Spoilers:  Series finale, except the het bits.  Those never happened.

Sequel:  To "Hallow", the story formerly known as "Thank You, Chris Carter".

Warnings:  If you need warnings, on this Website, ghod help you.

Exact time frame:  If you figure that out, let me know.

SECONDS

by C. M. Decarnin
 

Special Agent Mulder had had a lot to think about.  Under other
circumstances, having been fucked physically by a... male... would have been
preeminent among those thoughts.  As it was, the bare fact took a fourth or
fifth place.  Behind "How", "Who", sometimes a secret "If".

At home he'd gone naked down the hall to answer his phone.  To turn on the
stereo.  To watch tv.

To see if the refrigerator was running.

Nothing.

The ghost or incubus or X-rated poltergeist had not returned, and his very
skin felt lonely.  He'd gradually resumed his clothed ways.  But his wonder
at the event had never faded, as much at his own response as at the fact
itself.  To say it had been uncharacteristic...  he had not theorized or
made notes with charts and graphs and slides mentally, he'd not had so much
as a single intellectual synaptic connection after that full-mouthed kiss,
he'd simply... ignited.  Nor had he protested and whinged and backed and
temporized at the possibility of doing something new, sexually, he'd
simply... bent over.  Had his mind been taken control of?  Had his very
being been commandeered, his own soul set aside, and some sort of possession
taken over him?

If so, there was a lot to be said for it.

He couldn't kid himself that he had even a molecule of an objection.  But
shouldn't he?  If something overrode your will, if something overturned
every conscious habit and way of life you'd ever had so that you spread your
legs and liked it like a junkie shouldn't you feel horribly violated and
enraged, or at the very least, concerned?

Instead of waltzing down the hall, fanny to the breeze, soliciting encores?

The more so since he had acute suspicion it had not been any of his dear
departed friends.  That it was someone who had never meant him any good (he
told himself, in no shape for extra ambiguities).

Should not that make him worry even more?

More than any clue within the act itself, he recognized his frame of mind.
Here, he'd been before.  A sexual strafing-run that had left him sitting
pondering the ways of God, most notably the way of a serpent upon a rock,
instead of chasing after the perp to kick him such a good one in the
goolies.  At least that dark night he had felt the insult of that kiss,
alongside a state of going up in flames.  At least he'd had the grace to be
conflicted.

But the man who'd done that dastard deed was dead, and so, apparently, were
all of Mulder's fine moral distinctions.

How could he not feel pain, outrage, self-hatred, self-contempt?

How come he felt -- light-hearted?

Even after so many days, even with his disappointment that the mysterious
visit hadn't been only the first salvo in a prolonged campaign to dominate
his very being and haul his soul away to hell, he still could feel the core
awareness of the ecstasy that had ravished him:  that he was loved,
approved, admired and desired, that he deserved the unstinting pleasure
bestowed by a grateful universe upon the wonder that he was.

Okay, he got the light-hearted part.

Still...

There might or might not be Russian treachery in this.  There might or might
not be proof of a Beyond.  But shouldn't his main concern, at long long
last, now really be whether he had crossed without a Customs check into the
Land of Green Ginger?

We don't know where we're going but we're on our way had almost been his
national anthem up till now.  But he had always known that all the dread
things people thought about him could come to pass.  There was a line there.
It was just that he had always thought he'd know, when he went over it.
Every nutjob that returned to sanity had always said, there was a part of
them that knew, throughout it all, they were nutjobs.

He didn't feel that way.  He wondered, and he theorized, he hoped and
prayed.  But there was no part of him that stood aside, however frozenly,
and said, "Right, Mulder, sure."

He felt such happiness.

Even in something as dumb as taking a pee, because bathrooms reminded him.
He still worked late, he still obsessed, he was still hauled into midair by
every passing conclusion like a frog at a skeet-shoot, and no one but Scully
let themselves get close enough to notice any difference.  And she didn't
say anything.  Maybe she thought he was doing a postapocalypso in his heart,
complete with castanets and heel-stomps, because the Smoking Man was dead,
dead dead, dead, dead, thrrrrrrrrocka-tocka-tocka-tocka-tocka tock tock.
Thrrrrrrrrock!

