Part 2

It’s another sixteen hours before Pete releases his second hostage, and by then I’ve talked myself hoarse. Skinner makes sure that I’m eating the standard three meals a day, but I only eat as much as I think he’ll let me get away with, and he has to stand over me, and practically spoon feed me, to get that much into me. The lack of sleep is getting to be a problem as well, and I need a shave badly. I also smell. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for over two days, and the air in this place is stale.

“Listen…” Skinner leans forward across the table, as night falls again. “Why don’t you take a shower, freshen up? I’ve brought a change of clothes for you and Agent Scully.”

“You have?” How the hell did he manage that, I wonder? I don’t remember giving him a key to my apartment. Still, that hasn’t stopped him before, as I recall. He gestures to a gym bag sitting on the floor. Someone brought it in from his car earlier. I remember wondering about that at the time.

“We’ll call you if he needs to speak to you again.” Skinner tells me. I exchange a glance with Scully, and she nods.

“I’m going to the hospital, to have another word with Lisa and the other hostage,” she tells me.

“Why?” I glance at Skinner. “What’s going on?”

“We need all the information we can get,” Skinner says, almost apologetically.

“You’ve given up on me talking him into surrendering, haven’t you?” I guess, feeling the fury well up inside me. “You’ve decided to take more extreme measures, and you weren’t going to tell me, were you? I’m your lead negotiator! How dare you keep me in the dark!”

It feels like a betrayal. It’s about more than just being out of the loop, no matter what I just said, and Skinner knows it. If I don’t talk him into giving himself up, they’ll have to kill Pete. There are no alternatives. It’s that simple. And I don’t want that. It’s not that I’ve been drawn into his crazy little world, just that I know where he’s coming from. He’s dangerous right now, but I sense this isn’t the sort of man he used to be, not what he really is inside. Given time, medication, some psychiatric help, I think he could turn himself around.

“Mulder, nobody is going to do anything without consulting you,” Skinner says rapidly, taking hold of my arm and holding it tightly. “Now just go.” He pushes me towards the door, handing me the gym bag.

“You won’t do anything while I’m gone?” I ask, and it’s almost a plea.

“Of course not. No.” Skinner shakes his head, and I know I can trust him implicitly, just as Pete can trust me. At least I think he can trust me. Oh shit. I grab the bag and walk off to find my room.

It’s a relief to be away from those faces, those bodies, the smell and press of them, the watchful eyes. I’ve been the central performer in this three ring circus for two days non-stop, and life in the spotlight is taking its toll. It seems strange, almost eerie, to be in this silent room. I open the bag Skinner gave me, and fish out some of my stuff. Jeans, a sweatshirt. He probably couldn’t find anything more formal in my apartment. I wince at the thought of him in there, remembering the mess it’s in. I was going to pick up some shirts and a suit from the cleaners on the day all this began. I brush my teeth, then find a towel and go to the shower, luxuriating in the feel of the water and the soap, scrubbing my flesh hard to rid myself of the stale odors. In the middle of this bliss, there’s a sudden commotion outside my door, and Gallagher charges in.

“Mulder.” He throws me the towel. “He’s gone loopy. You need to get out here, and fast.” So that’s how I find myself running back into the operations room half-naked, and dripping wet.

Pete’s been spooked by one of the Hostage Rescue Team members on the roof. The gunman got careless, and Pete saw him. Now he doesn’t trust me. Great. Two days work undone in five careless seconds. It takes me the best part of an hour to calm him down again, and when I start this process I’m standing there in my towel, feeling like I’m starring in some damn porno video since everyone’s eyes are fixed on my naked torso. Skinner, acting the guardian angel again, takes pity on me.

He disappears for a second, then returns with my clothing, and hands it to me, item by item.

“Okay everyone. Give him some privacy,” he growls, waving a hand, and they turn their backs, or avert their eyes. I’m still talking to Pete, gradually calming him down, as I dress myself, saying “thank you” to Skinner with my eyes. He nods, curtly, then disappears again. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that he’s gone to chew out the hapless guy who caused this crisis, and I’m really glad I’m not in his shoes.

“How are you doing, partner?”

It’s Scully bearing yet more caffeine. I haven’t seen much of her for the past few hours as she’s been questioning the other hostage. I run my hands wearily over my face.

