From: daddy793@aol.com (Daddy793)
Date: 1998/09/07
Subject: NEW: "Soft Decline" by Te


Afternoon Weirdness V: Soft Decline
by Te
8/98

Disclaimers: Not mine, though I'm thinking there should be
something like frequent flier miles.

Spoilers: Very, very vague and easy to miss references to the
movie.

Summary: Mulder's needs a little time to decompress. 

Ratings Note: Weak R.

Author's Note: I love you, Sister Blue. Oh, and, this has
absolute nothing to do with the prior four stories. At all.

Acknowledgments: With thanks to Dawn Sharon for being a
wonderful, patient ear for a wee bit of insanity as well as for 
being an audience. Also to the shadowy Viridian, for marvelous
beta and Tespeak translation in the face of
SnappishAndManipulative!Te.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Afternoon Weirdness V: Soft Decline
by Te
Daddy793@aol.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder took off his jacket, and his shirt, and his t-shirt, and
sat at the computer. Swiped a finger across the monitor with a
mild moue of distaste. He had no clue when he'd last dusted the
thing. He lay his head on the soft gel wrist rest and waited,
patiently, to care.

He had rearranged the apartment for the summer, moving the
computer directly across from the air conditioner. He'd had a
twinge of worry -- after all, the new arrangement left him 
vulnerable to sniper fire -- but Washington gets *hot* in those
summer months. Not that healing bone warmth, either. This 
was the kind of heat that stripped you of your clothes and 
rubbed you down with burning ooze, then *plastered* them 
back on in some fabric-ian parody of papier mache. 

So the desk had been moved. After a time, the deliberate slowing
of his body allowed him to feel the first prickle of cool air along
his nape. Mulder was abruptly appreciative of the new, shorter
haircut, despite the neatly aimed eyebrow from Scully and the
muttered "hedgehog" comments from...

Well, from Alex. Times like these, the day barely over, the night
promising to be just as lonely and pointless as the vast majority
of his life.... He simply didn't have the energy to work himself up
about *that* new arrangement. 

He nuzzled himself into the spongy length of grey. If he was to be
honest with himself, a lot of things were burned away quite
effectively by that first, knowing touch on his cock. The voice in
his ear. Alex had said:

"Can we, just this once, pretend this is all that matters?"

When he'd bucked into Alex's hand, when he'd leaned back and
back into that solidity of leather and need, he'd given all the 
answer necessary.

And Alex's smile against his cheek was just fine, too, because
Mulder knew he never made enough people smile. 

Sometimes, lying just like this, the computer era's answer to 
Dead Man's Float, he could feel the whisper of those soft, peach
lips right where the false breeze was tickling him.

And imagine the clever hand on his body, the sudden, shocking
strength of another man to hold there, right there. And the 
mouth would bite down hard, once, before mapping his spine. 
The mouth was too small for the secrets it knew, the treasures 
it whispered. 

Mulder's fingertips brushed the dusty carpet; he was apelike, 
stupid with early evening indolence and cock-heavy despair. 

Alex hadn't stayed long enough... but when Mulder had awoke
there was a crisp, manila folder of dirty secrets and a crumpled
leather glove on the mattress.

He had, at some point, begged the younger man to put it back 
on. Alex had given him a good, solid week to wonder if it was 
mock or sentiment before slipping into bed with him one 
Thursday night, slipping in and slipping down, and slipping his
mouth right down on Mulder's cock.

A promise to return, then.

Mulder came to himself with the realization that he'd been 
nuzzling the wrist rest like an animal in heat. This wouldn't do.
He would, at the very least, decide if he was going to be too 
depressed to beat off.

The urgency was building, just a bit.

He mused on the nature of vulnerability, how any reasonably
well-adjusted adult male might decide to willingly place himself
in the line of fire for the opportunity of comfort.

Might lay it all on the line to bind his partner with guilt and 
need, to have her with him, always. 

Might spread himself on the coverlet, and kneel up, and offer.
No, that's wrong. Spread himself and *beg* for...

For what? 

It would be disingenuous to say forgetfulness... He'd never 
forgotten, and forgiveness wouldn't be half so thrilling. And 
there'd be no thrill without fear, so the presumed safety of 
another man's arms would be a lie as well. 

Perhaps, the beauty of vulnerability was the ease of it, the way 
in which one, after making the choice to do so, could give it all
to another person. If only for a few hours. 

To be allowed the illusion of a clean attic, a heart free of baggage
and care for just another hour of salt-slick hunger and suffering.

Given time, he was nearly positive he could relate that to the air
conditioner. Somehow.

******
End. 
******

"Hey, you!  You seem sick and twisted enough for the character I'm writing. 
Show me what a bad idea a relationship with you is!"

                         -- Misha, the flirt...