It could be she was right.  It certainly didn't hurt that very few people
were now trying to kill or kidnap or perform unauthorized brain surgery upon
him.  Or her.  Yet there had been a desolation in his mind, unaffected for
better or worse by the finality of the tone of voice of cave-killer missiles
streaking out of no-nonsense Black Ops choppers into irreplaceable ancient
Anasazi cliff-dwellings and exploding into giant balls of fate-sealing fire.

He didn't know.  He just hadn't felt that great.  Since Scully's baby and
everything.

Maybe the kid somehow fulfilled a biological imperative he hadn't known he'd
had.  Leaving him a reproductive empty husk.

Or something.

Just somehow since that night that seemed to give him so much that he wanted
-- Scully safe, a normal kid, one enemy he'd never see alive again -- life
hadn't been worth living.

And now he was happy!

Today he'd worked so late, obsessed so much, that by the time he realized he
had to pee, he'd barely made it to the urinal in time.  The pee leaving him
to play its next part in the great chain of creation was such a relief he
smiled, pictured himself doing a little pee-dance down the line of urinals
built when a lot more people must have worked down here, pictured the
janitor looking at him tight-lipped, refrained.  He waited, knowing there
was pee backed up his ureters.  Sure enough, a long last squirt.

Ahh.  Buddha was right.  Not much could beat the blessing of true emptiness.

He jiggled a bit to get the last drop off.

He started to make that slight leaning forward motion of tucking his cock
back into his pants, when something pushed aside his hand and -- grasped
him.  From above, fingers wrapping under his thickness invisibly.

He gasped in air.  And kept gasping.  Something pushed him, like a full
body-check walking into him, and again, again, until he hit the wall that
separated the stalls from the urinals, while the light, sure, caressing hold
on him never loosened.  His hips pushed forward into it, shoulders against
the wall, head back, and he felt a leg on either side of him, a mouth
settling gently on his own.  He made a long nnnnnnnnnnn sound of consent and
need, moving, sliding on the slick tile of the wall, pressing his palms back
against it to hold himself upright, pushing again into the hold around his
organ.  It felt... so... good...  His mouth was just being kissed as if by
someone after a long absence, a kiss of love much more than sex.  The sense
of a body he felt against him was almost as if he were imagining it, a thing
he wanted so much it appeared, but not something he could grip, himself, or
hold.  A tongue parted his lips, just for a moment, and the kiss had ended.
He felt a long sliding, down his body.  The grip on his erection shifted.

Lips touched the head of his cock.

"Nnnnnnnnnnnno-o-o-o-oh-oh-oh-oh --"  Negation in him, of what, he did not
know, as wet softness on the end of his cock moved in circles within the
gentle hold of the lips, and the beauty of the sensation made him
weak-kneed.  He felt his cock moved up and down in a penile nod, and
laughed, astonished, and sucked breath hard as gentle fingers slid down the
underside of his erection onto his balls, and under them, and lifted, as
long tongue washed down, and the mouth hooded him.  Soft glottis against his
meatus made him wriggle and jump, all inward struggle against his own
muscles, head turned, like some bound slave.  Gossamer massaging of his
testicles, the mouth moving up his penis slowly, and back down further, with
swallowing sensations making his hips push out, heels up off the ground --