“I’m holding up okay. Don’t worry about me,” I tell her with a smile.

“You’re both tired.” I think for a moment she means Skinner, but of course she means Pete. This is as intense for me as it is for him. Yet Skinner has been here too, and I’m certain that he hasn’t slept once. Maybe he’s taken his catnaps when I have, but he’s been with me for every step of this ride, a constant, reassuring presence beside me.

“How much longer do you think he’ll hold out?” I ask her, returning to the topic of Pete. She shakes her head.

“I don’t know.”

I can see the worry in her eyes.

“Scully, what is it?”

“Mulder…this guy doesn’t want anything.” She sits down next to me, talking rapidly. “He’s not asked for money, for a helicopter to get him away. Nothing. He’s mentally unstable, unpredictable…Gallagher is already making noises that we should no longer consider negotiation as a serious option. He’s pushing at Skinner hard to convince him to take the convenience store by force.”

“Not yet,” I snap. “Just give me a little more time.”

“It’s not up to me.” Scully shakes her head.

“It isn’t up to Gallagher either. Skinner’s in charge,” I say. Scully can’t look me in the eye, and I get the sinking feeling that she knows more than she can say. My eyes scan the room, and I find Skinner talking to Gallagher, in low, intense tones, one eye on me the whole time.

“Damn Skinner. He’s not going in there yet.” I put the headset down, and am about to go over there and argue my case, when another call comes in.

“Mulder.” His voice is a low rasp.

“Pete – you must be tired, buddy. I know I am. Why don’t we end this, huh?” I tell him.

“I don’t know what to do, Mulder.” He sounds forlorn. “If I give myself up…you wouldn’t let them shoot me, would you, Mulder?”

“No. Of course not. Nobody’s going to shoot my buddy. I promise.” That’s the second rash promise I’ve made since this started.

“I don’t wanna die.” He’s sniveling, like a kid. “I used to,” he volunteers unexpectedly. “But now I don’t. When I was little, they used to take me to a room…” he hesitates. “When I was in there, when they…I used to want to die then.”

The room has fallen silent, and I can see my own stricken look reflected back in Scully’s eyes. Skinner has returned to my side, his intense gaze heating me once more.

“You’re not a kid any more, Pete,” I tell him. “Nobody can hurt you now. You’re too big. Too strong.” Who am I kidding? I don’t think I sound convincing. There’s a flash in Skinner’s eyes, and I know he can tell that I don’t believe what I’m saying. Pete knows too.

“You’re wrong, Mulder. It hurts all the time. It hurts inside,” he whispers.

“Well you’ve held this inside for a long time. It’s only hurting because it’s coming out now.”

“They let them go.” Pete’s voice is breaking up. “When they should have shot the bastards who did those things to little kids…they let them go…why should I let these people go, Mulder? I should do to them, what the law should have done to the people who hurt me…”

“Pete, listen to me. Hurting those hostages won’t get you justice, or revenge.”

“It’s too late for justice. I didn’t get any justice. They let them go.” I can hear the snap of a magazine being slammed into a gun. Skinner’s on his feet and making for the door.

“Wait!” my voice is a yell. “Pete, no. We can talk about this. You trust me, don’t you, Pete?”

“I…”

“Pete – abuse, neglect…you’re not alone in that suffering. I know about both of those,” I say it quickly.

“Oh what the fuck is he doing now?” I hear Gallagher say sharply behind me. What I’m doing is hanging myself out to dry here, offering myself up to a whole room of hostile faces in a bid to save innocent lives.

“You know?” Pete clings onto that like a lifeline.

“Yeah. Pete, you and I have a lot in common. We’re alike. That’s why we’re such good buddies, isn’t it? We understand each other. I’d like to see you, Pete, talk to you face to face. Hey, I don’t even know what you look like,” I lie, glancing at the picture on the table.

“I’ve got dark hair, blue eyes.” Pete gives a little laugh. “Brother John said he had to take me to the room because I was so pretty. He said God made me pretty so that Brother John would notice me, and touch me.” I flinch, as if someone has physically hit me. If I could get up and run right now then I would, but every eye in the room is on me. I can’t back down. I tell myself that the only eyes that matter are the dark ones right next to me, the ones willing me to be strong, to keep going, until all this is over, no matter how much it hurts. I’m finding it hard to concentrate though, or to remember to breathe.

