baseball cap was-the H is silent, right, asshole?  I know exactly what it was all about.

I've fallen in love with Walter Sergei Skinner, and that scares the shit out of me.

Even as I think it, I shudder a little, and the bed shudders with me. Not so bad as the old waterbed would have, but enough to cause Walter to shift a little beside me, mutter something unintelligible, and throw one huge arm over me, almost knocking the breath out of me.  But I relish it, and I stroke his arm where it lays across my chest, feeling the play of strong muscles under skin and hair, leashed strong muscles in forearm and bicep.  I find his wrist with my fingers and the pulse I feel there beats in tandem with my own heart.

I sigh without meaning to, then freeze as he moves again, praying that I didn't wake him, and at the same time hoping that I did.

His hand strokes down my torso and comes to rest on my hip as he snuggles a little closer, and I can't believe I just thought the word "snuggle" in conjunction with someone like Walter, even if he is my-my what? My lover, I guess.  How odd that sounds, even just in my head.  My lover.  My friend.  My partner. My boss.  Only the last one sounds right.  The others, well, I think I always pictured someone else in those roles.  Someone petite, maybe.  Someone with blue eyes and red hair, not brown eyes and no hair…Adjectives like "surly", "balding" and "ex-marine" had not consciously been a part of my top ten list for potential mates-I'm sure I would have noticed.  But apparently, my subconscious had it's own agenda.  And now here I am, lying in the arms of my big, bad boss, bathing in post-nightmare-sex afterglow, and I like it.  I like him. I-

I thought it was just lust.  I could understand that.  I've always had errant thoughts and stray hard ons for men as well as women.  I think Scully even knew it, even if we never discussed it.  I never acted on it, though.  Not since Oxford, anyway, and hell, over there it's like a pre-requisite, or something.  But after I came back to the States, there just never seemed to be an opportunity, what with work, and Samantha, and then finding the X-Files.  Throw in Diana and a stray vampire or two, and it just never happened.  Just too much going on, I guess.

Or maybe I just hadn't found the right person.  Oh, my god, how hokey is that?  I sound like a heroine from one of those cheesy bodice-ripper romance novels that Scully thinks I don't know she reads.

Stupid or not, I have to admit that the thought of the right person, once formed, is in my head now, and for better or for worse, I have to acknowledge it-acknowledge him.

Walter has always been there for me.  Since he first took over the X-Files division, a job I have no doubt he wonders what he did to deserve, he's been as supportive as he could be, both at work and outside of it.  He walked a fine line for the longest time, trying to keep me from my own self-destruction, as well as keep those above me from doing the job themselves.  He didn't always succeed, in fact sometimes he failed spectacularly, but it would be impossible for a man so honorable and good to realize the depths to which some of these shadow players would go. To protect themselves, to protect their work.

Even Scully, who had serious suspicions about Walter's motivations, has come around.  I think she understands him a little more, now.  Understands that he can't always be her partner's lover.  Sometimes he has to be the hard as nails, by the book boss, in order to protect OUR work, just as those above him are protecting theirs.  And now that she has some insight into why he does it, she seems a little more at ease with him in the office, and perfectly at ease with him at home.  Speaking of which, I have to call her today and find out if she wants us to bring anything when we come over for supper tonight.

I digress into thoughts of Scully's homemade pasta sauce, recognizing the defense mechanism for what it is. After a moment or two of trying to kid myself, I turn my head to look at the man lying next to me.

He's no different asleep, at least not to me.  Despite the relaxed demeanor, he still has that hard look about him, not in a mean way, but in a protective way.  If someone asked me if I'd rather have a rocket launcher next to me, or him, in the event of enemy attack, I wouldn't hesitate in my reply.  I believe in this man, in a way I haven't been able to believe in anyone, or anything, in a very long time.

