Title: Homo Alono
From: Evan Black EvanJ4mesBlack@gmail.com
Rating: NC17 (Slash)
Summary: All slashed out, Mulder takes advantage of an absent fanfic writer to make his move on Scully... ALL BY HIMSELF!
Warning: Contains graphic scenes of Mulder cleaning his apartment.
 

HOMO ALONO


The bright summer's morning when he awoke without Alex Krycek's cock in his ass or Walter Skinner's shiny bald head between his legs, was a glorious one for Mulder. 

Finding himself alone on the couch was at first startling, then amazing, and then completely joyous. For too long, FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder had been having sex with men. He wasn't sure how it had started. There he'd been, minding his own business, secretly lusting after Scully, when his life took a hairpin turn down queer street.

One minute his nemesis Krycek had kissed him on the cheek as he sat dazed and confused on the living room floor, the next thing he knew, the double agent had him bent over the back of this very couch and was fucking him so hard Mulder had thought he might push him and the couch clear out of the window. It hurt like hell. At first. And then - for some reason he still couldn't quite understand - Mulder had got a hard on and ended up begging Krycek to fuck him even harder, before he pumped about a quart of semen across his beloved Navajo blanket. 

Mulder was stunned. Stunned and embarrassed. It really wasn't like him to beg a man he hated to fuck him harder during what must surely have been a rape. It wasn't like him at all. Mulder didn't tell Scully what had happened. Hell, he hardly acknowledged it to himself. He'd had no inkling that he might be turned on by gay sex. Everything about it felt wrong to him. He'd never have believed he could do it, and would certainly never want to do it again.

Which is why it was so strange when - barely two weeks after the bizarre nighttime encounter - Mulder found himself going down on Assistant Director Walter Skinner in the AD's office. Even as he tugged his superior's zipper down, feeling Skinner's strong brown hands guiding his head towards its goal, Mulder was outraged by what he was doing. Outraged, disgusted - and once again, wholly embarrassed. Was he fucking crazy?? He was in love with Scully. Had been in love with her for years, and fully intended to MAKE love to her at some indeterminate point in their joint futures. Quite how sucking off their boss smoothed his path into Scully's knickers, he was failing to grasp.

It was ridiculous. He was an adult human being. He had a job, an apartment, a checking account. He had pet fish, for god's sake! Some of them even lived for months! He was used to being pretty well in charge of his own life and had also just got used to being reasonably happy about the way it was all panning out, what with Scully persisting in coming in to work with him every day, despite his almost constant fear that she'd leave him. It meant that - although he'd never had the courage to make a move - the possibility, however remote, was always there that one day, somehow, a move (or moves) would be made by him (or her) which would (or might, he hoped) result in some kind of 'next level' relationship which could (if he could just scrape up enough luck/courage/drugs) result in actual kissing. 

Mulder's cock stirred at the thought of actually kissing Scully. How she'd let him press his lips to hers, then give way under the gentle pressure of his tongue and allow him entry to her hot little mouth... Mulder groaned and ran his hand down his flat stomach to his cock. See? That's what really got him going. Scully. Anything else was just aberrant perversion and he had no idea why it was happening to him. It was like someone was controlling him, making him do stuff he didn't want to...

No sooner was the thought in his head, than Alex Krycek burst through the door of his apartment and - seeing Mulder touching himself on his couch - forced him to masturbate at gunpoint until he came on his own T-shirt, Krycek's hot mouth covering his own, his fingers roughly pinching Mulder's nipples, and the muzzle of his gun pressing rings into Mulder's cheek.

Christ, couldn't he get a moment's peace from all this ass-banditry?? It was driving Mulder crazy. Okay, so Alex hadn't fucked him this time, for which he was grateful, but jerking off in front of the bastard was hardly the action of a healthy heterosexual male, even if it was at gunpoint. Shouldn't his cock have withered in his fist and refused to respond? Mulder felt his face burn with shame.

And so it continued. It seemed that Mulder couldn't go anywhere without Krycek or Skinner or some other faceless man accosting him for sex - usually rough. Mulder even found himself going to gay bars and picking up men to fuck in the toilets. His brain was fixated on Scully, but his dick was like a heat-seeking missile for man-ass, and his own butt might as well have had a bullseye painted on it and a big arrow saying 'Fuck me Here'. Some of the encounters were tender and sweet, others were hot and passionate. Still others were painful and filled with brutality. Sometimes he hated it; sometimes he loved it. Sometimes he hated it, then ended up loving it. Often it felt like the first time for him, like he was losing his virginity over and over again. It was nuts. He had no control over it.

He was also exhausted. So exhausted that nowadays he rarely had time to think of Scully and masturbate. He was always up some guy, or had some guy up him. And on the rare occasions he was alone, the thought of all those men he'd had, and who'd had him, and who still wanted him - and would probably get him - made his lone sexual encounters less than satisfactory. Sometimes he couldn't even get it up for Scully; he just rolled over on the couch and dozed off, merely grateful that he wasn't being raped for one night.