“That wasn’t your fault, Pete. You have to believe me,” I tell him desperately. “You can’t help the way you looked as a kid. People will always find a way to hurt you, if they really want to. They’ll always find something about you to make you feel guilty, to make you feel responsible for what they do to you. Something you can’t change, something you can’t help.”

“Mulder you’re not in any shape to continue this negotiation,” Gallagher hisses. “You’re identifying with him far too closely for your own good, or his. I suggest that you stand down.” He’s striding towards me, reaching out a hand to grab the headset from me, but Skinner gets to his feet, intercepts Gallagher’s arm, and roughly pushes him away from me, whispering something fiercely. My boss returns a few seconds later, and stands beside me, his thigh touching my shoulder. I have no doubt that he’s doing it on purpose. The solid warmth of his flesh against mine, and the tacit support of his closeness reassures me. Pete has been silent for several minutes, so I push on with my line of reasoning.

“It seems weird that we’ve never met, Pete. I’d like to speak to you face to face. Would you let me do that?”

“I’d like that,” he says tentatively. “But I’m not giving up these people.”

“You don’t have to give anything up, Pete.” I reassure him. “I’ll come over there. We can talk.”

“You’ll listen?” he asks.

“Yes, Pete. I’ll listen.”

“No tricks? No guns?”

“No, Pete. You can trust me. Give me five minutes, okay? I’ll come over.”

“Okay, Mulder. Okay buddy.” I can almost hear the childlike smile in his voice before he severs the connection.

“Mulder – this is not approved procedure…” Skinner begins, bending his face down so that I can see every line of worry in his frown.

“I don’t give a damn about procedures,” I tell him.

“Like we didn’t know that,” Gallagher snorts. “Just like the Duane Barry case all over again. What are you? John Fucking Wayne and the cavalry, charging in whenever it suits you?”

“And storming the damned store, and shooting him and whoever else gets in your way, ISN’T like John Wayne?” I yell. “We’ve reached an impasse! I’m just trying to end this situation!”

“And whose gonna die to make that happen?” Gallagher yells back.

“That’s enough,” Skinner says in a low, intense tone. “Gallagher, get me a kevlar vest and a wire. Mulder – are you sure about this?”

He turns his back on Gallagher and addresses himself directly to me, taking my arm and pulling me over into a corner. I want to shake him off, to hit out at someone, but now is not the right time to be having a tantrum.

“It’s a lot less extreme than going in shooting,” I say bitterly, still stinging from the unfairness of Gallagher’s words. “Look, sir, I’m sure I can get him to give himself up if I can just see him, make him look at me.”

“All right.” He nods. “But, Mulder?”

“Yeah?” His face is inches from mine. I can smell him, breathe him. If I moved just a small step forward I could touch him, kiss him.

“Bring him to the window, don’t become another hostage. Don’t go into the convenience store, just stand outside.”

“Promise me you won’t shoot him unless you have to,” I beseech him.

“Agreed. But you must promise me that you won’t go in there unless you have to,” he says urgently. I hesitate. “Mulder.” His tone is soft, but it’s not a plea, it’s a command.

“Yes, sir.” I look him in the eye. “Yes, sir,” I nod, affirming it. “I promise.”

“Good.” He touches my arm, briefly, and then Gallagher returns with the vest. Skinner helps me into it, his fingers sending electric thrills through my body, jolting my jaded, weary senses awake. Then I’m fitted with the wire, and Scully tugs at my sleeve, her eyes scared.

“Be careful. Good luck.” She crosses her fingers at me, and smiles.

“Superstition, Scully?” I tease. She just shakes her head, and crosses the fingers on her other hand.

Skinner follows me to the door.

“Say whatever you want to, whatever you need to, in order to get him out,” he tells me. “It’s an open wire. We’ll hear all of it.”

That’s his way of reminding me that any personal information I give away, is going to be relayed to the three dozen or so police officers, FBI agents, paramedics, and other hangers on that are milling around. “And if it gets dangerous, throw yourself down to the ground, and let the gunmen do their work. All right?”

“Yes.” I can feel my stomach churning, and I suppress an urge to kiss him goodbye. He looks so worried. “I’ll be okay,” I tell him.

