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X-Chained Melody
“Fox?” “…” “Fox?” Assistant Director Walter Skinner was beginning to feel concern with the silence displayed by his long-time underling (and more recent underlay) Fox Mulder as they spooned in the cool night air. This wasn’t the usual contented silence Fox displayed after a bout of athletic sex; the silence he was emanating now was a worried silence. Something was on his mind. “Fox, what is it?” the burlier, rugged Walter said, his voice now at speaking volume, well above the stage-whisper he’d been using. The tone was not the gruff, authoritative one he normally used; it reflected the feeling of concern and worry that he rarely even let slip when the two of them were alone, the tone that showed how he really felt. Fox remained silent for a moment, and then took a slow, deep breath inward, about as audible as the proverbial pin-drop, and then let out a little sigh full of the hesitant angst that precedes deep confession of the soul. “Walter, are you happy?” “Of course I’m happy. Aren’t you?” “Well, yes, but…” “But? But what?” Walter was beginning to get worried; his mind filled with dread at the thought of getting dumped by the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. His stomach cramped up in a knot, his heart started to race, and his body started to replace the sweat that had just evaporated over the last twenty minutes. He’d been a fool. A damn fool. He never should have said the “L-word”; not so soon, but it had felt so right at the time, and now…now… “Walter, do you have fantasies?” Fox blurted, sotto voce, with the same flinching zeal as a child ripping off a Band-Aid. “Pardon?” Walter’s system heaved a sigh of relief, and the blood-rush started to leave his ears. He was getting a bit light-headed from the relief, and even allowed himself a smile; Mulder couldn’t see it anyway. “Forget it. It’s stupid. I…just forget
it,” muttered Mulder, mentally slapping his forehead. It was an asinine
suggestion; he didn’t even know why he started to venture there.
Well, that was bullshit; he knew exactly why he’d made this foray into
confessionism, even if it was in the back of his subconscious: Fox Mulder
had found someone he trusted completely. Someone who loved
him, and whom he loved in return.
“No! No. Fantasies, you said?” “…Yeah. Do you ever have fantasies?” “Why would I have fantasies? I’ve got what I want right here,” Walter said, disbelieving the saccharine drivel as it escaped his lips. He chalked it up to relief that cessation hadn’t occurred; he was relieved, but the earlier fears had him on edge; willing to say or do anything to keep that brief, painful drama from being realized. “That’s really sweet, but I’m serious here. Have you ever had fantasies?” insisted Fox. “Never really given it much thought, honestly.” “Nothing? Not, say, doing it outside in the park, or in a change room, or with costumes?” “Like I said, I’ve never spent much time entertaining the notion.” “Oh.” Silence. Obviously, some coercion was needed. “That’s not to say I’m not open to the idea of fantasy role-playing and all,” said Walter amiably, “Obviously, you have something on your mind, and I want to hear it.” “You’re just gonna laugh at me. It’s stupid.” “What did I tell you? I love to listen to whatever you have to say, and I won’t think it’s stupid. Honest, Mulder,” he said in a semi-serious manner, pulling the smaller man closer into his broad, hairy chest, “I won’t laugh. Tell me.” “Walter, have you ever seen the movie ‘Ghost’?” Skinner stifled the snort, but had to bite
his tongue so hard his eyes ran.