But if he ever did drop off to sleep alone, he never woke up that way. Alex would break in, or Skinner would drop by, or some other pervert would creep into his apartment and tie him up and drip hot wax on his balls before riding him hard and putting him away wet at daybreak. Now and then he was kidnapped, blindfolded, tied up, tortured and THEN raped. Mulder always managed to track down his assailants eventually, but there was a seemingly never-ending parade of men lining up to snatch him off the street, bundle him into a car, or lure him to Scully's under false pretences. Those were the worst of all - thinking he was going over to  rescue Scully from a fate worse than death, and instead being whisked off to some grimy basement and abused until SHE rescued HIM! The humiliation.

Mulder was a smart man. But he had no idea what was happening to his life.

Until the morning he woke up alone.

At first the day seemed normal - apart from the fact that he wasn't sexually assaulted before breakfast. 

By lunchtime in the basement office, Mulder was getting jumpy. Something was definitely up. Why was he being left alone to live his life and solve X-files? It had been so long since that was the way his life had been, that chasing down ghosts and encountering shadowy alien conspiracies seemed a safe and mundane refuge.

The morning passed unremarkably. Which was remarkable. Mulder didn't go into a coma or demand that they fly to Cowtown, Iowa on a paranormal whim. Scully didn't get a tattoo or kiss a clone. It was just like a boring day in an office. Bizarre.

They had lunch together - carrot and raisin salad for her, cheeseburger for him - and at no point was she tied to a chair and forced to watch Skinner ram his dick home in Mulder's ass because his 302's weren't signed.

After lunch Scully typed reports (because she used more than two fingers) while Mulder filed stuff (because only he understood that goat-sucking apparitions and redneck vampires went under E for Exsanguination, and not under S for Sucking - Brains, Fats and Bodily Fluids other than Blood).

As 5pm approached, Mulder started getting nervous all over again. They were going to ambush him. Jump him in the elevator perhaps. His neo-virgin ass twitched and he grimaced at the thought.

Scully got up to go and Mulder leapt to his feet too. If he stuck with Scully, maybe he'd be okay. He stumbled out anxiously with her, but they got to the elevator in one piece, and nobody stopped it between floors and dropped in from the maintenance hatch to force him to fellate them. They went through the parking garage together and Mulder kept looking over his shoulder, but no shapeshifter emerged from the darkness to hold him down over the hood of a Ford Taurus and sodomize him. It was a big relief.

He said goodbye to Scully, who was giving him odd looks by now, and drove home.

Nobody was waiting to lash him to his table, beat him, gag him, and ram kitchen utensils up his ass. It was almost disconcerting.

Mulder sat on his couch with the TV off, fingering his gun, his nerves jangling as he waited for the dam of homosexual restraint to burst all over him. Somewhere around 3am he must've fallen asleep.

For the second morning in a row, he awoke, unmolested, unraped, his jeans still firmly buttoned, and without the tang of semen in his mouth.

Mulder could get used to this.

He called the Lone Gunmen and explained the situation to Frohike.

To his embarrassment, Frohike laughed! At HIM! The cheeky little dwarf!

'Shit, Mulder! You're so naive! Your fanfic writer is on holiday!'

'What the fuck is fanfic? What do you mean, my writer?'

'The person who writes you.'

'                ' This is what a long silence from Mulder looks like. Make a note and don't lose it - it's very rare and may be valuable one day.

'Just so happens,' continued Frohike, 'that your writer happens to lean, um, a particular WAY. Sexually. Or, at least, likes it best when you do. That kiss from Krycek opened a whole new can of homo worms, Mulder, and since then you've been pretty much, well... gay.'

'                 ' Oh. Not as rare as I'd hoped.

'Don't feel bad about it. It's happened to all of us. Well - all of you. Not me. I don't get to have sex with anybody, not even Jeffrey Spender.'

'But,' said Mulder. 'But. How?'

'That's just the way it is, bud. Suck it up.'

Mulder's mind whirled. This was unreal. And then, his usual focus reasserted itself. He decided to cut through the crap and go straight to the heart of the matter.

'How long have I got?'

'What do you mean?'

'How long have I got alone? Without... interference.'

Frohike took his mouth away from the phone while he consulted Byers and Langly.

'Apparently your writer's in Hawaii for a week.'

'Just one week?!'

'Seems he's so busy writing fanfic on the work computer that he makes hardly any commission on aluminum siding, so a week every year is all he can afford. He left the day before yesterday.'

'So just five days left then?'

'That's right. Why?'

But Mulder had already hung up. He didn't believe in saying goodbye, however helpful someone had been. They never minded.

Mulder could've jumped for joy. A week without a cock up his butt! He could almost feel his abused little hole puckering up all tight and tidy like it was pristine and new and had never had anything more interesting than a rectal thermometer up it. Hooray for holidays! 

Mulder sat back down on his couch with a bowl of Choco-Flakes and considered the possibilities. He was a free agent. Nobody was writing him or guiding him or forcing to do stuff he didn't like. He was a kid who'd been left home alone in the house of his own life. He could do whatever he wanted to do.

And what Mulder wanted to do more than anything in the whole wide world was to fuck Scully.

He shivered at the thought. Thanks to the powers that be, he hadn't had the nerve to even kiss Scully in the six years they'd worked together, and here he was planning to actually get to home base in the next week. Actually in the next four days because he'd already wasted today talking to Frohike and eating Choco-Flakes. 

Mulder put down his Choco-Flakes as the sheer enormity of the opportunity hit home. The utter make-or-break nature of the next four days made him tremble with excited nerves, like a ball player about to step out onto the park in the World Series. 