But I'm a realist, too.  Some might even say a fatalist.  I know it can't last.  Something bad is going to happen-it has to.  Oh, not because we aren't careful-don't ask don't tell is definitely more than just a catchphrase to us-and not because I think he would ever willingly harm me.  It's just the way it works.

Everyone I have ever loved has hurt me.  Not intentionally, of course.  I don't think either Sam or Scully had abductions on their list of "things to do today". Nor do I think my parents meant to freeze me out when their daughter disappeared while I was looking after her-just part of the grieving process that a steady diet of scotch and valium didn't allow them to get past.   And by the time I got into the few serious adult relationships I've had, I was so spooked by the thought of letting anyone in, that I forced them away-Diana, Phoebe, Richard…

Maybe I wanted to be hurt.  I think I went to the closet, found this hairshirt of abandonment, and decided it fit perfectly.

Now, I think I want to take the shirt off.  But I don't know if I can, even with Walter's help, and I feel myself wanting to push him away, too.  I know how crazy that sounds-I'm a psychologist who writes profiles on serial killers, believe me, I know from crazy!-but I can't help wanting it anyway.

I wonder if I should just get up now and get the hell outta Dodge, as they say.  Call him, maybe, to tell him we can't do this anymore. Call him from a safe lonely phonebooth, maybe on the moon.  Maybe that would be far enough…

I love this man, and I don't want to leave, but all my fight or flight responses are kicking in, the hairshirt chafing in a painful yet totally familiar way that I am loathe to give up. 

Then, of course, there's the kicker-I don't know how he feels about me.  He's never said he loves me, not that I expect him to, but how can I tell the players if I don't have a scorecard?  Physically, he obviously likes me a whole lot, else I wouldn't feel this telltale ache in parts of my body best left unmentioned for now, but is it just sex?  For once, my profiling skills are totally failing me, and I am left without a clue. Not that I've ever been a great one for understanding my own relationships.  Go out and shoot up a schoolbus full of nuns and orphans, and I'll be able to tell you why you did it before you are out of the parking lot. But give me an orgasm so intense that it feels like every bone in my body has turned to Jell-O and I actually black out from the sensations for a moment, and I can't even begin to guess at the motivations.

Oh, Walter, why couldn't you just be a serial killer?

My hand is still on his arm, which still holds me close, and I stroke up to his shoulder, then gently cup the side of his face, wondering what the hell I should do, what kind of monumental mistake I'm making, and what he might be dreaming of, when his eyes suddenly open, and I'm frozen by his gaze. 

Part 4: Walter

I feel him moving around beside me, but keep my eyes closed, feigning sleep for the moment to give him some privacy for his thoughts.  I do reach out for him, though, putting one arm over his chest, knowing that he always craves some sort of protective action like this, especially after sex, and even more especially after one of his nightmares.

As long as we've been sharing a bed, he's been subject to night terrors.  He tells me he's had them on and off, mostly on, since his sister disappeared.  Apparently most of the dreams center around that-what he considers his biggest failing, I suppose. Most of the time he won't talk about it, seems almost embarrassed by the dreams, or his reaction to them, but he never pulls away from me when I go into comfort mode for him either.  Of course, I have to get him to wake up before I can give him that comfort, and often, that's the real trick. I can recall one memorable occasion when his flailing arms were too quick for me, and he wound up smacking me in the face hard enough to black one eye.  I don't know who was more embarrassed, him when he finally woke up, or me having to face his partner during a budget review the next day.

An errant thought about Agent Scully, and now I recall that some of his nightmares revolve around her, too. Her abduction, I assume, although he says he can never remember.  He calls her name sometimes, though, with so much anguish in his voice that it almost breaks my heart to hear it.

I can't believe I just put Fox Mulder and heartbreak in the same thought. It sounds like I am a schoolgirl with a crush on the captain of the basketball team.

Just then he touches my wrist, almost hesitantly, and I suddenly wonder what he dreamed tonight that made him gasp for air and clutch at his chest like that.  He sighs, and I move a little closer to him, eyes still closed, but making my presence, if not my consciousness, felt nevertheless.