It’s only a short walk, but it’s eerie. All those people, all that silence. I stand a few paces away from the door of the convenience store. I’m an easy target if he should want to shoot me, although the vest should protect me from too serious an injury. Of course, he could always shoot me in the head.

“Pete. Hey, buddy,” I call. I hear a rustling inside the convenience store, and can see someone move to the door. I hold my breath as it’s opened, but my heart sinks when I see that he’s got one of the hostages with him. It’s Lisa’s mom. She has a bruise on her jaw, and Pete’s gun is held against her head.

“Mulder?” He blinks in the sunlight. That bastard Brother John was right. He is pretty. Even with three days worth of stubble on his chin, unwashed, and unkempt, he’s still pretty.

“Hello Pete.” I smile with as much charm as I can manage. “Hey, why don’t you send Mrs. Perry back? I’d like to talk to you alone. You know, just you and me? Man to man.”

It’s a bit lame, but I don’t know how else to get him on his own.

“I dunno…” He licks his lips nervously.

“Pete. It’s me,” I say gently. “Come on, buddy. I’ve been talking to you for, what is it? Three days now? We know all about each other.”

“Were you…” he pauses. “Were you here too? In the home?”

“No, Pete,” I shake my head.

“Then who hurt you, Mulder?”

I hesitate for a long time, then glance at my shoes.

“My dad,” I tell him.

He stiffens, his eyes flashing angrily. “No!” he shouts. “Your dad wouldn’t do that. A dad wouldn’t hurt his kid. Dad’s take you out fishing, and play ball with you, and all that stuff.” I realize I’ve touched on his own personal fantasy of what growing up in a “normal” family must be like.

“Some dads do, Pete. Mine didn’t,” I shrug. “Maybe his type of abuse wasn’t the same as what was done to you. Maybe it wasn’t as bad, but it still hurts inside, when I remember it.”

“Did he have a room where he took you?” Pete’s eyes are glazed and desperate.

“No, Pete.” Shit, I hate to think what was done to him in that room. I can’t accuse my father of sexual abuse, but there are other ways you can screw up a little kid, and he seemed to know every last one of them.

“You didn’t have the room?” He shifts, moving the gun slightly, and I can see Mrs. Perry’s eyes widen in fear.

“Let her go, Pete. Then we can talk all you want. You can tell me about what happened in the room.” I’m speaking in a low tone, with total sincerity. Pete seems reassured.

“You won’t hurt me? I can trust you?” he pleads.

“Of course.” I spread my arms wide. “I’m not armed, Pete. I just came here to talk.”

He thinks about it for a moment, then pushes Mrs. Perry back into the convenience store. I heave a huge sigh of relief.

“Why don’t you come out here?” I suggest. “This is kind of personal stuff, isn’t it, Pete? We don’t want to have to shout. You could give me the gun. We could talk…”

I think he’s mesmerized by the sound of my voice. He’s nodding, taking a couple of tentative steps forward, and then he pauses, and I honestly believe, that when he lifts that gun up, he’s going to hand it to me. Only he never gets the chance. A shot rings out, and hits him cleanly between the eyes. He goes down without a sound.

“NO!” I can hear the scream in my voice. I turn around, looking for help, knowing that he’s already dead. Pandemonium breaks out. Mrs. Perry is crying, a horde of personnel are descending on where I’m kneeling beside Pete’s body, somebody is picking me up, and I’m pounding my fists uselessly against a solid chest. “He was giving himself up. He was giving me the gun…he was…” I cry.

Skinner shakes his head, enduring the buffeting. “It looked as if he was going to shoot you,” he tells me, trying to grip my fists, to keep me still.

“You gave the order? You promised!” I accuse, turning away from him, wanting to escape from the pain inside.

“I didn’t give a specific order, Agent Mulder. They had standing orders to shoot if it looked as if he was going to open fire. I’m sorry if it was a mistake, but they did their best.”

“Oh yeah. You’re just like Gallagher. Pete’s death was always your best case scenario too, wasn’t it? Less paperwork that way.”

“No, Agent Mulder. The hostages coming out of this ordeal alive was always my best case scenario,” he tells me sincerely, then he grips my head, and looks into my eyes, making me look into his. “And you coming out of this alive too. Now, you’re tired, and stressed. It’s been a long few days. Agent Scully will sort the rest of this out. You are going to rest.”

