"Rebound" by Karen Rasch RATING: NC-17 CLASSIFICATION: SA CONTENT: M/other, Slash DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder and Phoebe Green belong to 1013 and Fox. No money is being made. No disrespect is intended. ARCHIVE: At will. Please make sure my name remains attached to the story. SPOILERS: None. This story is pre-XF. INTRODUCTION: I've been threatening to write slash for awhile now. This is what I came up with. While the events depicted are decidedly adult in nature, this is probably not the story to read if you're looking for a bit of harmless M/M smut. It's a bit too dark for that. Not to mention wordy. DEDICATION: This story is for CiCi Lean who, it appears, no longer roams ATXC with the same frequency or fervor as before. This story came about after a series of emails she and I shared. I'm not certain the events depicted in this piece are exactly what she had in mind when we discussed my writing slash, but I think of this tale as hers just the same. As a fanfic writer, you've given me a lot of pleasure over the years, Cici. I hope, with this story, to return the favor. SPECIAL THANKS: Please see notes following the story. ************************************************** The pub was filling quickly on that early evening in January, people all but dashing through the door to escape the wind and cold. Almost as if openly defying the chill outside, the tavern itself was over-warm, the heat intensifying the already potent scent of bodies swathed in cigarette smoke, the strangely comforting potpourri of oiled wood, sour dregs, and damp Shetland wool. He was admiring his appearance in the mirror behind the bar, enjoying as always the contrast of his dark brows and wheat- blond hair, the ski slope arch of his cheekbones and the lush manner in which his sooty lashes fringed the pale blue eyes beneath them. The black turtleneck had definitely been the right choice, he thought to himself, preening just a touch, much better than the navy silk would have been, when behind his own reflection, he spied someone. A face he didn't know. "Who's that?" "Who?" "There. In the corner. Tragic eyes. Sinful mouth." "The one with the hair?" "No, sweetheart. The one with the nose." "Oh, =him=. The Yank? Mulder, I think his name is." Turning to get a better look, Jonathan Reece sat up a bit straighter on his stool, his lips pursed thoughtfully, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. "A Yank? Really? I've never had a *yank* before. Or should I say . . . an American." Adjusting his wire rims atop his nose, his companion, Freddie Barton, grimaced. "Lovely, Jonny-boy. Absolutely lovely. A word of advice, though. You might want to try and come up with a better pick-up line. I doubt you'll sweep the poor bugger off his feet using that piece of crap." "What makes you think I want to sweep him anywhere?" Jonathan queried, taking one last drag off his B & H before stubbing it out. "You've got that hungry look in your eye, the one that makes us mere mortals tremble with fear and anticipation." "Now who's talking crap?" "Not me. I know that look. There was a time you used to direct it my way." "As I recall, you didn't mind a good tremble now and again." "I didn't. Not then. But times have changed. I've grown up, grown wiser." "Grown immune to my charms?" Freddie sighed and looked away, his attention now focused on his half-finished Guinness, his chocolate-brown bangs falling forward to hide his gaze. "Very nearly, Jon. Very nearly indeed." Hearing the full range of regret contained in Freddie's mumbled words, Jonathan smiled. Poor boy. He was such a puppy, really. All wide, moist eyes and a furious, ass-wiggling need to please. Even now, when their relationship was officially over, Freddie seemingly couldn't help but trail after him, knowing full well he was as likely to get a kick for his efforts as a pat on the head. Oh, Mrs. Barton's firstborn might like to pretend that during his time at university he had not only learned the difference between Shelley and Keats, but had also acquired a veneer of sophistication, a protective, cynical shell. Jonathan knew better. Underneath the caustic comebacks and catty one-liners beat a heart well matched to Freddie's choirboy good looks. It was that heart that had drawn Jonathan to him in the first place. The innocent were always far more satisfying to corrupt. "So tell me about him." "Isn't much to tell," Freddie quietly replied as he brought his pint to his lips. "Start with how you know him," Jonathan instructed before following suit. A thought occurred to him mid-swallow. "Oh, wait a minute--you're