My hand strays down to cup his hip, and I feel his body relax.  Not a lot, but a little, which is enough for now. I imagine that he is awake, staring up at the ceiling, and thinking about his nightmare.  He is a psychologist, after all, and profiling is second nature to him.  He doesn't do it to me-at least not very often- for which I am dimly grateful, else he might realize-

Might realize that I am in love with him, and scared to death.

Hard to admit, but, as Fox likes to say, the truth is out there.  And the truth is just this: that this surly ex-marine who makes secretaries scurry for the safety of the steno pool, who eats seasoned agents for lunch over budget requests, and who can still spar with the best of them down at Golds, is scared.  Scared not of loving, for I've done that once or twice, in my way, but scared of loving too much.

Oh, yes, there have been errant thoughts of "what the hell am I doing?"  I'd be lying if I didn't say there were concerns over the basic facts.  He's a man.  I'm his supervisor.  He's notoriously unstable.  I could lose my job.  He could lose his sanity.  We both could lose our lives.  Maybe that's what makes the relationship that much sweeter, knowing it could all be gone in an instant.  If we let our guards down, even for a moment…

But I have let my guard down.  My personal guard.  The one that says Walter Skinner will keep everyone at bay.  The one that says Walter Skinner doesn't open up to anyone, anytime.  The one that says Walter Skinner has to be the strong one, the capable one, the rational one.  Walter Skinner would never let himself go.  Never let himself fall victim to his own passions, regardless of their nature…

Well, Walter Skinner certainly did just that, and not just tonight… 

Fox often initiates some form of intimacy after a nightmare.  I think it's his way of getting a handle back on the real world, and not dwelling on the terrors that lurk in his subconscious.  Scully says that when it happens when they're out in the field, he often crawls into her bed and just spoons up behind her, usually with a blanket between them for modesty, but he seems to crave the contact of another human being.

Normally not the sort of conversation that Agent Scully and I would be having, but since she found out about her partner and I, we've achieved some sort of relationship, based not only on respect and trust, but on our unwavering devotion to Fox Mulder.

Thinking of Scully again reminds me that I should find out if she wants us to bring red or white wine to dinner tomorrow.

My mind is almost as well trained as my body at my age, and I don't stray from my initial thoughts for long, returning to thoughts of Fox and intimacy.

I'm afraid that I may have hurt him tonight.  I certainly didn't mean to.  But sometimes my passion gets the better of me, and in my desire to make him mine, I sometimes-sometimes-

Sometimes I lose control.  And I hate it.  I hate that he makes me feel out of control.  And at the same time I love it, and I love him, and I'm afraid that if he realizes that this is more than just a convenience for me after a bad marriage and a slew of bad one-night-stands, he'll leave.

I cannot give him up.  Not for safety's sake, not for my job, my pension, my so-called-career.  Not for nameless men who would rather see us dead.  Not for his partner, although I know he loves her in his way. And most definitely not for my fears.  I won't give up this incredible man simply to keep up a façade of coldness that I never really wanted in the first place.

Maybe if I had felt this way about Sharon, we'd still be married.

Or maybe not.

Bottom line, I suppose is that I have to tell him.  And soon.  So that he understands why I do the things I do, and so that I can begin to understand why he does the things he does.  And if it turns out that I was just a convenience to him, a sexual barrier against his nightmares, well, then, so be it.  But I will have been honest and open, and there is some comfort in that.

I feel his hand moving up my arm, slowly and tentatively, warm fingers brushing across my bicep, then my shoulder.  He pauses for a moment with his hand curled around the curve of my neck, then moves again, to cup the side of my face.  I think there has never been a better moment for this, or a worse one, and I open my eyes.

Part 5: Resolution

Mulder drew his hand back when Walter opened his eyes, suddenly wary.  His lover smiled easily at him, though, and he relaxed marginally.