Trust was only part of it; Fox never would’ve shown his hand if it wasn’t for the lesbian couple in Scully’s building. That is to say, if they hadn’t asked Fox to apartment-sit for them while they were on some Earth-mother retreat or other. Mulder didn’t know exactly what they were up to; he tended to tune out on the incessant geo-political inanity the two women constantly employed. He got enough rhetoric and jingoism in his job, and cared more about the crop circles than the crops themselves. He had a full refrigerator, a queen-sized bed, a list of emergency contact numbers in case something happened to the cats or the fichus plants, and access to a pottery wheel… *** Skinner’s mouth was slightly agape at the size of the studio apartment, and even more agape at the ultra-ethnic artworks that were placed all over. Garish, yet somehow fitting; the oddest feng shui he’d experienced in living memory. Brightly colored masks, metal shapes, nude abstract paintings (the figures may have been in doubt, but there was no mistaking the nipples, even if there were three of them), and polished wooden statues of varying sizes and shapes. Fox walked up, sock footed, behind Walter, the differing contrast of their gray suits somehow making a complimentary aesthetic of their own in the 60-watt luminescence of the apartment. The Assistant Director was staring in relative disbelief at a gaudy wooden statue of some fertility goddess, its pendulous breasts hanging down far enough to frame the genitals in a presentation considered unsettling at best. It was almost preferable to the face, however, which was ugly enough without being frozen into a permanent leer, fat tongue protruding from a horrible, grimacing mouth. “Yeah, it scares the crap out of me, too,” said Fox, understandingly, “that’s why I turned it around to face the wall.” With that, he gingerly grabbed its head between index finger and thumb, and quickly spun it 180 degrees, pulling his hand away as though the grotesque statue would bite him at any second. “Besides, with the way things go in my life, having that thing watching over us is the last thing I want. The last X-File I need to deal with is getting pregnant with the hirsute, surly love child of A.D. Skinner.” Mulder cracked a wry smile as Skinner raised an eyebrow at him. “So what do these two do again?” Walter queried. “Oh, they own an import arts and crafts store. I know it sounds cliché, but it’s true.” “And why did they ask you to look after this place?” “We get along pretty well. I started talking to them when I was leaving Scully’s place one day. You know, we’re in the elevator, and they had seen me coming out of her apartment, and they asked questions, because in their observant little minds, something didn’t add up right. The next thing you know, we’re having lattes at the corner coffee shop and swapping Scully stories. I’m kind of their token male friend now, and vice-versa. Sort of.” “Wow.” “I know. You should try saying ‘corner coffee shop’ and ‘swapping Scully stories’ five times fast. I just make it sound easy.” Walter gave Fox a stern look to counter the churlish grin he was displaying. “Very funny, smart ass.” “Anyway, they just want me to feed the plants and water the cats. Other than that, I have to put the Ani Difranco discs back in the cases when I’m done listening to them (ha), and I’m supposed to try and not have ‘nasty man-sex’ on the bed unless I burn and replace the Oprah-endorsed Egyptian linen sheets, or just supply my own black satin set. I think I also have to spray the mattress with decontaminate and slap a biohazard sticker on for good measure.” “Or just not tell them anything,” shrugged Walter. “And hope they don’t do a UV light inspection,” smirked Fox, glancing leftward. Picking up some bizarre tribal mask, all black and orange and feathered, he looked at Walter and said, “Of course, they could just be trying to kill me with all this garish crap. You’d think my head exploding would make a bigger mess than ‘nasty man-sex’ ever would.” “But at least the cats would have something to eat”, said Skinner dryly, barely suppressing the smirk. Mulder faked a sniffle. “You only hurt me ‘cause you love me.” “Doesn’t everyone?” Walter said suggestively, walking over to Fox and kissing him briefly. Fox stopped him as he was starting to undo Mulder’s tie. “We’re here for a reason, remember?” “Lead the way,” said Walter, feeling slightly ridiculous, though he would never confess that to Mulder. *** Fox sat in front of the pottery wheel in nothing but a pair of jeans already spattered in dry clay. He’d tried his hand with the wheel a few days earlier, partly out of boredom, partly out of curiosity. He’d even tried listening to Ani Difranco whilst doing it. All he’d discovered was that he wasn’t a natural potter, and all the folk-rock in the world wasn’t going to help that. Of course, none of that mattered at this point. He had a lump of clay relatively centered on the wheel, he had water and slops at hand, and he had the Righteous