He mentally picked up a couple of bats and swung them to jog his body's memory of just what would be required.

It had been a long time since he'd had sex with a woman but he was sure it would all be okay. It was like riding a bike, wasn't it? He had the requisite number of fingers and lips, and sufficient inches of cock to feel okay about stripping off in front of anyone. He'd been told he was hung about a million times by Krycek, Skinner, assorted serial killers and vengeful escapees, Jeffrey Spender, Byers, Langley and even - on a couple of less-than-satisfying occasions - by Agent Pendrell, so he was starting to believe it was true. The only person Mulder couldn't ever remember telling him how big his cock was, was Frohike. Mulder felt insecure immediately. Why had Frohike never told him he was hung? WAS he hung? Or was Frohike the only honest man on  the planet? Or maybe Frohike so well hung that Mulder's cock didn't impress him?

Mulder worried about it for a while. Phoebe and Diana had never complained, had they? Or if they had, he hadn't been listening, so they can't have had much to whine about or they'd have done it loudly enough and often enough so he'd have noticed. He was sure he would have noticed. Of course, they'd both dumped him, but he was pretty sure that was for other reasons. Phoebe used men up and spat them out with regularity. She'd certainly used him up, although he couldn't remember her spitting much out while they were together, he thought smugly. And Diana? Well, Diana was...just...Diana. Who the hell knew why she'd left? Could have been an interplanetary conspiracy to colonize Earth and enslave its people; could've been her time of the month. 

Whatever. That was all in the past now.

Mulder suddenly remembered that Frohike was the only man he knew (or vaguely knew. Or used to know. Or just passed on the street) that he hadn't had sex with. He was relieved. Frohike didn't know he was hung, so how could he compliment him on it? Of course. Phew. Mulder felt his equilibrium return and he went back to planning to fuck Scully.

He was so sick of waiting. Six long years felt like a prison sentence he'd served for a crime he'd never committed. Sure, lots of it had been his own fault. When they started out there'd been almost instant sexual tension between them. Ever since Scully had run into his motel room in Oregon and showed him her ass. Granted, it was hardly subtle, but it had at least broken the ice between them. And gave Mulder the chance to show her he could be a gentleman. 

Thing was, he'd continued to be a gentleman. It made him spit to think how goddamned gentlemanly he'd been.  Somewhere along the way, frustrated others had decided that Mulder was too good to waste on hanging around being a gentleman for Scully, and had started to use him. To use his body. And what they decided to do with his body was astonishingly perverted. Mulder flushed as he thought of all the stuff he'd been forced to do. Even if he had come almost continuously for six long years, it was still disgusting. It was still not Scully.

But no more. Mulder got up off the couch and only realized then that it was now dark. Shit. He'd wasted another evening when he could have been fucking Scully. He'd call her. Mulder always called Scully just whenever the hell he pleased, regardless of whether she might be asleep or not. She loved hearing from him because he was always so cute or angst-ridden or sexy on the phone. Yes, he'd give Scully a ring, just to hear her voice. Maybe to jerk off to the sound of it. He'd see.

Scully answered sounding half-asleep.

'Hey Scully it's me.'

'What do you want Mulder?'

'Do you want to come to dinner tomorrow night?'

There was a long scuffling silence. 'What time is it Mulder?'

'I don't know. How about eight?'

'I mean now. What time is it now?'

'Um, er...quite late?'

Scully sucked in breath but Mulder didn't read the warning sign. Why would he? Scully was never cross that he'd called and woken her. She lived for it.

'Mulder, you selfish shit! Two thirty!'

He was stunned. But only for a second. Then he thought he'd be funny, because that was always the way to Scully's heart. A Chinese accent should do it.

'How rong tooth hurty?'

'WHAT?!'

'Um, I said... how rong your tooth hurty, Scurry?'

'Fuck off Mulder.'

She slammed down the phone. Mulder was puzzled. He'd have to explain the joke to her in the office tomorrow.

***********

Strangely, Scully had got the joke, but just didn't find it funny. Mulder was puzzled all over again. Usually Scully found almost everything he said funny, not to mention fascinating. It was weird.

He asked her again about dinner and she said she'd come but only if he cooked because she was sick of take-out food. Mulder said he'd make lasagne. It sounded impressive and if fat, dumb goodfellas could do it in all those Scorcese movies, then he was sure a man with an Oxford education could manage to slap something together in the lasagne department.

Once again, work was boring. Mulder couldn't ever remember having a boring day in the office, let alone two consecutive boring days. Scully finished all the reports; he finished all the filing, and they sat and pinged rubber bands at each other for the rest of the afternoon. And even that got boring after an hour or so. For Scully. Mulder thought it remained fun for a good 20 minutes past that point, until Scully picked up about the 50th rubber band he'd pinged at her, marched across the office and snapped it so hard on his ear that it was still smarting when they left for home.

Skinner stopped them in the parking garage and Mulder tensed, but he only asked them how the Deerling case report was going and Scully said she'd drop it off in the morning, and Skinner just accepted it! Didn't put a ball gag in Mulder's mouth and horsewhip his smooth, pale-skinned swimmer's buttocks or anything! The euphoria was incredible.

'What's wrong with your ear, Mulder?' Skinner asked suddenly.