"I thought you were sleeping," he said, sounding faintly accusatory, as though Walter had caught him at something.  And maybe he had.

"And I thought you were sleeping. Guess we were both wrong." He kept his hold on Mulder tight.

"I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Oh, you know, the usual-"

"Destiny?" Walter interrupted him.  "Fate?  How to throw a curveball?"

"Smart ass." Mulder's smile took the sting out of his words. "Actually, no.  I was just thinking about Scully's pasta sauce, my father's alcoholism, and things like that."

"Nice.  No wonder you weren't sleeping."  Walter leaned forward a little and pressed his lips to Mulder's brow.  "Why don't you try counting sheep.  Or little green men."

"Grey, Walter.  You've read my reports for years, you should remember that they're little grey men, not green."

"Now who's the smart ass?"

"You bring out the best in me, apparently."  Mulder's hand wandered back up to Walter's face, brushing lightly against his bristly cheek.  Walter turned his head and kissed his palm. 

"I like to think so."

"What were you thinking about?" Mulder looked apprehensive, suddenly.

"You," Walter replied, blunt and honest.

"Oh."

They were both silent for a moment, then Mulder ventured a question.

"My latest 302?"

"No."

"The new tie Scully bought me with Marvin the Martian on it?"

"No."

"That thing I do with my tongue?"

Walter snorted, laughed and kissed his forehead again.

"Maybe."

"Maybe I was thinking about that, too," said Mulder.

"Oh?"

"Maybe I was thinking about a lot of things like that," he continued carefully.

"Any complaints?" The serious darkening of his eyes belied the lightness in Walter's tone, and Mulder thought, not for the first time, that he understood why Walter never gave up his glasses for contact lenses.  Those chocolate brown pupils really were the mirrors to his soul, if anyone bothered to look, and the glasses kept the lookers away.  He hastened to put Walter's fears to rest.

"No! Well, maybe."

"What?"

"Not a complaint, exactly.  More like a request." Mulder winced inwardly, thinking it's now or never, I guess. Time to put up, or shut up-

"A request?"

"For…you know…I-um-I want…" His voice dropped to a whisper.  "Let's go all the way, Walter."  He tried to sound sarcastically coy, and wound up sounding a little silly, and a lot frightened. 

Walter almost wanted to laugh at the prissy statement, but didn't, although his smile came back.

"Mulder, are you asking me to-to fuck you?"

"Yes! No. I mean-"

"Easy, Mulder." Walter caught his hands, which were now turning and twisting together, and entwined their fingers, pulling him close when he tried to pull away.  He kissed their knotted hands and said, "Just tell me what you want.  You know you can."

"I want you to-to make love to me."

Mulder's voice caught in his throat, but he forced the words out past lips suddenly numb with something akin to terror.  He winced again, this time physically, and closed his eyes, thinking if he laughs at me, I will kill myself…

Walter wasn't laughing.

He looked long and hard into that pale, terrified face, tightening his grip on Mulder's hands.

"You want me to make…" His words trailed off into a mostly uncomfortable silence.  Then he formed the final word, and, for good or for ill, spoke it aloud, "love?"

"Love," Mulder confirmed, opening his eyes.

It was as close as they could come to putting their feelings into words.  It was still too new for both of them, too threatening to their controlled sense of being.  But, even as the single word passed from both their mouths, they each made silent resolutions regarding the situation.

Mulder swore to himself that he wouldn't run this time, that he'd allow this man into his life, and accept the risks that came with the relationship.  He wouldn't reject Walter just to punish himself.

Walter resolved to give Fox Mulder all the free rein he needed, and to not try to chain him, hobble him, stake a claim of ownership on him, just to prove that he could.  Then he thought briefly about what Mulder had just asked of him, and he said a quick and silent prayer to whatever higher power was the patron saint of middle aged bureaucrats and their special agent boyfriends, asking to be allowed to make this most intimate of acts as good for Mulder as he knew it could be And to not let him hurt the younger man in any way.