“I can’t rest,” I object.

“The hell you can’t.” He manhandles me into the operations room, and calls Scully over.

“Agent Scully – I want you to wrap this up,” he tells her tersely. I can see by the way that she’s looking at me that she’s worried about my state of mind. Like Gallagher said, only a short time ago I was in restraints in a psychiatric unit. My mental health is not something that either of them feels confident about.

“What about Agent Mulder, sir?” she asks, as if I’m not there. And I’m not sure I am. I can feel the room swimming around me.

“I’ll see to Agent Mulder,” he replies grimly, as if it’s a threat. Oh go ahead, Walter. You can threaten me any day.

“Very well, sir.” She squeezes my arm supportively, and then takes off to give out her orders. Skinner gives a few orders himself, to the remaining personnel in the room, and then comes over to me. The room is now empty, and I’m no longer under the spotlight. It seems weird, after the claustrophobic atmosphere of the past few days.

“I’m not staying here,” I tell Skinner as he pulls me up, and walks me along to my motel room. “I can’t stay here.” From my window I can see Pete’s body. Can he seriously expect me to get any rest in here?

“I wasn’t going to suggest it,” he tells me, grabbing the gym bag and stuffing my meager belongings into it. “But I need to be on hand until the details have been taken care of, and you’re in no fit shape to haul yourself back to D.C. There’s a hotel half an hour down the road. I’ll check you in there, then find out how Agent Scully is doing.”

“He was giving himself up,” I whisper, sitting on the bed, staring at him. “He trusted me, and I betrayed him.”

“He was an armed man, holding hostages. You did your best in very difficult circumstances. You got all those hostages out of there alive, and don’t think I’m not aware of what it cost you personally to get through that negotiation. I’m proud of you, Agent Mulder. Did you hear what I said?” He grabs my head, forcing me to look into his eyes again. “I’m damn proud of what you did here, Mulder. It was good work. Now come on.”

I’m too bone-tired to protest. I allow him to pull me out of the room, his hand gripping my arm tightly. He pushes me into the car, and we set off. I don’t even remember arriving, or him undressing me down to my boxers, which he must have done. The next thing I remember is opening my eyes, and seeing Scully sitting next to me.

“Hey, you okay?” She leans close, smiling.

“I thought you were supposed to be up to your neck in paperwork,” I murmur. The room is dark because the drapes are shut, but it’s light outside.

“Skinner’s taken over for a while. He wanted someone to stay with you in case you woke up disorientated.” She holds my hand in her own for a moment, and I gently finger the cool flesh.

“He’s coming back?” I ask her, my heart in my stomach. I want to see him. I desperately want to feel the heat of the man, to know that he’s nearby.

“Yes. Soon.” She glances at her watch. “Why don’t you take a shower, and I’ll be back in half an hour with something to eat?”

“Sounds great,” I mumble, sitting up, and wondering why my head is pounding.

“Mulder?” She hesitates at the door.

“Hmm?” I glance at her, running my hand absently through my hair.

“That story you told Lomax about your father. Was it true?” There’s a long silence, and then I smile.

“No, Scully. Of course not,” I say a little too brightly. “I was trying to win his confidence, to get him to trust me.”

“Well you had me fooled. You certainly improvize well under pressure.” She’s not sure whether she believes me or not.

“Yeah, well, I’m a psychologist remember?” I smile at her, and she nods, and grins back.

Skinner joins us for lunch, or dinner, or whatever the hell meal this is. He looks tired. I wonder if he’s had any sleep since this whole thing began. They talk quietly about the case, shooting little glances at me, but after establishing that the hostages are all okay, I don’t join in. It’s Scully’s turn to take over the clearing up operation.

“Nearly finished now,” she smiles. “Looks like you could do with another few hours sleep anyway. When I get back, we can go home.”

“Home. Yes,” I nod, wondering where the hell that is these days. Not my messy apartment with it’s faux attempt at fish-keeping domesticity, and sure as hell not Chilmark, where the ghosts of my father and sister dwell. I can’t even begin to think of my mother’s house as home. I’ve only been there a few times, at Christmas and Thanksgiving, and I never stayed long. I ask too many questions, and we always end up arguing.

“You’ll be okay?” Skinner asks, without any mawkish embarrassment. “I’ll be next door if you need anything.” He gestures to the interconnecting door.