not carrying a torch, are you?" "Don't be ridiculous," Freddie said, looking over at him at last. "I sat in on a lecture with him last term, that's all. Transcendental Poets. A bit odd, if you ask me. I heard he was reading Psych. If that's the case, I don't know why he'd want to listen to Drummond drone on about Emerson and his bloody 'Over-Soul'. I only went because my tutor all but blackmailed me into it. . ." "Fascinating," Jonathan murmured, finding his companion's ramblings anything but. So, he had a budding Sigmund Freud, on his hands, eh? That could prove interesting. He had always heard the most messed up people were the ones who insisted on messing around in other people's heads. Must be all that time spent reading about Oedipal complexes and repressed desires. Bound to make anyone a bit off. Still, twisted or no, the American appealed to Jonathan, although he couldn't pinpoint exactly why. He was handsome enough, he supposed, even though his chin was weak and his nose a trifle wide. He was well-built, tall and lean, with slender, aristocratic hands. And his hair was nice. Longish and brown, a shade lighter than Freddie's, the ends just grazing his shirt collar. But it wasn't his appearance alone . . . "You shouldn't get your hopes up, you know." Pulled from his reverie, Jonathan returned his attention to the man sitting beside him. Freddie frowned back at him in disapproval. "Why's that?" "He's spoken for. Or was last term. Phoebe Green had her hooks in him." "Soylent Green?" Jonathan crowed. "Poor darling." "There are plenty who'd kill to be in his shoes," Freddie sniffed. "And plenty more who've already worn down the heels," Jonathan replied with a waggle of his brows. Twisting in his seat, he looked again towards the corner table, trying to incorporate this new information with the picture that had already been forming in his head. The American just sat there, seemingly unaware he was under scrutiny. His eyes were trained on the book before him. However, Jonathan had yet to see him turn a page. "They don't seem to be together now," he ventured. Freddie shrugged. "He could be waiting for her." "No," Jonathan said, turning back. "If that were the case, she'd have been here by now. And my new friend wouldn't appear so . . . lost." Freddie shrugged again and took a sip of his ale. "Besides," Jonathan said conspiratorially, his arms folded on the bar, his shoulder flush against Freddie's, "I saw Pheebs in London over the holidays, slinking along Camden High Street on the arm of Davey Spencer." "Really?" Freddie queried with amazement. "Really," Jonathan confirmed with a wicked smile. "Sweet Phoebe was all over our boy Dave. Not that he seemed to mind. He was elbow-deep down her dress when I saw them." Chuckling in spite of himself, Freddie shook his head. "Poor Davey. He's far too nice for the likes of her," Jonathan continued slyly in Freddie's ear. "He may be the only person in all of Oxfordshire who doesn't know Phoebe's a man eater. She'll chew him up and spit him out before he even realizes he's been bitten. Just like--what did you say his name was? Oh, yes. Mulder. Just like young Mulder over there." Freddie frowned at that and looked away. "Does it bother you to hear me speak of other men?" Jonathan murmured, the words all but drowned out by the surrounding conversations and Bryan Ferry's yearning for "More Than This" from the speakers overhead. "You know it does," Freddie said softly. "You were the one who thought it best we be merely friends," Jonathan taunted, his smile turning faintly cruel. "It was that or nothing," Freddie said, shooting him a wounded sideways glance. "It wasn't as if I had a chance in hell of having you for myself." Smirking, Jonathan again lifted his pint. "Face it, Jon. You're a whore. You always have been. And I got tired of paying for the privilege of sharing your bed." Stiffening, Jonathan lowered his now empty glass, sat back, and looked with surprise at his companion. Damn. Who knew? The pup had teeth. To his credit, Freddie defiantly returned his gaze, bright spots of color now mottling his otherwise pale cheeks. "Hardly friendly, that," Jonathan remarked, eyes narrowed. "I don't imagine so," Freddie admitted. "But then, I'm not feeling very friendly right now." "Well then . . . perhaps you need some time to yourself," Jonathan said, sliding from his stool. Grabbing his leather jacket, he turned to leave. He hadn't even taken a step before Freddie stopped him. "Jonny," he mumbled, his hand on the other man's arm. "What?" Jonathan asked, his patience at an end. "Leave the guy alone," Freddie