Mulder touched it and felt how hot it still was. He blushed and shrugged. 'Must've hurt it sir,' he said. Skinner gave him a weird look - like he knew he ought to be doing or saying something about punishment or pain or some damn thing, but just couldn't remember quite what.  He shook himself and told them goodnight.

As they reached their cars, Scully said she'd take a raincheck on dinner. Shit. Mulder almost begged her to come but she said something about him being juvenile and irritating all day and not wanting to spend the evening with him too. 

Mulder decided that to acknowledge her criticisms would only invite further examination of his shortcomings, so ignored them completely. 'Tomorrow night then?' he pleaded. Like tomorrow he wouldn't be juvenile OR irritating.

She glowered at him. 'Maybe.'

'Please Scully. Please come. I'll make lasagne.'

'Again?'

'No, I'll save doing it for you.' Only average people needed trial runs.

He gave the puppy-dog look he knew she loved but she just rolled her eyes and yanked open her car door. 'I'll think about it,' was all she'd concede.

Shit. Again. Another night wasted. 

Didn't she realize he had a schedule to keep??

********************

Fox Mulder thought that if this was what office work was really like, he might have to hand in his resignation from the FBI. He'd rather be a pole dancer than suffer one more day like today. He hadn't even allowed himself the luxury of teasing or leering at Scully for fear that she'd decide (realize?) he was irritating, juvenile and not worth having supper with. 

Somehow, SOMEHOW Mulder had got to 5.30 without ending it all by stabbing himself in the heart with an HB pencil and he also gave himself credit for the fact that he'd made it through the day with a hard-on that would have left a lesser man light-headed through lack of blood.

Tonight was the night Mulder's prison sentence would end. Tonight he'd be released and - hopefully - that release would come with another person in the room. More hopefully, that person would be his red-headed dynamo of a partner. And even more hopefully than that, Scully would think the whole thing was a good idea and not the catalyst to kick him in the nuts, file a lawsuit and stomp all over his heart and his wallet with equal fervor.

Mulder hurried home with everything he'd need to cook the food of the gods for Scully. It was no less than she deserved. He piled everything in the kitchen and realized his mouth was a bit dry and his stomach didn't feel so great. Now that the moment of truth was nigh, for some reason, he didn't feel quite as confident as he should, what with his fingers and lips and being hung and all. Scully would be here in three hours, but he had an uneasy feeling in the back of his mind that he might be a bit out of his depth.

Mulder frowned. There was still time to change his mind. 

Nah, he was sure it would all go swimmingly.

First, he had to do something about his apartment. He looked around and was rather surprised to find that it was a shithole. He'd had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't Martha Stewart, but tonight he was startlingly aware that he lived in a slum. Even the mysterious appearance a while back of a fully-functional bedroom had been only a short-lived nod to normality. The water in the waterbed had found its own level somewhere below the leak that had sprung last year, and - although he dared not lie on it - he hadn't gotten round to tossing it out. The carpet was pretty much dry now, although he was suddenly uncomfortably aware that it smelled of mildew. Maybe he should have pulled it up and dried things out properly. Although, to be fair, that would have taken time and effort he didn't have after his busy schedule of chasing aliens, cheating death, sucking cock and watching Debbie do Dallas.

Mulder stood at the door of his bedroom and looked hard around the room, as if he might impose feng shui by an act of will. Then he flapped his arms hopelessly at his sides and decided the best way to deal with the bedroom was to shut the door. After all, that's how he'd dealt with his bedroom for years and it hadn't done him any harm. 

So, with his bedroom sorted, Mulder only had to prepare dinner and tidy the rest of his apartment before Scully arrived.

He turned from the bedroom door to the kitchen.  He'd already promised Scully lasagne, so he couldn't back out of it. But now that it came right down to it, he wasn't quite sure where to start with lasagne, so he decided to put off starting until he'd got a bit of confidence up.

He decided to clean the bathroom. 

Mulder's bathroom wasn't dirty but it wasn't clean. Not Scully-clean, anyway, he understood.  First he had to recce the operation. He did that by standing on the bathmat, turning a slow circle with a cloth and a spray-cleaner called Elbow Grease in his hands. He licked his lips nervously. This all seemed very new. Where should he start? What would be the most efficient way to go about this? After ten minutes or so, Mulder decided to start by cleaning the toilet. 

First he sprayed Elbow Grease into his own eyes because the can was so badly designed. After he'd spent another ten minutes running the shower into his eyes (and all over the floor), Mulder cleaned the toilet and turned to the shower and bath. 

He'd only just started on them when he wondered if it was a good idea to do the shower, bath and basin with the same cloth he'd just cleaned the toilet with. He was no stickler, but even he thought now that he may have done things in the wrong order. He dropped the cloth in the kitchen bin and searched for another one under the sink, but he was all out. Hardly surprising - he could not remember ever buying any kind of household cleaning equipment or ever doing any household cleaning. Where the Elbow Grease had come from, he had no idea. This all added to his sense of unease about the way things were unfolding.

Finally he cleaned the basin, bath and shower with a pair of boxer shorts, then threw them in the laundry, aka the bedroom floor.

Then he had to mop up the bathroom floor where he'd sprayed water while medicating his eyes. He did that by scooting around on yesterday's T-shirt and then that joined the underpants on the moldy bedroom carpet.