“Fine,” I shrug, and he leaves.

If I need anything? What I usually need after episodes like this, is a hard body to savage with my lovemaking. Any body. His body. I can lose the anger, and the rage, in passion…if only I’d be free to go again when it was all over. I don’t know if he’d reject my advances, but I don’t think so. I usually have a pretty good instinct for that. He’s big, strong enough to take my fury, and to return it. I’ve seen the flashes of his temper, and his strength, in the past, and I want to feel it again. I want to feel him crush me underneath him, or against him. I want to lose myself in sex, in pain, in hurting someone else as much as I hurt inside. I want to abuse, to be abused. It’s what I know. I lie on the bed, watching day turn to night outside the drapes, but whenever I close my eyes all I can see is Pete’s dead body, and that blurs and becomes my father’s dead body after Krycek shot him…Krycek. One nemesis killed by another.

Something inside me snaps, and I don’t think I’m remotely rational as I go to that interconnecting door, and storm through it.

He’s sitting at a table, going through some papers. He should rest, a part of my mind is thinking. He must be tired. I want to love him. I do love him. I just wish it wasn’t this sort of love.

“Agent Mulder?” There’s a surprised expression on his face.

“You said if I needed anything?” It’s almost a snarl.

“Yes.” He gets up. “Are you well?”

“I do need something.” I close the distance between us, not knowing, or caring, what I’m about to do.

“Is it something I can…?” he stops. I’m too close, my eyes fixed on his lips hungrily, my body shaking, predatory.

“I need you.”

I slam him back against the wall, my hands on his shoulders, holding him hard, waiting for his inevitable response, to see the fire in his eyes, the angry passion, but it doesn’t come. He stands there, passively.

“Mulder?”

“It was your order. We could have saved him.”

I need to blame him for what happened, to justify to myself, and to him, why I’m doing this. I pull him forward, slam him back again. Damn, but he weighs a ton. His glasses are dislodged, and fall to the floor. We both ignore them.

“Mulder.”

His eyes are too close, uncovered. Dark, and intense. I can see the passion, the flicker of desire, and it’s all I need. I close in, cover his lips with mine, force myself inside him, devour his mouth with my tongue, bite down on his lip with my teeth, and all the time I’m waiting for his fury, for him to match my anger with his own need to consume and possess. It doesn’t happen. His lips open up beneath mine, and he accepts me, and every ounce of my rage. His hands have moved to caress the front of my chest gently, undoing some buttons. He can’t reach any further, as I still have him pinned to the wall. And yet he could move. He’s ten times stronger than I am. He could move.

“Is this what you want?” he asks softly.

“Shut up. Just shut up!” I kick out, sending the chair he was sitting in flying, and the image collides in my mind with the chair in the operations room earlier, and the chair I crashed into as I tried to escape from my father’s drunken rage all those years ago. Skinner’s eyes meet mine, and they’re calm, compassionate, affectionate, and sexual.

“I can take it,” he whispers. “I can take all of it.”

I pull him towards me, tearing open his shirt, my mouth lingering at his neck, his chest, down onto a nipple, closing around it, biting hard. I can hear him take a shocked breath, feel his hands grasp at my shoulders for support, but I’m not going to stop. I have his shirt off, and my hands are kneading his neck, roughly exploring down his body, undoing his belt, his pants. I can’t stop now unless he uses his strength to make me. He could. He could punch me, hold my hands behind me, march me back into my room, sue me for assault for all I know or care. He doesn’t though. Instead his hands smoothly remove my shirt, and then he wraps them around my neck, pressing his mouth against mine for another kiss.

His body is my battleground, and I fight a hard, bloody war. There’s a dark, cold place inside me and it hurts. Transferring that pain to him, shouting that rage, that fury, releasing those demons onto his flesh is a release. He is me – his masculine body a reflection of my own. He is the dark side of me, the side of night, of sex: raw, primal, usually kept leashed, and now given free rein. This is the wild thing – the dance of sex, and hate, of love and pain, that I need right now.

“Hurt me back,” I whisper, gripping his arms until his flesh turns white. “Make me feel something.”

His only answer is to draw me in against that large expanse of chest, surrendering to me as I take the pain of the last few days, and of a lifetime, out on his body.