pleaded, his gaze flickering back and forth between the floor and Jonathan's chin. "He's not . . . I doubt he'll be interested in what you have to offer." "Don't be so sure," Jonathan murmured, pulling his arm free. "I can be quite persuasive when I put my mind to it." Finally mustering the courage to meet Jonathan's eyes, Freddie whispered, "Yes. I remember." "Good boy. See that you do." With one last grim smile, Jonathan stepped past Freddie and started across the room. Freddie watched him as he cut through the crowd, his gait slow and rolling, more a prowl than a stroll. Once, Jonathan's predatory grace would have kept him rooted to the spot. Infatuation manifesting as paralysis. At that moment, however, Freddie couldn't get out of there fast enough. Bending down to gather his things, he shook his head, all the while muttering beneath his breath, "Poor sod. Poor, stupid, stupid sod." ***** "Excuse me . . . sorry. I'm sorry. I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but could I speak to you for a moment?" Despite his attempt to gentle his voice, his query seemed to startle the American. He flinched the moment Jonathan spoke, his book tumbling from the table to the floor as a result. "Oh, God. Now look what I've done," Jonathan murmured as he watched Mulder fumble to rescue the oversized paperback. Jung's "Modern Man in Search of a Soul." Well. No wonder the lad hadn't been making much progress. It wasn't exactly Stephen King now, was it? "S'okay," Mulder assured him as he ducked beneath the table to retrieve the book. Jonathan took a step back and watched, appreciating the way the faded gray jersey he wore clung to the muscles of his shoulders and back, stretching when he stretched, then softly draping once more. "S'okay." "No, it's not," Jonathan gallantly insisted. "I seem to be making quite a nuisance of myself. That wasn't my intent, I assure you. You'll have to let me make amends." His copy of Jung once more secure, Mulder looked up at Jonathan, his eyes glassy with what appeared to be a mix of drink and fatigue, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm . . . I'm sorry. Do I know you?" "No, actually you don't. Not yet, anyway," Jonathan said, extending his hand in greeting. "I'm Jonathan. Friends call me Jon. I understand your name is Mulder." The other man returned the handshake as if on auto-pilot, apparently still befuddled. "That's right. How'd . . . ?" "My friend over at the bar, Freddie, . . . he said you two sat in on a lecture together last term. One of Drummond's. He's the guy who told me your name." Mulder glanced in the direction Jonathan indicated, seemingly searching for a familiar face. Little chance of that, Jonathan mused. Although he hadn't seen him exit, he was quite certain Freddie had long since left. "Oh." "We were talking, he and I, and I told him I was planning on visiting America this summer," Jonathan continued affably. "It's my first trip to your side of the Atlantic, and um . . . anyway, Freddie thought you might be able to give me some pointers. You know--fill me in on the 'must-sees'." Mulder returned his attention to the table. Sighing, he looked up at Jonathan for a moment or two, then, closing his eyes, wearily rubbed his face with his hands. "Look, I'm sorry. . . Jonathan, is it? I don't mean to be rude . . . it's just . . . I'm kinda tired and I really don't think I'm up to playing Frommer's right now." "Oh . . . I'm sorry," Jonathan mumbled, turning appropriately contrite. "I'm afraid I'm the one being rude. I didn't mean to intrude--" "You're not intruding," Mulder quickly said. "I'd be happy to do this some other time. It's just---" "No. I understand," Jonathan said with sham remorse. "Truly, I do. No need to explain. Terrible imposition, I know." Slouched in his chair, Mulder shook his head. "No. It's not that--" "It's just that I'm so excited about this trip. It's all I can think about . . . or talk about, it seems. I . . . I don't know any Americans personally, and books can only tell you so much. Freddie said you were quite a nice chap and I thought, 'Well, he's here, I'm here. What's the harm? I'll go talk to him'." "There's no harm--" Waving off Mulder's protests, Jonathan took a step away, as if readying for departure. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course, there's harm--or bother, if nothing else. After all, you're sitting here minding your own business and I come barging in as if we're best mates. I don't know what got in to me. I hope you'll accept my apology." "You don't have to apologize," Mulder said, sitting forward in his seat now, clearly abashed. "Honestly. I'm the one who should be sorry. I don't mean to be such a jerk . . . " "A jerk? You, a jerk?" Jonathan echoed with what he judged to be the appropriate measure of astonishment. "Christ. This is going from bad to worst." "What is?" Mulder asked dumbly. "This," Jonathan said, smiling as he sidled a little closer to the table. "You and I. I mean . . . listen to us. First, I'm sorry; then, you're sorry. We sound like two old grannies trying to decide who should be allowed to totter through the door first." Eyebrows lifted in acknowledgment, Mulder quietly chuckled. Jonathan laughed with him a moment, enjoying the silent camaraderie, before he casually made his move. "Hey . . . what do you say we wipe the slate clean and start again?" "Start again?" Mulder queried. Jonathan nodded. "Start again. Only this time, I refrain from making demands. Instead, I simply offer you my hand like any civilized individual would, and say, 'Hello, may I introduce myself? Jonathan Reece, Social Idiot.'" Mulder hesitated for only an instant before again clasping hands. "Mulder. Fox Mulder. Nice to meet you." Jonathan smiled. "Delighted to make your acquaintance as well, Fox Mulder," he said, his tone purposely formal. "I wonder--now, here's the tricky part, try to keep up--would it be all right if I joined you?" Returning his smile, Mulder shrugged as if bowing to the inevitable. "Sure. Why not?" "Brilliant," Jonathan said, sliding into the seat opposite. "Honestly. A marked improvement. Well done by us both, I thought." "Yeah, well . . . at least no one apologized," Mulder murmured dryly. "And that in and of itself is cause for celebration!" Jonathan said. "What do you say I buy you a pint? After all, I did promise to make amends. Come on. My shout, I insist." "That's not necessary," Mulder protested. "Of course, it's necessary," Jonathan argued. "I can think of few things as necessary on a cold winter night as a pint of bitter." Mulder had nothing to say to that. Again, seemingly resigned to his fate, he shook his head and pushed his empty glass towards Jonathan. Assuring his companion he would return momentarily, the tall blond was as good as his word, catching the bartender's eye with an ease that made him the envy of a dozen other patrons. He would have shared his secret with any one of them, had they asked. Dress well. Flirt outrageously. Do more than flirt if it happens to be that good-looking Irishman's night behind the bar. "So, you're what then--third year?" Jonathan asked once he was again settled in his chair, fresh pint of Boddingtons in his hand. "That's right," Mulder replied, taking a sip of his ale. "What college?" "Balliol. You?" Jonathan chuckled ruefully. "Oh, I'm no longer a student at this hallowed institution." "Did you graduate?" Mulder queried. "Me?" Jonathan asked with a touch of amusement. "No. I didn't graduate. I escaped." Mulder nodded. "I know the feeling. There have been times I've thought of making a break for it myself." "I highly recommend it," Jonathan said, stretching his denim- clad legs out before him. "God knows I've been a hell of a lot happier since I put away the books." "So what do you do?" Mulder asked. "Do?" "Yes. Do. With your time." "Live off the generosity of friends mostly," Jonathan said with his most charming smile. "And Mum and Dad, of course." This seemed to surprise Mulder. "Are you serious?" "Rarely," Jonathan admitted with play-acted remorse. "Although in this, I stray dangerously close to the truth." "Which is?" "Which is--I am idle," Jonathan said. "Yet not without my resources." "'Resources' enough to get you to America," Mulder stated rather than asked. "Precisely," Jonathan lied, taking a drink. Smiling with wry amusement, Mulder queried, "Why do you want to go?" "Why did you want to come here?" Jonathan countered with a shrug. "To experience new things, see new places, meet new people. All the usual reasons, I expect." Humming his reply, the sound neither confirming nor denying his companion's musings, Mulder raised his glass again to his lips. Watching as he swallowed down the rich brown brew, Jonathan studied the man sitting across from him. At first glance, Mulder seemed relaxed, his lanky frame sprawled comfortably in his chair. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes soft and sleepy. Yet the longer Jonathan looked at him, the more certain he was that the other man's easy, contented air was, in fact, a facade. Even now, after the time and care he had taken in setting things in motion, Jonathan sensed in Mulder a wariness, a caution that hinted at some deep-seated hurt, at past betrayals and unspoken vulnerabilities. Lovely. Something to work with. "So, tell me, Fox Mulder," he said, probing deeper now, actively searching for ways past this man's defenses. "Has England lived up to all your expectations?" "Who says I had any expectations?" Mulder queried lightly. "Don't be ridiculous. Everyone has them," Jonathan chided. "You either hope or you fear. It's inevitable. No one enters into a situation a complete innocent. You go in expecting something. Everyone does." Mulder shrugged, skimming his fingertips along the side of his glass. "I don't know. I guess . . . in many ways, being here has been everything I could have hoped for and more." "And in other ways?" Jonathan pressed, leaning forward in his chair. Mulder softly chuckled, the sound noticeably lacking in humor. "And in other ways . . . one place is very much like any other." "Ah! Failed expectations if ever I've heard them." Mulder scowled. "Why do you say that?" "Other than the doom and gloom tone of your voice, you mean?" Jonathan murmured shrewdly. "Well, come on. Consider the evidence." "What evidence?" Mulder asked in exasperation. "My dear boy, it's a Friday night," Jonathan said. "It's early in the term, so the work can't have piled up all *that* high. And yet, here you sit. Alone. Studying, while all around you, your fellow students are well on their way to Saturday's hangover. Surely that wasn't the way you'd envisioned spending your weekends at university, now was it?" "I wasn't *studying* . . . ," Mulder muttered sheepishly into his ale. "Good God! You mean to tell me you were reading Jung for fun?" Jonathan queried with mock horror. "It's worse than I thought." "Didn't you come over here to talk about your trip?" Mulder grumbled good-naturedly. "Mulder, you yourself told me you weren't in the mood to play tour guide," Jonathan said. "I respect that. Besides, much as I'm looking forward to it, it'd do me good to get my mind off the bloody trip. I've been obsessing. It isn't healthy. I'm not even scheduled to leave for months yet. I can pick your brain at some later date. For tonight, let's focus on the here and now." Mulder echoed dubiously, "The here and now?" "Here," Jonathan said slowly and patiently, like a tutor explaining that week's lesson to a particularly dense student. "At this pub. At the beginning of what should be an enjoyable weekend, free of such things as books and papers and Karl- fucking-Jung. My friend has apparently abandoned me to my own devices. While you, if appearances are to be trusted, seemingly have no friends at all. Think about it--it's as if our crossing paths was meant to be." Frowning, Mulder said nothing in response. He simply ducked his head and drank deeply from his pint. Yet, despite the other man's reticence--or, perhaps because of it--Jonathan knew instantly he had struck a nerve. "Oh, now I fear I've gone too far," he murmured, watching Mulder carefully. "Is it possible I've hurt your feelings? Surely you know I was joking about the 'friends' thing." "Yeah, well you see . . . ," Mulder muttered, looking over at him with hooded eyes. "That's just it. I don't really =know= you at all." "But don't you get it?" Jonathan said soothingly. "That's just my point. Here we are, each on our own. And why? Why spend a Friday night alone when, instead, we can get to know each other, keep each other company?" "What makes you think I want any company?" Mulder asked calmly. "Oh come on!" Jonathan prodded with a smile. "Which is better? To sit here all night alone, your nose stuck in a book you're not even reading. "Or instead," he continued, his voice persuasive and low. "To lift a glass or two with a fellow who, while he admittedly wasn't cut out to spend his days in the library, has been known to be quite entertaining and, from time to time--dare I say it-- undeniably clever." Mulder took his time before replying. Tamping down his impatience, Jonathan sipped his pint of Boddys and indulged his desire to again examine the man opposite him, to anticipate what it would be like to be with him, inside him. Smooth skin, he noted. Like a baby's, even with the faint shadow darkening his jaw. And that mouth. Luscious. Full and sulky. And soft. He knew it would be soft. Against his own, his throat, his cock. Finally, Mulder spoke. "So you're clever, huh?" More relieved than he wanted to admit, Jonathan smiled. "Outrageously so. Ask anyone." "Like who?" Mulder queried wryly. "Your one and only friend left you here with me." "Oh sure," Jonathan said, magnanimous in victory. "Rub it in." Mulder lifted his glass in a silent toast and drank what