He glanced at his watch and experienced a brief panicky flutter when he saw Scully would be here in under an hour and a half. Jeez! He'd taken almost two hours just to clean the bathroom! And to save his own sight, he reminded himself kindly; so he HAD been wrestling to overcome huge odds.

He should really do the lasagne. Mulder went into the kitchen and picked up the box of lasagne so he could read how to make it. It sounded complicated and involved pre-cooking the ground beef, which he hadn't reckoned on. Also the use of something called a Bechemel sauce. Mulder tipped all the lasagne out onto the counter, but the Bechemel sauce wasn't in the box. Shit. This lasagne was as badly designed as the Elbow Grease can. How could they even call it lasagne if it didn't come with the sauce included? It was outrageous. The picture on the box showed a fully-formed lasagne, complete with bubbling cheese. But all that was in the goddamned box was a bunch of stiff pasta sheets. The conversion from the brittle yellow sheets to the succulent-looking lasagne on the box seemed like alchemy to Mulder. He couldn't get his head round it.

He decided to tidy the living room.

He pushed most of his porn collection into his desk and under the sofa. What was left over went in the laundry. The place looked 100 per cent better already! He was pretty good at this tidying lark.

He slapped the couch cushions a few times and dust floated into the air around him. He should vacuum. 

He didn't have a vacuum. 

For the first time since he'd left home at 17 - the first time ever, in fact - Mulder wondered where all the dust went if you didn't vacuum it up. He should really employ a cleaner. He glanced at his watch, half wondering whether there was time to get an emergency cleaner in before Scully arrived, and was jolted to find he had only 45 minutes before zero-hour.

Shit! He should be getting showered and in the mood to seduce Scully, not worrying about the goddamned dust on his couch! But now he'd recognized the problem, he was seeing dust everywhere! It was layered thick over almost everything he owned! The TV screen had attracted a lot of it but there was plenty to go around. And around. And around.

This was all going wrong. His apartment looked like Desert Storm, he was sweaty and filthy from all the hard work he'd done, and the lasagne wasn't cooked. Wasn't even started. He didn't even know HOW to start it. He jogged into the kitchen to check for a Plan B. According to the refrigerator, Plan B stood for Botulism. Some of the stuff in there he didn't even recognize as food. Why in his wildest dreams would he have put a bowl overflowing with black fluff in his own fridge?? He must've been smoking crack.

Mulder slammed his fridge door and started to realize that there was something rotten in the kingdom of Mulderville.

For a start, he'd never had to clean his bathroom before. He wasn't sure he'd even had a bathroom. He MUST have, because he knew he showered plenty, and even he had to take a shit, right? But right at this moment, his bathroom was a mystery to him.

Same thing for the kitchen. He remembered dimly having been in it several years previously but after that? Nada. Sometimes he wandered into his lounge with a beer or a bowl of popcorn, but how he'd come by them, he really couldn't say. What the hell was he doing in it now?

Discovering both his bathroom and his kitchen on the night when he really needed to be concentrating on getting into Scully's pants was an unwelcome distraction.

He felt undermined. He felt as if someone was playing a mean trick on him. If he hadn't spent so long cleaning his new bathroom and imagining he had a clue about how to make lasagne, this evening would have been a whole lot easier. He'd have just emerged (from somewhere) freshly showered and shaved, called for take-out in plenty of time, and right now he'd be lying on his couch, enjoying the low-level arousal that the knowledge of Scully's approach always afforded him.

And that was another thing. The dust. On his couch. He never dusted, but somehow he'd never seen dust in his apartment before. He was sure of it, and his eidetic memory was a pretty good watchdog. 

No, something was definitely up.

Fuck! 

It hit him like a physical blow.

This wasn't just about the sex - he'd been left to fend for himself on every front! Sure, his writer made him bend over and take it up the ass on a regular basis, but at least he'd never had to clean his bathroom floor with his underpants! And no wonder Scully hadn't laughed at his Chinese dentist joke! Goddammit! The entire support system which allowed him to be perverted, unhygienic and self-centred (not to mention irritating and juvenile) - and yet still brilliant and wildly attractive - had collapsed. One week in Hawaii and his life was falling apart. Mulder realized with a sinking feeling that the only thing he ever really had to do alone was feed his fish. And his regular replenishment of stocks was proof positive of how truly terrible he was at that. Mulder was slack-jawed with horror at what a complete tosser he apparently was. 

A very childish - but not particularly small - part of Mulder toyed with the idea of calling Scully and telling her he was sick, but another look at his watch made him realize she would already have left home. Damn her punctual streak. 

Luckily, his self-esteem was actually slightly more buoyant than his writer gave him credit for and he quickly pushed his doubts aside. Tonight was the night, and he'd be damned if he was going to miss this opportunity, so it was carpe diem all the way.

Although he was thinking on his own feet for a change, Mulder had a brainwave. His apartment looked shocking, so he decided to turn out all the lights and light the candles. He'd wanted to get scented ones because he knew Scully liked those, but the hardware store didn't have any scented so he'd got twenty white candles of the type he would normally keep under the sink in case of power failure. Still, candlelight was candlelight and he was sure Scully would be impressed by such a romantic touch. Plus candlelight would hide a multitude of housekeeping sins. He thanked god for romance, and lit the first candle before he remembered he didn't have any holders. So he dripped wax into an assortment of saucers, teacups and saucepans and shoved them onto every available surface.