I don’t remember the process by which we both removed the rest of our clothing, I just know that I had to feel his skin against my own. His body is hard – harder than Alex’s was, and my teeth tear at the skin, and my fingers claw at his back as I lock him into my brutal embrace. He arches his neck, his erection sliding against mine. I clasp him close, my fingers closing too tight around his arms, my mouth sucking a line of bruises down his neck, and I thump him down hard on the bed beneath me, waiting for him to struggle, wondering when he’ll fight back. His fingers fondle my cock, my balls, and he almost croons as he caresses me, brings me close to climax. I draw away, not wanting to come yet, needing to sate my passion, my desire, and my rage, first. I don’t care whether I’m fucked, or I do the fucking, it’s meaningless to me, but he isn’t responding as I expect, and I need to do more, to go further, to convince myself I’m alive, to flood myself with sensation – pain, pleasure, both – it doesn’t matter.

I can hear our breathing, and it sounds harsh and unnatural. The sounds of sex, of struggle. There’s a long mirror beside the bed, and, for a moment, I catch our frenzy, and grin at myself, my reflection unrecognizable. If I had become a vampire, with blood dripping from my mouth, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Faggots, a voice inside me laughs. Fucking queers. I gather him up, wanting to roll him under me, to enter him, hard and fast, but something stops me. His face is so familiar. I know him. He isn’t just nameless flesh, he’s Skinner. I know the outline of his lips, the way he stands when he’s pissed off, usually with me. I know the way the light catches his bald head as he sits in his office during late afternoon meetings. He reaches up a hand to my face, in a tender gesture, wipes away some sweat.

“It’s okay, Fox,” he says, and I pull back, sharply.

“Don’t call me that.” I bite his neck, crush my hand brutally around his erect cock, and stoically he endures each attack, yet still he doesn’t fight back.

“Hit me,” I whisper in his ear. “Hit me, damn you.”

He gives a little shake of his head.

“For fuck’s sake…hit me…” I slap him hard, waiting for the anger I know he must want to unleash upon me, hoping that he will meet my fury with his own, but instead he traces his hands through my hair, in a gentle caress.

“Do it…please…hurt me…” I beg, delivering another slap. He shakes his head again.

“No,” he says firmly, and the fury explodes inside me.

I don’t remember much about the next few hours. Just that the frenzy continued until we both had our climax, and that he took everything I handed out, accepting it, not denying me anything except my own pain. And when the darkness receded, he took me in his arms, and held me against his body, the sweat cooling on both our skins as we slept.

When I wake up, I feel only a dull ache inside, but the intensity, the anger, the stress of the past few days has gone. I’m myself again. Mr. Hyde has turned back into Dr Mulder. Loathing myself, hating my lack of control, I ease myself out of his embrace, preparing to leave. I could shower, get dressed, head back to DC. When we meet again, we could both pretend to forget.

I turn to glance down at him, and wince at the sight. His broad shoulders are bruised, torn by my savage bites and caresses, and there are long red scratches down his back, legacy of my nails. His lip is cut, a little bubble of blood welling up in the wound. I hate myself even more now, and long to be gone, but he chooses that moment to open his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I shrug. “I’ll go. I’m sorry.”

He raises himself up on his elbow, and draws me back down again.

“No,” he says, and now, when I try to leave, I find out at last just how strong he is. One burly forearm is wrapped around my stomach, and I can’t escape from it. His lips press gently against the back of my neck. I’m struggling in his grip, fighting to get out, but he won’t let me go. His arms hold me down as they have before, never offering me what I want, never striking me, just restraining. Finally, I go limp, worn out by the battle. I succumb to the bitter emptiness inside, and want to weep from the gnawing self-hatred. I lie back, listless, and stare into his eyes as he looks down on me.

“Fox,” he says, the expression in his eyes so tender that it makes tears prick in the back of my eyes.

“No. I don’t like to be called…” I begin, but he puts a finger over my mouth.

“Fox,” he says again, and I realize why I don’t like my name. Until now I’ve only heard it spoken in reproach, disappointment or anger. I don’t remember anybody ever saying it like this before – as an endearment. His lips gently brush mine, then he turns to my neck, and kisses that too. Long, slow, tender kisses. I can feel the heat rise up inside me, and I press against him, trying to scratch, to bite, to descend once more into fury and chaos. He stops me, holding me down with one arm. He could have stopped me last night. How easily he could have stopped my onslaught. I wonder why he didn’t.