ale remained. Jonathan immediately stood to fetch another round. "I don't know if that's such a good idea," Mulder said, reaching out to brush Jonathan's sleeve with his fingertips. "I already had a couple before you sat down." "Not to worry," Jonathan said smoothly. "I'll make sure you get home. If worse comes to worst, my flat's not far. You can crash there." "Thanks," Mulder said with a smile. "Don't mention it," Jonathan sweetly replied. "It's my pleasure." *************************************************** "No, really. I'm totally and utterly serious!" "You're totally and utterly pissed is what you are." "Pissed?" Mulder echoed, coming to an abrupt halt, his breath exploding from his mouth in little puffs of vapor. "You know . . . I think I gotta =take= a piss." With no more fanfare than that, he turned and headed in the direction of a convenient beech tree. "Mulder!" Trotting after him, Jonathan looped his arm around the other man's shoulder and steered him back on to the path. "Come on. My place isn't far. You can hold out till then." "'kay," Mulder murmured docilely, stumbling along beside him, their heels snapping through the layer of frost icing the ground as they tramped. "Long as it's not far." It wasn't. The flat he was watching while his former history tutor was on sabbatical was located little more than a block away, its tall mullion windows overlooking the River Cherwell. He didn't normally like to bring people there. The place was small and drab, as was to be expected, Jonathan reasoned, seeing as its usual occupant was not only an academic, but a bachelor. A heterosexual bachelor. Stupid Momma's boy. But he didn't think Mulder was in any condition to notice things like mismatched furnishings and threadbare rugs. And even if he were, there wasn't much Jonathan could do about it. When the offer of free lodgings had been made, he hadn't exactly been in a position to turn it down. Not after his parents had learned their only child had left school, and had consequently cut off his spending money. "But see now . . . now . . . this kind of thing . . . this is just what I'm talking about," Mulder said a bit too loudly, his voice ringing in the star-filled night. "What kind of thing?" "This. . . . you. Me. Your letting me spend the night. I appreciate it, Jon. Did I tell you I appreciate it?" "Do you now?" Jonathan murmured indulgently as he guided them along the narrow walk "I do," Mulder said emphatically. "If I didn't say so before . . . thank you. I mean . . . no matter how drunk I was . . . I am . . . I didn't want to go back to my room tonight. The guy who lives next door to me . . . Peter . . . his girlfriend comes in from Manchester every weekend to visit him. . . . They're loud." Jonathan chuckled. "She a screamer?" Mulder thought about it for a minute. "No. Peter is." Mulder's rumbled deadpan set Jonathan to laughing again, harder this time, uncaring of who might hear. Seemingly pleased to have invoked such a response, Mulder snickered right along with him, his mirth seemingly upsetting his already precarious balance. "Sorry," Mulder mumbled as his hip glanced off Jonathan's, causing the pair to stumble sideways. "Sorry 'bout that." "It's okay," Jonathan assured him, keeping Mulder's body pressed closely against his own as he righted them both. "No need to apologize, mate. I've got you." And besides, Jonathan thought to himself, unless he was very much mistaken, come tomorrow morning, his companion would have far more to be sorry about than that gentle nudge. He had lost count of precisely how many pints Mulder had downed, even as he had made certain to keep them coming. His strategy had worked beautifully. After the first couple, the American had stopped making even a token protest. Instead, he had only slumped still deeper in his seat and obediently handed over his glass, his eyes reddening, his guard gradually lowering. And as those defenses had dropped, Mulder had begun to talk. And talk. About everything and nothing. Details were difficult to come by, Mulder seemingly more concerned with sharing emotional truths rather than raw data. Still, Jonathan had learned enough. About Mulder's home. His time at Oxford. About Phoebe. And a loneliness Mulder never named, yet couldn't hide. "Are we almost there?" he asked now as they turned a corner. "Yes, thank God," Jonathan said, digging for his key. "Up you go. And be quiet about it. My landlady's a bitch. One peep past the BBC news and I get a threatening note taped to my door the following morning." He let Mulder precede him up the shadowy stairway, partly so he could catch him