He ran his fingers through his hair and surveyed the apartment. It looked fucking great. He'd pulled it out of the bag once more, thought Mulder, and this time it was all his own work. Then he sniffed his armpit and decided that - having done such a bang-up job on the apartment - a shower was now his priority.

Scully could let herself in.

******************************

Mulder was halfway through his shower when he remembered he'd invited Scully over for a dinner he still hadn't cooked. Shit. Scully had sounded skeptical when he'd said he was making lasagne, and now she was going to be able to rub his nose in it when she discovered he hadn't. Not that she would rub his nose in it overtly, of course, but she would be sure to quirk an eyebrow and twitch a lip, and that was plenty.

Mulder rinsed off quickly and tucked a towel around his hips, then hurried through to the phone where he called Rossini's restaurant two blocks away. He said he wanted lasagne, garlic bread and tiramasu and that he'd pay double if they had it there in 15 minutes.

'Sir, that's impossible.'

'Impossible? Why?!' said Mulder. 'I mean, how hard can it be to make lasagne?!'

'Sir, trust me. It's impossible.'

See? It wasn't HIS fault he couldn't make lasagne. Even the guys at Rossini's were having trouble.

Mulder chewed on his lip and glared at the clock. He was wasting time. In 20 minutes Scully was going to arrive and go straight into a bad mood because there was nothing to eat. And if he couldn't give her something to eat, the chances of her giving him anything else tonight would be absolute zero. Scully didn't eat much and didn't eat often, but once she'd decided to eat, she was single-minded in her pursuit of sustenance.   

'Send me whatever you can make in 15 minutes.'

He gave his address and hung up. He ran back to the bathroom which now looked as if a water-and-clothes bomb had hit it; he ran into his bedroom to get dressed. Although he could only remember three occasions on which he'd actually been to a dry-cleaners, before tonight his closets always held an endless supply of pressed Armani suits and crisp shirts in white, blue or gray. He yanked open his dresser drawers to find he had no clean underwear and only one pair of clean jeans - the ones that had shrunk so comprehensively that he looked like an eight-foot Hillbilly in them. Shit. Ankle-whacker jeans and chafed balls and God knows where his T-shirts were. Mulder glanced at himself in the mirror and took an executive decision - Fuck it - he didn't need a T; he was gorgeous without it. He spent a couple of minutes checking out his abs and making his pecs dance, then caught sight of his alarm clock. Ten minutes to go and he hadn't even shaved. He rushed back into the bathroom and cursed the time he'd spent cleaning it. What a fucking waste. 

He nicked his chin, his cheek and - somehow - the side of his nose during his frantic shave, and he still felt all stubbly when he ran his hand over his face.  Scratchy AND bloody - a winning combination. Scully was sure to let him jump her bones now.

Mulder couldn't remember the last time he'd cut himself shaving. His chin was usually baby-butt smooth. Except on the occasions when he'd look better a bit rugged. Then he had no problem sprouting a sexy stubble almost instantaneously. The mere sniff of Timberland boots or Scully-cancer and he could almost feel the beard fighting to get through his skin. Whatever. Scully would just have to take the rough with the smooth of the new him.

There was a knock at the door. The food! Thank god for bribery!

He rushed to open the door, only to find Scully had arrived five minutes early.

'Scully!'

'Mulder.'

'You're early.'

'Not that early. Five minutes maybe. Why? is that a problem?'

'No.'

'Can I come in then?'

'Er. Yeah. I guess.'

Scully gave him a quizzical look and stepped into his apartment. Mulder had shaving foam behind one ear, and had three bits of toilet paper stuck to his face. He was also bare-chested, barefoot and wearing jeans that were halfway up his shins.

'Mulder, why are you dressed as Jed Clampett?'

Mulder looked down but before he could answer, a young Italian man jogged to the door with the food. 

'I thought you were cooking!' said Scully accusingly.

'It's a long story, Scully.' Mulder paid the man and closed the door, confident that Scully would let it drop. 

But she didn't. 

'Tell me.'

'Tell you what?'

'Tell me why you haven't cooked when you said were going to! You said you were cooking lasagne! That's the reason I said I'd come - cos I'm so sick of pizza every time I come here Mulder! I've been looking forward to home-cooked lasagne!'

Mulder was flummoxed. Usually when he fucked up Scully just rolled her eyes - at worst. Sometimes she didn't even bother doing that, just gave a little smile that reminded him that although he'd fucked up, she still thought he was adorable. But right now she was all whiny and irritable and in desperate need of a glass or six of wine. 

Thank god he'd bought the wine, he thought and quickly handed her a glass. Scully sunk onto the couch and glowered at him as he unpacked the food from Rossini's.

It was pizza.

'What are we having then Mulder?' came Scully's churlish voice.

Mulder stared at the pizza long and hard and a little guiltily, then folded it in half. 'Calzone,' he replied.  Scully eyed him suspiciously as he brought out two plates with folded pizza, garlic bread and limp salad on them.

As they ate, Scully relaxed. Correction, as she drank, Scully relaxed. Mulder kept her glass topped up and finally they were chatting and bantering like the best friends they were. Scully even laughed at some of his jokes, although he had the sense not to call on the services of his Chinese accent for any of them. 