"What?" Mulder almost flinched and Walter realized he had almost spoken the last thought aloud.

"I won't hurt you, Fox.  I promise," he said.

"I know, Walter.  I trust you."

Saying it made it so.  Walter saw the truth shining in Mulder's eyes, and he smiled.

"Fox, you are going to love this!"

All tension seemed to vanish from the room, leaving them both almost giddy with relief, and they spent long moments just kissing and holding one another, stoking the flames of arousal without any sense of urgency.  Limbs entwined lazily, mouths roamed over warm skin with abandon, tasting every bit of flesh that was within easy reach, occasionally pausing and repeating caresses that were met with small moans and murmurs of approval.

Mulder wrapped his arms around Walter's shoulders and pulled him closer, nestling his head on the older man's chest, his mouth unerringly finding a nipple to suck and lick.

Walter groaned and plunged his hands into Mulder's soft hair, holding him firmly in place while he thrust his hips forward, meeting hard arousal and matching it with his own. 

Mulder made some small sound that sent a shiver through Walter's whole body.

Walter let go of his lover's head and ran his large hands down Mulder's back to his hips, scoring his short nails lightly over tender flesh, then grasped him firmly and dragged him up and away from his chest so that he could reclaim his lush mouth with his own, kissing him deeply and thoroughly.  He let his hands rest briefly on his lover's lower back, then reached lower with one hand to stroke the cleft of his buttocks and swallowed the ensuing cry of pleasure, tasting the vibrations on his tongue.

Mulder gasped as he felt one of Walter's fingers lightly circling his opening, and he thrust his hips back with another inarticulate sound, wordlessly seeking more.  He pressed his erection against Walter's with a new sense of urgency, which grew even more intense as Walter slipped one, then two fingers inside him.

"Oh…Oh…Oh, god, Walter-"

"Steady, Mulder, I'm here."  Walter licked and kissed his lover's face, now salty with perspiration, and twisted the hand probing him in a way that he knew from past experience would create greater pleasure for the younger man.

Mulder was reduced to whimpers and cries as Walter continued to stroke him.  He rocked his body back and forth, meeting hard flesh to and fro and reveling in it.  At last, the stimulation was too much, and he cried out his release, still clinging desperately to his lover.

Walter pulled away from him.

"Wha-?"  Still reeling from his intense orgasm, Mulder tried to pull Walter back into his arms, but the older man pushed him onto his stomach instead, saying, "Trust me, Mulder, we're not done yet.  I just wanted you to be relaxed."

"I think you got what you wanted." His tone was soft, but not sleepy.

"Not yet," Walter grinned and slipped a pillow under the younger man's hips. 

Reacting automatically, Mulder spread his legs enough for Walter to kneel between them.  He leaned forward, and Mulder turned his head.  Walter placed an almost delicate kiss on his cheek, still damp with sweat, then attacked his earlobe with the same soft but deliberate caress of his mouth.  He saw a tic appear in Mulder's cheek, heard his breath quicken, and slipped his tongue out to lave gently at his ear, his neck, then around to his back. 

"Mmmm…"

"I'm to assume that means you don't mind this," Walter teased.  He nibbled and kissed across shoulders, then pressed his lips to the depression between spine and skull and suckled for a moment, letting his hands glide up and down Mulder's back, moving lower as his mouth burned a fiery trail of kisses down his spine.

Mulder repeated the sound, then added a few more incoherent moans as Walter moved away from him.

"Hey-"

"No, fear, Mulder, just getting prepared."

"Oh."  Mulder took a moment to realize exactly what he was committing too, took another moment to be a little worried about it, then chucked all rational thought as he felt Walter's fingers entering him again, this time slick with lubricant.