in case he tripped again, but mostly so he could enjoy the sway of his ass. It was round and tight, filling out the seat of his Levi's in a most promising fashion. They made it upstairs without incident. Breathing a silent prayer of thanks, Jonathan pushed Mulder through the door and locked it behind him. Crossing to the nearby floor lamp, he tugged on its pull-chain. A faint, yellowish light leaked through the shade. "Here. Let me take your coat," Jonathan said, turning back to his guest. "And that bloody book. Loo's down the hall to your right." "Thanks." Watching to make certain Mulder didn't accidentally bumble his way into the linen closet, Jonathan waited until he saw the light over the vanity flicker on before shrugging off his jacket and stowing it and Mulder's in the entryway closet. "Right," he murmured, turning to survey his living room. Now, how to proceed. First thing first--he needed to tidy up a bit. That morning's breakfast plates were removed from the coffee table and stacked in the kitchen sink. A week's worth of newspapers were grabbed and stashed. Pillows were fluffed and odd articles of clothing were roughly stowed beneath the couch. "Hey, Jon. Do you think I could get a glass of water?" Mulder stood in the archway where the hall began. His hair was rumpled, and his nose and ears blushed red-tipped from the cold. Hand braced against the wall, he was toeing off his trainers. "Sure. Make yourself at home." Nodding, Mulder shuffled over to the couch in stocking feet and plopped himself down in the corner. Crossing into the kitchen, Jonathan found a clean glass and filled it at the tap. Returning to the living room, he handed it to Mulder, then seated himself next to him. Wasting no time, the American began to greedily drink. "So, admit it," Jonathan said, watching him swallow. "You had fun tonight, didn't you?" Thirst apparently assuaged, Mulder leaned forward to set his empty glass on the coffee table, then slumped back comfortably against the cushions. Blinking drowsily, he smiled at Jonathan, his expression positively beatific. "I did. I did have fun." "I thought so," Jonathan said smugly, his arm stretched along the back of the sofa. "Told you you would. All you needed was to relax, kick back a bit. How do you feel?" Mulder crinkled his brow in contemplation before announcing, "Good . . . I feel good. Relaxed. Like you said." Jonathan smiled and reached over to give Mulder's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. This was going to be good, he thought. And easy. Almost too easy. Sighing with contentment, Mulder tipped his head so that it rested against the back of the couch, his lashes fluttering shut. "Mmm . . . I'm tired." "Mulder," Jonathan said softly, edging closer, his hand still kneading the other man's shoulder. "Don't you go to sleep on me now." "W-what?" Mulder mumbled, his arms lax at his sides, his eyes yet closed. "Hmm? Why?" Jonathan chuckled. "Because if you fall asleep, you're going to miss the best part." "Whazzat?" Mulder queried, his head lolling in Jonathan's direction, his lashes lifting just a touch to gaze blearily at him. "This." Stretching across his body, Jonathan cradled Mulder's cheek in his palm and, lowering his face to his, pressed their lips together. Softly, slowly, so as not to frighten his guest. The texture of Mulder's mouth was slightly rougher than he had expected, Jonathan mused, lingering there just the same, chapped no doubt by the wind on their walk home. Still, he liked the plump, fleshy feel of them, the sensation of them giving gently, helplessly, beneath the pressure he exerted. Despite his caution, the moment their lips touched, the man beneath him stiffened, his eyes snapping open. "Wh-what are you doing?" Mulder croaked as he tried to sit up. "Shh," Jonathan crooned, tracing the tender bow of Mulder's upper lip with his thumb, his forearm effectively holding the other man in place. Dipping his head, he nuzzled the side of Mulder's face with his own, dropping lazy kisses from his temple to the corner of his jaw. "Easy now. . . . easy. I won't do anything you won't like. You'll see." "I don't--," Mulder began, struggling for leverage, one hand wrapped around Jonathan's wrist, the other pushing clumsily against his shoulder. "I'm not--" "Hush," Jonathan breathed, controlling Mulder easily. Leaning in closer, he took Mulder's ear lobe between his teeth and tugged. Lightly, he first chewed on the velvety patch of skin, then drew it into his mouth to nurse on it, hard and strong, lashing it from time to time with his tongue. Sucking in a quick, painful-sounding