They'd finished eating - although Scully had only eaten her salad and bread. Mulder's mouth was dry; Scully was flushed with wine and all sparkly and happy. And he was going to make his move. All alone. Any second now. One more sip of red and he'd do it. All by himself; no help required thank you very much! Okay! Now he was as ready as he'd ever be. He'd just grab a bit of Scully's pizza and then, oh boy, she wouldn't know what had hit her. He just needed to adjust himself - those small jeans were getting smaller by the second. That was better. Now for the--

Mulder jerked in surprise as Scully kissed his lips.

'Scully!'

'Mulder?'

He looked at her in astonishment and she grinned at him. He licked his lips and felt his cock twitch at the taste of her there. As if she'd seen it too, Scully looked directly at his jeans.

'Is that an oil well in your pocket Jed, or are you just pleased to see me?'

'It's a gusher Scully.'

She looked a bit surprised by that but Mulder thought it wasn't bad for a home-grown innuendo. Maybe lacked the subtlety she was used to from him, but what the hell. It was true. And with that Mulder decided that the best way to go - if he was going it alone - was to cut to the chase and take his cock out. So he did.

'MULDER!!' Scully was really shocked but it was too late to back down now. His hard-on was in his hand and there was no way in hell he'd ever get it back in his Hillbilly jeans now.

Thank god for six years of foreplay, because Scully suddenly smiled at him and sunk her mouth down and over his cock. Mulder shouted, bucked and jetted come all over her face, hair and her nice cashmere cardigan.

'Fuck!'

'Shit. Sorry Scully.' Mulder mentally kicked himself. He'd forgotten he was flying solo here. He should have been on his guard against the premature ejaculation trap. Scully looked a bit irritated. He was being irritating. Right in the middle of sex! Shit. Damage control required, and fast.

'Scully,' he said, and pressed his lips to hers. 'I'm so hot for you.' It was true - he was still hard, and that was all his own work, he thought cheerfully.

She was still a bit stiff too, though, so he went for broke. 'I love you Scully.'

'Oh Mulder! I love you too!'

They kissed and Scully started to get into it again. Six years of foreplay was good but six years of celibacy had its points too, thought Mulder. If Scully was anything like him, she could hardly afford to slap his face and stomp out - however crap he was - in case it was another six years before she got laid again. Confidence returning fast at the thought, Mulder lowered Scully gently to the couch, pulled her clothes off and went down on her with enthusiasm.

He found her nub with ease, which made him smile against her - he still had it! All that cocksucking hadn't erased his inbuilt radar for a swollen clit! 

At first Scully seemed to appreciate that fact, gasping and gyrating against his face as he licked and nibbled. Then she got bored, or dissatisfied, or something equally distracting, because she stopped making sex noises and started clearing her throat and shifting her hips in frustration. Mulder redoubled his efforts, praying for Scully to come, but when he lifted his head to find her looking at her watch, he knew he'd blown it.

Shit shit shit. Mulder almost felt like crying.

It WAS like riding a bike. But Mulder had forgotten there were all kinds of bikes. A chopper was not a racing bike and a mountain bike was not a tricycle. And with sudden clarity he realized that Diana had been a penny farthing compared to Scully's chrome-and-alloy race-ready BMX. Plus, it didn't help that for the last six years he'd been riding a unicycle. 

Frankly, Mulder was out of practice with women. 

He half thought about turning Scully over, lubing her up and taking her up the ass. It wouldn't be pretty and would probably never be repeated, but at least he'd know what the hell he was doing instead of floundering about down here, just pissing her off.

He licked his way back up her body. Man, she tasted good! He put his hand between them and guided himself to her entrance.

'Ow!'

'What Scully?'

'Ow, Mulder, stop!'

Mulder stopped with just the head of his cock inside his partner, unwilling to pull out all the way in case she took that as permission to get up and leave. 'What's up Scully?'

'You're too big.'

'What?!'

'You're too big. You're hurting me.'

Damn! Surely there was no such thing as too big?! Phoebe hadn't thought he was too big when he'd tied her to a rugby post at Oxford and shoved himself into her; Diana hadn't complained on the countless occasions she'd blown him rather than get her FBI suits wrinkled by letting him push her skirt up round her waist; hell, not even Kristin Killar had complained - although she DID kill herself shortly afterwards, so she was obviously a sucker for punishment. 

But Scully was complaining. 

He tried not to get irritated. Scully was smaller than all of those women. Smaller than any woman he'd slept with (or nearly slept with). Maybe she was tighter too. Certainly on the evidence of the first inch of penetration, she was pretty damned snug. The thought made his cock jerk and he let out a groan. He really couldn't stop now. Mulder was sure she'd get used to it.  Krycek and Skinner and all the others thought it was fucking great when he took them roughly with his huge dick. Sure, they screamed a little at first sometimes but they always ended up showering praise - and other stuff - onto his giant organ. Scully just needed to tough it out.

'I'll take it real slow Scully.'

'I don't know Mulder...' She didn't sound too tough. Plus, she was pushing him up and away from her so she could get a good look at the guilty penis.

'God, Mulder! Do you have a license for that thing?'

'I thought you'd be pleased Scully.'

'Pleased?! Mulder, I've seen smaller babies delivered.'

The image made him grimace.

'I'll go slow Scully. I'll be careful. I swear I will.' And to demonstrate the point he eased another couple of inches inside her.

'Ow Fuck! Stop!'