The long, slow, unendurable suck back up his reaching organ crumpled him,
beginning at the knees, undermining his hips.  His shoulders slid down the
tile, his feet slid away, inexorably sucking softly re-engulfed him and he
bucked, in a motion that ended with him helplessly on the floor, one
shoulder propped still awkwardly against the wall, his head thrown back, one
hand groping on the tiles, the other stretched spasmodically into the air.
Gentle licks and rolls and wraps of the tongue were mining pleasures from
him like jewels from a diamond-bed, each find more shimmeringly delicious
than the last, brilliant against a setting of black velvet darkness -- his
eyes had closed, his senses all converged down to the source from which
awareness surged, need and fulfillment in one all-powerful tide rising
through him.  He felt a hand slide up around his groin, over his belly, onto
his chest with ever-increasing pressure, holding him down, exerting
possession, clutching his clothing; then riding down, in an arc, over him,
as urgent sucking on his cock described needfulness, slipping up and down
the wet hot column beggingly, until the hand dragged across his trousers and
among the petals of his open fly, touched him with its fingertips, the base
of his cock and the skin around it, tracery of adoration that made Mulder
stretch into the circle of the fingers, closing carefully to capture him,
hold his pleading shaft in balm and easement only until the next
tongue-enfolded slide down on his love-flesh curled him in, up, out, into a
squirm of lust-wanting.  He scrabbled with his feet against the floor but
they slid and he couldn't get himself arched as he wanted, and he started
panting with whining, needing sounds as the mouth absorbed him full-length.
He pushed against the floor, his ally in the battle for more touch, bucked,
thrust hard into the throat that swallowed him and came down further as he
fucked, accepting into heat and deep red pressure the demand, imperious, of
all he was.  His cock was all he was.  As the tongue forced against him
hard, he slid himself into the depths.  His breath was stertorous, his body
all but disappearing into the lunge of loins and thrust of phallus home,
into blood-hot too-tight slit of throat burying him, holding, till no
muscular force could get him further, contractions only wiggling
infinitesimally and perfectly the delicate flesh against the most delicate
of flesh, or nothingness, perfect, perfect, perfect until it opened
irretrievably into the beyond perfection of the other side of orgasm, his
body arched up like a longbow, his cum shot as a hot gold arrow into the
target that he could not see.

Tongue stilled on him, then moved to pull final ecstasy into his cock, into
him all over, his body rocking to the side, and to the other side, as the
tongue moved.

Slowly the blowjob slid off of his cock.

"Don't go," he whispered.  His voice felt cracked and dried out.  "Don't
go."

He felt his limp cock lifted and dropped floppily.

"You're only here for the sex?"  He tried a smile fractured by exhaustion.
A hand rested on his belly muscles.  He whispered, "Who are you?"

He felt breath on his face.

The slightest scratch of stubble.

A kiss on his right cheek.

The hand reached under him.  He felt a tug at his belt in back.  He pushed
at the floor, trying to sit up.  He managed to wedge against the wall,
trying to see what was being done.  Of course he wouldn't be able to.

But he did.

He saw his Smith & Wesson in midair, then he saw it twirl like a whirligig,
stop, twirl backwards fast as lightning, stop and shoot quick mock shots off
at two ceiling-corners, flip and whirl even more spectacularly.  He laughed,
amazed.  His gun performed a couple more wild-west spins, and then stopped,
pointing up, suspended before his eyes.

Then slipped and hung, dangling upside-down from its trigger-guard.

Then lowered, and gently dropped into his lap.

~Krycek.~

He said the word, but no sound came out.

Cold and hot clenched in his stomach.

Of course he had no way to prove...

But no one had seen that.  That dark night in his apartment.  Unless they'd
had infrared cameras trained on his every move.

They might have.

And who knew what the dead could see.

He should be able to answer that question.

But he couldn't remember anything of his time under the ground.

If this was even a dead person.  Or any person.  Or anything more than --
He didn't want to entertain that thought.

Perhaps you knew everything, once you were well and truly dead.  Talk about
access...

Nothing was touching him.

He had an impression as if someone had backed away, receded from him, and
was gone.

The room felt empty.

He realized he was sitting on a restroom floor with his fly open and his gun
lying in his hands.  Not a flattering picture if somebody walked in.

Not wanting to, he pried himself up.  He put his gun away, and zipped his
pants.

Assaulted by a ghost in heat in the Hoover men's room.

His sex life certainly was looking up.

The End

6/10/02