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A Night with Mulder

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It’s December 29th and the office Christmas party is going swimmingly.

You hadn’t expected to be here this long. You had sworn to everybody in the office that you would only stay for a minute because ‘you were tired’ and ‘getting over a cold.’ But here you are, three and a half glasses of wine later playing charades and absolutely killing it at 11:00 pm. You’ve almost forgotten why you didn’t want to come in the first place. Almost, but at this point your inhibitions have started to drain away, just like the bottle of wine that you had brought hours earlier. 

Pendrell stands in front of the fireplace. His nose is red and his deer antlers are starting to slip off of his head. He gestures wildly and shuffles his feet across the carpet as your coworkers lob  guesses his way.

Agent Scully claims that he’s Prince.

Agent Skinner is having a hard time picking the name from the tip of his tongue.

Another Agent says something incoherent and everybody bursts out laughing.

But you know the answer. Excitedly, you lean forward and call out a name, only to find that someone else has called it out at the same time. The remnants of your wine spill out onto your pants and you make eye contact with Agent Mulder. He’s smiling as you dab furiously at the blooming stain. No one else has seen the accident but him, they were all too busy laughing at Agent Skinner claiming that he knew that the answer was Michael Jackson (it was obvious by the moonwalk part of the charade.) Mulder says something. You think that he might have been telling you that you’ve had a little too much to drink but you pretend to ignore him over the sound of the party. It’s true, though. You can feel the lightheadedness and dizziness coming on.

Later, when the games are done, the snacks have been picked to their bare bones, and the conversations have died down to exclusive huddles and ‘good bye’s, you stagger to the bathroom and promptly heave in the toilet before anyone could notice. You stand up and glance in the mirror only to notice that the door has been left slightly ajar.

Now I see why they call you Spooky Mulder, you say to the man standing there.

He smiles again and asks you if you need a ride home. You curse because you vaguely remember your original designated driver leaving without you because you had decided to stay a little longer. You stare into the mirror and contemplate riding home in the dark with the FBI’s favorite freak. Having come up with no valid reason to decline you smooth down your hair and jokingly ask if he’s going to abduct you. He rolls his eyes and tells you that he’ll be downstairs waiting.

You chat for a few minutes with the rest of your coworkers, say your last good byes, and make your way to the door where Agent Mulder is shrugging his coat on. Agent Scully is standing there with him and she gives you a sobering look as you pass by. She tells you both to be safe then says something to Mulder in a low voice. A moment passes between them that you can’t quite understand then he’s out the door, shouldering his way through the flurries of cold wind.

Once at his car he opens the passenger door for you and helps you in. His hand is large and sweaty, and the grip that he exerts on yours is shockingly strong. You feel a bolt of lightning run through your stomach but you're not sure why. Once in the car, he turns on the heater and snaps his seatbelt into place.

Warm enough?

It’s fine, you say. Much to your surprise he reaches over and buckles you in. For a second his head is inches away from your chest and you briefly catch the scent of conditioner and cologne. You inhale and tell him that he smells nice, really nice.

Years later, you’ll swear that he blushed.

He begins to drive. A late night talk show is playing on the radio. You catch words like ‘government,’ ‘conflict of interests’ and once, you think, you hear them mention ‘aliens.’ You reach out and twist the knob until you find a rock ‘n roll station. 

I was listening to that.

I feel like you hear stuff like that all day. But I can change it back, you say, suddenly embarrassed. You reach out to touch the knob again but he stops you by putting his hand over yours. The hot bolt flashes through your belly again and you pull away. 

No, I like this. Sweeet hooome Ala-bama!

Cheeks burning, you stare out the window as you both nod your head to the music playing on the radio. It suddenly occurs to you that you’re alone, in a car, with Spooky Mulder, and you’re not sure what to do about that. He taps his finger on the steering wheel along with the music and you wish that you had had a little more wine before you left. It occurs to you that it’s odd that he hasn’t asked you your address but you decide that you’re too tipsy to worry about it. You live an hour away and it looked like he was pretty confident with his directions thus far. Lulled by the music and the warmth of the car, you begin to daydream and drift. He says something and you open your eyes groggily.

What?

I said, ‘are you falling asleep on me?’

You yawn in response and he says something incoherent, although it sounds suspiciously like he said that the fun hadn’t even begun. You sit up a little higher in your seat as he turns off the radio.

Now you know, my place is just a few minutes from here. He says. You’re more than welcome to crash and I can drop you off in the morning.

Oh, uhm...

You think of all of the sexy romance movies that have been forced upon you, the wild and wet scenes of spontaneous lovemaking by the sink and clothes strewn by the bed. This time you squirm as the warmth flares up between your thighs. No, that wouldn’t happen. Agent Mulder was too weird, too awkward. You guys had barely spoken more than a few sentences during your time working at the bureau. But…

You agree before you can think anymore about it. He doesn’t say anything more. He makes a sharp left and seems to drive back a way. The next few minutes are unbearably awkward and you begin to regret your decision. Frantically, you search for an excuse to go home. Gotta feed the dog, gotta call mom, still feeling sick. You’re constantly on the verge of spitting one out until he suddenly pulls into the parking lot of his apartment. He turns the car off and it’s dead silent save for your breath and the wind howling wildly outside of the car.