“Faggot. Who’d have thought you’d be a fucking queer? A cock-sucking, brown-nosed, fairy.” I say the words to wound, because one of his large, gentle arms is holding me tight, making sure that I can’t stop the tender caress he’s subjecting me to. He looks up, and I wait for the anger, the hurt, to register in his eyes, but it isn’t there.

“Who called you those things, Fox?” he asks, reading me, understanding me, in a way I never would have expected from him. Not from him, of all people. My eyes are filling up with tears in earnest now. I don’t want this. I didn’t come here for this.

“Having a nickname like ‘Spooky’ is nothing compared to some of what I’ve been called,” I tell him, wishing that his mouth would stop those teasing little kisses he’s bestowing on my neck. His hand comes up, and runs silky fingers through my hair.

“They’re ugly names for an act of love.” He pulls back the sheet, and runs a hand down my thigh, down to my knee, and back again. “Is there anything ugly in this?” he asks softly, stroking me. He takes my hand to his chest, and runs it gently along his body. “Or this? In two people sharing themselves?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I ask him, the tears flowing down my cheeks.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He smiles, and the color of his eyes is like warm chocolate, meltingly delicious.

“No,” I mutter resentfully, trying to brush the tears away. He holds me down, preventing the action, and with his free hand he wipes the salty flow from my cheeks, then kisses each of my eyelids.

“Because I love you.” He says it without embarrassment, or expectation of reciprocation. “Hush.” He places a finger over my mouth again, although I have no idea what, if anything, I was about to say. “And I wish you could love yourself.” He kisses my Adam’s apple, lightly. “Last night…” he says, and I flinch from what I was, and what I did, last night. He wraps both arms around my body, nestling me under his chin. “Last night, you showed me what you know about love. And this morning, I want to return the favor.”

His body is too large, his authority too compelling to be ignored. I’m putty in his hands as he explores me with gentle, tender lips, and caressing fingertips, the lightest gossamer touch of his flesh against mine. Even when my body yearns for urgency, to be overwhelmed, he goes about his work slowly, and will not be hurried.

I have never known my body explored so slowly, thoroughly, or lovingly. Each part of me discovered, revealed, as if he’s peeling back my soul to look at what lies at its core. And I know now that last night, he was the one in control, for all my frenzy, and overpowering need. He allowed me to take what I wanted from him because he is kind. It’s a kindness I have glimpsed in brief snatches over the years, and which is usually kept hidden beneath the taciturn strength. Maybe his kindness is the true sign of his strength.

Now he has no need of disguises, as he finds his way unerringly around my body, nuzzling here and there, licking, nibbling, and making me gasp with the subtlety of his caresses. I’ve never been touched like this before. It’s always been as it was last night. I repress the need for so long, that when it comes out it’s urgent, and savage. As his lips return to mine once more, I allow his tongue to push into my mouth, in a slow, lingering kiss, that leaves me reeling. When he finishes I have to draw him back again, for another, and then another, making him laugh.

Finally, he lays me on my front, and kisses his way over every inch of my back, and butt. His fingers slip inside me, bringing me to the brink of climax with their probing. When he finally enters me, smoothly, painlessly, he brings me to a state of ecstasy that I have never known with any partner before, male or female.

Afterwards, he gently pulls himself out from me, and holds me against his chest, his legs wrapped around mine, making me feel safe, loved.

“When you want to talk about it, then I’ll listen.” He kisses my hair. “If you never want to, then that’s fine too.”

“I don’t deserve…” I begin, a wave of self-loathing sweeping through me, making me wretched.

“Fox,” he interrupts me, his voice giving my name inflections of love that send shivers down my spine. “I don’t know what he said to you, or what he did to you, or the names he called you, to make you feel this way. But I’m not him. I’ll be your lover, but not your father. He’s dead. Let him go.”

“I’ll try, Walter.”

I relax in his arms, playing with the unfamiliar name on my tongue, and I can feel the smile on his face as he rests his cheek against mine. I may have a long way to go, but I think Walter Skinner just solved a different kind of hostage situation. For the first time since I was 12 years old, I think I can taste freedom.

THE END