"Oh, yes, Walter, yes, please…"

"Since you asked so nicely."  He let his fingers glide in and out a little faster, reaching around to pull Mulder's hips up a little and cushion him with his other hand.

Mulder thrust back onto Walter's hand, wordlessly begging for more, feeling more complete than he had ever felt in his life, then feeling equally as bereft when his lover pulled away.  He heard the ripping sound and turned to watch Walter sheath and lubricate himself, and felt a new jolt of desire, knowing that the care that the older man was taking was for him.  He swallowed a lump in his throat, then gasped as Walter drew him up carefully by the hips and positioned himself so he was pressing lightly just outside his body.

"Take a deep breath for me, Fox," Walter's whisper held all the weight of the loudest command. "And let it out slowly."  He did as he was told.  "Again."  On the exhale, he felt the first hint of pain as the muscle was breached, and he tensed and caught his breath.  Walter reached under him and fondled him and he was distracted and he sighed and Walter moved forward a little.

Slowly, so slowly, Walter continued his advances until he was fully sheathed inside the younger man's body, and he willed himself to hold on, to not think about how good Mulder's hot tight body felt holding his, not to give in to the desire to thrust mindlessly into that heat.  He held his position and continued stroking his lover's abdomen, thighs, cock and balls, letting him have time to adjust, to accept…he could feel the younger man's breathing growing more laboured with each moment, almost panting.

"Oh, Walter.  Yes. Please. Now…" Mulder abruptly thrust back, but Walter held him steady a moment more, leaning over him to whisper into his ear. 

"You tell me if you want me to stop.  I won't hurt you, Fox."

"You can't stop if you don't start, Walter," Mulder gasped through gritted teeth. "Just-just-oh!"

He cried out as Walter pulled back, then pushed forward, still slow and careful.  The next thrust was not so slow.  The third not so careful, and this one was accompanied by a slight shift in direction that made Mulder shiver.

"Oh, yes!" he cried again, and in that moment, Walter felt his reserve letting go, his physical arousal augmented by the emotional fulfillment he was receiving from Mulder's affirmations.  He moved faster, gliding in and out of his lover's body with abandon, while Mulder met him thrust for thrust, still making those wonderful affirmative noises.  Walter pushed hard, trapping Mulder's erection between his belly and the bed, and he felt the first tightening of the muscles which heralded the approach of orgasm as a sweet clenching sensation on his own penis, and he came with a shout, driving himself fully into his lover and shuddering with sensation.

As he felt the first pulse of the older man's orgasm deep within his own body, Mulder cried out and came himself amidst much groaning, bucking and clutching of bed sheets.

Walter had caught himself with his arms, but just barely, and now, as the stars receded and he came back to himself a little, he realized he was practically crushing his partner.  But when he went to move away, Mulder reached back to hold him firmly in place.

"Don't. Just stay there. Just a moment. Please?" His tone was strained and his breathing still ragged.  Walter voiced his concern.

"Fox, Christ! Are you okay? I mean-"

Mulder turned to smile at him.

"Just shut up, Walter.  Can't you see I'm basking in post-coital bliss here?"

Walter laughed and said, "I guess I should say you're welcome."  Then, suddenly serious, he kissed Mulder tenderly on one shoulder and added. "You bask, I'll clean up.  You're sure-"

"If you ask me if I'm okay again, I'll have to shoot you, you know."

Walter smiled, then slowly pulled out of his lover, tore off the condom, knotted it and threw it in the trash. He pulled the pillow away from Mulder's body, threw it to the floor, then, suddenly too exhausted to do more, collapsed back onto the bed with a deep sigh and pulled Mulder into the crook of his arm.

"I think I-" he paused, and in that moment, Mulder opened his eyes to look directly into his face. He saw exactly what he was feeling reflected in eyes of deepest, darkest brown, and he covered Walter's mouth with his hand.

"Me too."  He let his eyes slip closed, knowing that there would be no nightmares.  Not tonight, maybe not for a long time…