He’s looking at you and asking if you’re ready. You look up and into his eyes and say yes.

He’s standing outside of the car, waiting for you. Slowly, shaking, you untangle yourself from your belongings and step out into the cold. You follow him up the steps and through the halls until you reach a single, unobtrusive door. He wiggles his keys in the lock and turns to look at you.

Now it’s nothing that Tom Cruise would be proud of but keep in mind I haven’t yet reached my prime. 

You purse your lips at him and shuffle past. For a moment he’s standing behind you as you peek into the dark space. You can feel him so close to you. Warmth is emanating from his body, his coat flushes against your side. You feel his breath against your neck. Any closer and he could place a kiss there. You turn to look at him and simultaneously the lights turn on. His hand is outstretched and on the switch, but he’s looking dead at you. 

Welcome to Chez Moi. 

You smirk and turn around again.. You take in the fishtank, sparse furnishings, and tiny kitchen with a dramatically attentive eye.You hadn’t been expecting much and you admit to him that Tom Cruise would indeed rate the place a glowing one out of ten.

What’s the golden redeeming quality?

It’s not a cardboard box.

Agent Mulder gives a toothy grin and begins to remove his jacket. He  gives you directions to his room, where you’ll be sleeping, the bathroom, and offers you the fresh sheets in the cabinet. He’s going to stay up for a bit and check his email, see if anything new has come in. You tell him that’s fine and then for some odd reason say that you’re just going to put your stuff down. You wander towards the bathroom and begin to peel the sticky layers of clothing from your skin. The reflection in the mirror stares back at you with a knowing smile. It knows about your thumping heart and clammy hands. You splash cold water on your face and run your wet fingers through your hair. You’re cleaner now and you feel better, if not a little anxious.

You can wear one of my shirts. Red hamper in the corner.

It’s as if he had read your mind. You pull a grey Yale shirt from the bin and slip it over your bare shoulders. It’s several sizes too large for you but the material is soft and warm. He must’ve taken it from the dryer before leaving for the party. There’s a moment of indecision as you try to decide what to wear under it since the rest of your clothes are still splattered with wine. In the end, you decide that your under shorts will do. The shirt is long enough anyway, is what the tipsy side of your conscience is telling you. You cross the small hall and dump the ball of dirty clothes on the bed as well as your bag then shyly wander into the living room. Mulder is in the kitchen. He turns around with a bottle of wine in one hand and a cork in the other. If he’s surprised to see your bare legs sticking out from beneath the hem of his shirt he doesn’t show it. Maybe that’s what he had been expecting. 

I...figured a little after party might be in order. You wanna join?

You shrug. I’m not sleepy anymore, anyway.

You settle onto the couch and tuck one leg beneath your thigh. He takes the spot next to you and pours you a glass. You take turns making a toast and his is so unexpectedly ridiculous that you almost spit out your wine laughing. Your tension begins to ease away and soon you are relaxed, and surprisingly soothed by his presence. You ask him about the X-Files and in return he asks about your life. He’s a graceful conversationalist, full of with and humour, and soon he has you opening up to him about your deepest dreams and most intimate memories. All the while he keeps pouring you glass after glass of wine until the bottle is finished. Finally, you take your last sip and lean back into the cushions. You’re sweating and you realize that a Frank Sinatra playlist had been turned on at some point. You brush your hair from your face and laugh softly. You’re thinking to yourself that it’s odd that Frank Sinatra’s physical appearance doesn’t really match his voice and you want to say this to Agent Mulder. It’s then that you realize that he’s staring at you. You would’ve thought it impossible for a man to be so distant and yet so close but there he is. Without thinking, you reach out and run your thumb along his bottom lip.

I just realized...I’ve never seen you laugh. Like really, really laugh. Are you not happy? You ask.

You wanna make me happy?

He leans over and begins to kiss you, softly at first. You let out a little sigh and curl your fingers in his hair. Your body floods with joy and you pull him closer and closer. He just can’t be close enough. He runs the flat of his palm along your bare legs and slides on top of you. Your ankles cross along his lower back and you push your hips up against his, vying for contact. You can feel him, he’s hard already and this excites you more than anything else. He switches between planting kisses along your neck and on your lips. Everywhere he kisses you feels so right, as if your body is the desert and his lips are drops of fertile Spring rain. Suddenly he sits up, leaving you panting and completely disoriented. The buttons of his shirt have worked themselves free of the buttonholes and you stare for a moment at his chest before looking up into his eyes.

Wow, you say breathlessly. The man smiles mischievously and presses a kiss against your forehead.

I’ll be right back, he says quietly and pulls away. The sound of his voice excites you and you bite your lip in response. You watch him walk to the bathroom and close the door. The sound of the shower squeaking to life can be heard. Steam begins to slip under the door and into the living room, carrying with it the smell of Dove soap. For a moment you’re confused and you wonder if you had heard him correctly. You fear that maybe he had told you that the party was over but then realize that that was just drunk anxiety talking. You feel tense, your desire inexhaustible.You ask yourself over and over again, am I doing this? Is this for real? With anybody else it would have made sense, but Agent Mulder? Spooky Mulder? The FBI’s very own basement-dwelling narcissist?