Brothers in the CD player on one-track repeat. He, himself, felt a bit ridiculous at this moment, but the scene played out so well in the movie… Replaying it in his imagination strengthened his resolve; he hit the play button and stepped gently on the pedal that started rotating the potter’s wheel. He dipped his hands in the water beside him and smoothed his wet hands over the clay… Oh, My love… Slowly, the lump began to become a slightly asymmetrical cylinder of sorts, though still more shapeless than anything. The wheel was moving quite slowly, like an old record, almost hypnotizing in its conjunction with the old recording. Fox re-wet his hands, and put them in the watery clay slops, dripping clay on the plastic tarp that lay on the floor as he reapplied his hands to the formless mound rotating in front of him. My Darling… Walter stood in the archway, not ten feet behind Fox, watching the slight muscles in Fox’s back; the shadows they made in the moonlight that shone through the large windows, the only light there was right now. It was easily sufficient; the moon was large, yellow, and completely unobscured in its high position in the night sky. At this time of night, most of the neighborhood lights were off, and people were asleep and minding their own business. Sure, Walter felt a bit apprehensive; this whole reenacting thing was kind of surreal. He had to admit, though: he was getting turned on. I hunger for…your touch… Slowly, Walter approached, barefoot and bare-chested, clad only in a pair of jeans like Fox. Completely silent, watching as the man at the wheel worked his slick hands over a shape that was getting more and more cylindrical, and taller… Alone, lonely time… Skinner grabbed another stool, and without a sound, set it behind Mulder. Sitting on it, with his legs outside of Mulder’s own, he leaned in until the hair on his chest was brushing against Fox’s smooth back. And time goes by so slowly
Fox smiled ever so slightly, and gently took Walter’s hands in his own. Guiding them to the slops bucket, he immersed their hands in it and, with his hands overtop of Walter’s, went back to throwing the pot. Are you still mine?
Fox moved Walter’s hands over the clay, up and down, very slightly. Walter’s breathing became a bit shallower, and Fox noticed that both of them were getting turned on. Back to the water bucket; back to the shape. Up and down. Mulder’s foot inadvertently pressed a little harder on the pedal; the wheel started to move a bit faster. God speed your love to me… The clay was now close to a workable shape; it was time to make it a pot. Guiding Walter’s hands to the top of the mass, they pinched ever so carefully, until a lip started to form. Then, gently pushing into the center, they started to hollow the shape out. Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea
Walter couldn’t help himself anymore. He leaned in and kissed Fox’s neck; Fox, in turn, let out a whimper and stepped on the pedal a bit more. The wheel went noticeably faster. Lonely rivers sigh wait for me, wait for me
The next target was Mulder’s ear. Skinner moved his attention there, and, with subtlety, began to nibble. This time, Mulder let out a sharp breath and a hushed moan. The wheel turned faster still. Oh, my love, my darling
Fox let go of Walter’s hands and reached behind him, grabbing Skinner’s ass. Walter, in turn, ran his clay-soaked hands down Mulder’s chest, down, down, down, grabbing him under his jeans. The wheel spun like a thing possessed, and the fledgling pot, off-center and misshapen to begin with, lost its tenuous fight with centripetal force. Clay, be it in pieces, or a fine spray, went everywhere. Neither man cared to notice. For love. Lonely time… They half fell- half threw themselves to the plastic covered floor, knocking over the buckets of water and clay slops as they went. Frenetically undressing each other, rolling in clay and moonlight… And time goes by so slowly
*** Walter started to chuckle. “Walter?” He continued to snicker lightly to himself, not seeming to pay attention to the man he was lying face to face with; the man he had his arm over in a semi-embrace. “Walter?” The burly man started to laugh out loud now, ever so slightly. Something was striking him as funny, and Fox was starting to get defensive. “Walter, what the hell is so goddamn funny?” Fox demanded. Trying to keep a straight face, the Assistant Director said, “It’s nothing. Really.” “Bullshit, Walter. What’s so fucking funny?” “Don’t get so upset. It’s just…” “Yes?” “It’s just, when you first told me that you had a fantasy, I thought,
‘just as long as it doesn’t involve me painting myself gray and probing
him, I’ll be okay’. Now look at me!”
Fox looked at the man beside him; almost completely gray from all the clay, bald, and illuminated by green-yellow moonlight. In the afterglow, the resemblance was hysterically frightening. “Well,” Mulder said dryly, “so much for the next fantasy.” I need your love
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