He stopped and sighed. He remembered the first time Alex Krycek had taken him. He'd tugged Mulder's shorts down from behind, his hot cock probing the Agent's tight ass-cheeks, and reached round to grasp his shaft. Then he'd stopped and turned Mulder towards him to look at his crotch, his eyes wide in amazement. 

'Shit Mulder! Scully's had a narrow escape - you're too big for a woman; you'd rip her in two!'

Then Krycek had pushed him down over the couch and hammered into him with gusto. Mulder remembered it had hurt, but not as much as it had hurt to think that he and Scully might not fit as perfectly as two halves of a talisman separated by evil magic and brought back together by love.

Now those words came back to haunt him. Too big for a woman.

He fought panic and jerked another inch into Scully, who writhed and sucked in breath beneath him.

'Mulder please. Be careful.'

'I will Scully, I will.'

Her fear made her clench around him so hard that he couldn't thrust any further into her anyway. Instead he pulled out a little and rocked into her gently.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he worked his way inside, and by the time he'd got his whole cock in her to the hilt, he was sweating with the effort of not just pumping and coming. 

'God, Scully...'

He started to move again but her face told him it was no fun for her. Shame, because it was fucking great for him. With difficulty, he stopped. Again. And looked at her tense face as she grimaced at the ceiling.

'Am I keeping you Scully?' He didn't mean it to sound as sarcastic as it did, and he was horrified to see her eyes fill with tears. 

SHIT! Trust a fucking woman to start bawling! Men never bawled when he was having sex with them! Although HE often cried while they were fucking him, for some odd reason. But Scully was screwing up her face and going all red and the whole thing was such a turn-off! Goddammit! Mulder raised himself on his straightened arms and glared down at Scully while she had her eyes screwed shut.

Mulder sighed and started to pull out of her. 

Before he could, he felt a cool hand on his hip and a hot cock press between his cheeks. Mulder grunted and tried to turn to see who was behind him, but as he did, quick hands put a black velvet bag over his head. And before he could withdraw from Scully and defend himself, a slicked up cock drove into his ass in a single forceful movement. Mulder had never had a cock up his ass before - at least, he didn't think he had - and pain shot through him.

'Aaarrgh!' Mulder and Scully both yelled simultaneously as the force of the entry drove Mulder back into her.

'Hey!' said Mulder furiously. 'What the fuck is this?! I'm flying solo here!'

Scully glared at the man behind him: 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

'Fucking Mulder.'

'Isn't that my job?'

'Not any more. It rained in Hawaii.'

'Not fair!' yelled Mulder. 'Even the fucking weather conspires against me! OW!'

The man started to slide in and out of him, making Mulder's cock pump into Scully.

Although Scully was obviously less than comfortable, Mulder finally enjoyed the opportunity to fuck her properly. He had no doubt now that this would be the last time he was ever inside her and threw caution and care to the winds.  Anyway, he could definitely deflect responsibility for this onto whoever was assaulting him. He could hardly help it if he was being FORCED to fuck Scully, could he? No, of course he couldn't. For this reason, he really made no effort whatsoever to escape from the pounding his ass was taking, as it freed his cock and his conscience to do just the same to her.

Despite his size, Scully finally started to get into it, and she started to pant and moan as his cock flashed in and out of her easily now. He felt his balls tighten against his body as she started to wail, and they came almost together, shaking and crying out as her muscles milked him greedily. Having a cock up his ass when he came was fantastic, Mulder thought shamefully. Then the man behind him joined them, shouting in ecstasy as he emptied into Mulder's ass.

As he felt the cock slip out of him from behind, Mulder withdrew from Scully and tugged the bag off his head. 

'Frohike! You sonofabitch!'

Frohike shrugged. 'It was too good an opportunity to miss Mulder.  My writer knew you'd be distracted tonight. Plus, I never get to have sex with anyone and that's just not fair, dude!' 

Scully pushed Mulder off her. 

Then she slapped his face and stomped out.

'What's wrong with her?' said Frohike?

Mulder sighed and shrugged. He had no idea. All he knew was that fucking women - even Scully - was WAY more trouble than he remembered. Sure, he loved her and all that but, when it came to sex, he realized the uncomplicated, quick mutual gratification offered by men was something he'd finally learnt to appreciate. Fast, hard and furious was how he liked his sex now, and he didn't want the hassle of cleaning the fucking apartment or Bechemel sauce or a BMX clitoris. Fuck all that. He was converted. 

In the long silence after the door banged behind Scully, Frohike said: 'You got anything to eat Mulder?'

'Pizza.'

'Great!'

See? That's why guys were better.

He and Frohike each grabbed a chunk of Scully's leftover pizza and Mulder put on the TV. 

'Hey, Bulls V Knicks. Want some action?'

'Fifty on the Bulls.'

'Easy money. Pay me now.'

Frohike flipped him a pizza-greasy finger and Mulder pulled the coffee table closer so Frohike's short legs could rest on it.

Mulder chewed Scully's pizza thoughtfully. Tonight had given him an awful lot of important stuff to think about and he was in a philosophical mood.

'Hey Frohike?' he started a little tentatively.

'Yes Mulder?'

'Am I hung?'

'You're fucking huge, dude.'

Mulder blushed, sighed happily and finished the pizza. 

All's well that ends well.



[
END