You want to tell somebody but your phone is dead. The imprints of his fingers are still hot on your body, the smell of his sweat lingers on your skin. You can taste him, still.

Yet you’re not sure. The weight of the waiting period begins to settle on you, although only a few minutes have passed. The wheels of logic begin to spin feverishly, moving faster than your desire to hook up. Agent Mulder is a coworker, damn near a stranger to you. The most mature course of action would be to get dressed, call a cab, and spend tomorrow revelling over your ability to resist temptation.

Not to mention Agent Scully.

An image of the woman’s face as she shared a glance with Agent Mulder at the party solidifies your resolve. You stand up, place your empty glass in the sink, and make your way towards the bedroom. As you near the bathroom door you pause and listen to the sound of the water splattering against the tub. He’s quiet. Your mind races. What’s he doing in there?

You lift your hand to knock when suddenly the shower falls silent and the door swings open. Hot steam rushes past your body and fills your lungs.He’s standing there, towel wrapped around his waist. Disappointment shines bright in his eyes, only to be replaced by curiosity.

Are you leaving?

You fall into him then. Your hands explore his wet torso as your lips meet. He’s so smooth and he smells so fresh. He moans and suddenly his hands are on the sides of your face, holding you still as his tongue runs deftly along yours. You grip his wrists as he lifts your body and presses you against the wall.

Oh my god, you say because you realize that there’s nothing holding the towel to his waist. But you don’t want to see yet. You reach down and find him half-hard. Again, the thought races through your head, this is Mulder. The Mulder. You cradle his cock in your palm and let your fingers run gently up and down the throbbing veins. He’s smooth, as smooth as they come, and sculpted almost. Your body quivers in response and you break away to sigh as he pulls your shorts away. First your eyes flutter close as he guides himself into you. You gasp as he shifts you, desperate to find that perfect angle. Then he’s fully inside of you. You both whimper as he hits that spot and begins to move against you, clumsily at first, and then you brace yourself on the wall and he finds his rhythm. You can’t help yourself: you moan and curse and beg as he pounds you. His hands are grasping your hips and you can tell that he wants to squeeze you harder, really dig his nails into you, but is refraining. The back of your head hits the wall with a thunk and you cry out -

Fox!

This does it. He lets you down and pushes you to the ground where he makes you lie on your back. He guides his cock into you and resumes thursting, but this time he’s kissing you again. You grab at his hair, his arms, his hips, but nothing quite satisfies you. So you dig your nails into his back and he makes a noise of disapproval. You catch his eye - sorry - and giggle. He smiles, bites his bottom lip, closes his eyes, moans. He falls into you and buries his nose into the crook of your shoulder, all the while pulling you closer. It’s impossible to get enough. Your climax is building, the desire for release begins to spread through your body and fog your mind. Because every thrust is perfect, every inch of space consumed within you is alight with pleasure.

I think I’m gonna - you say and let the words die out on your tongue. He asks a question that you don’t catch and for whatever reason you answer in the affirmative. Suddenly he pulls you up and pushes you to your knees. His hands are hard and confident as he glides his cock into you one more. It’s awkward at first, finding a synchronized rhythm, and for a moment you’re both vying for control until he grasps your hips and lets you set the pace. Sweat from his body splatters against your arched back, his breath catches and hitches in his throat and you know that he’s watching you move.

    Perfect,  you hear him say and that does it for you. You close your eyes and push your body to move faster, grind harder. His fingers dig into your side and he thrusts becomes desperate. You’re both crying out now, growing tense and coiled within until…

    He sighs, falls against your back. His slick skin slides gently against yours as you breath against one another. His penis slips out of you and suddenly your so empty but still quivering.

    Sorry, he says as he rises to his feet. It took you a second to realize that the suddenly warm imprint on your neck was from a kiss that he had planted there. 

    For what?

    He walks to the bathroom and comes back with a white towel. You know what you’re supposed to use it for but instead your run it across your face.

    It’s been a while.

    I couldn’t tell. 

    He smiles - is he flattered? - and sits with his back against the wall.

    You think you’ll ever come back?

    Maybe.

    You’re always welcome.

    You wake up at six the next morning. Everything in the tiny apartment is still, the colors are muted. You hear Mulder snoring gently in the living room. The fish tank gurgles and bubbles. It’s the kind of scene that you could get used to. You debate whether or not you want to make yourself coffee but the thought of waking Agent Mulder with the sound makes you anxious. You gather your things, put on your shoes, and use his phone to call out for a cab. You remember the last thing that he said to you - wake me when you’re ready to go - but you pay his words no heed. He would rise and you would be gone. And maybe you would see each other in a day, a week,  a month around the office. Even then maybe you wouldn’t even share more than a single, accidental glance from across the room.

    But it’s okay.

    You step into the misty morning air and pull your hood over your head,

    Some memories were best left untouched.