breath, Mulder all at once stilled in his hold, all his concentration seemingly centered on what was happening to the tiny bit of him captured between Jonathan's lips. Almost as if suspended there, his body hung taut in Jonathan's hold, his chin pointed towards the ceiling, a strangled whimper vibrating in the back of his throat. "You see? You liked that," Jonathan whispered after releasing him with yet another soft, lasting kiss. Pulling away, he looked at Mulder, carefully studying his expression, the task more difficult than it should have been with the room's feeble light. Mute, Mulder stared back at him, still unmoving, his eyes enormous and dark, the muscle lining his jaw working overtime. Just as I thought, Jonathan noted with satisfaction. You may be confused, Mulder, my boy. This may all be new to you. But the body doesn't lie. You want this. Am I right, sweetheart? You want it badly. "Tell me you liked it," Jonathan commanded silkily, his hands now resting on Mulder's shoulders, the pressure light now that he no longer feared him trying to leave. Moistening his mouth with his tongue, Mulder shook his head. Jonathan chuckled in disbelief. Mulder's quick, shallow breaths, the rosy color of his cheeks, the fact that he even allowed himself to be caressed in the first place--all the signs indicated arousal. Who did the lad think he was fooling? "No?" Jonathan queried knowingly, his right hand lifting to skate delicately across Mulder's cheek, and from there, sink south, trailing slowly down the front of his body. "Are you sure? All I want to do is make you feel good, Mulder. Make you feel nice." The texture beneath Jonathan's wandering fingers changed from cotton knit to denim. Mulder jumped when those fingers found him, twitching to life beneath the thick blue fabric. Smiling at his reaction, Jonathan closed his hand round him. Moaning, Mulder writhed in response. "It's been a long while since anyone took the time to be nice to you. Hasn't it?" Jonathan murmured, rubbing the heel of his hand along Mulder's swollen shaft. "A long time since anyone took care of you. "Let me take of you, Mulder," Jonathan continued, leaning in once more, his mouth coasting along the other man's throat, nibbling the corded muscle there, tasting the salt of his sweat. "Let me be your friend." Lifting his head slightly, Jonathan again sealed Mulder's lips with his own. Only this time, the contact wasn't nearly as chaste. Mouth open, he swept his tongue across Mulder's plush lower lip then plunged it inside. There, he explored, his seduction turning urgent, demanding. Wrestling now with his own needs, his own desires, Jonathan angled his chin first one way, then another, devouring Mulder's sweetness as a starving man would a banquet. "Kiss me," Jonathan muttered seconds later, the words harsh and heated, his hand heavy now on Mulder's cock, working it vigorously through the denim. "Kiss me back. You know you want to." "No," Mulder whispered brokenly, turning his face away. "Come on, love," Jonathan wheedled, his fingers finding the button on Mulder's fly and freeing it from its hole. Discovering next the zipper beneath it, he inched it open as well. "I'll make it good, you'll see. I'll make it nice." "Please," Mulder mumbled, his hands braced against Jonathan's shoulders, yet as before, he made no move to actually push the other man off him. "Well, seeing as you asked so nicely," Jonathan murmured with amusement as he delved inside Mulder's boxers. "How can I refuse?" "Oh!" Reaching beneath the fabric, he wrapped his hand around Mulder's sex. The silky length was firm against his palm, hot and faintly moist. Massaging it for a moment, stroking it from root to tip, Jonathan then carefully drew it out from beneath the layers of clothing. For his part, Mulder could only gasp at the intrusion, his back arching, his hands fisting now at his sides. "Ooh, this looks delicious," Jonathan purred with a smile, his fingers closed tightly around the base of Mulder's penis, directing it up and away from his belly. "Just the way I like it. Long and hard." Bending his head, he swiped at the very end with his tongue. Mulder thrashed beneath him, panting, his eyes squeezed shut, his hips raised beseechingly. "I knew I could make you want it," Jonathan muttered now, gloating as he licked lightly along the other man's cock, darting and flicking teasing him unmercifully. "I knew I could. You're no different from the rest, Mulder. No different from me. You just want to be fucked. You don't care by who. As long as it's done properly." With that, he swallowed him, sucked him between his lips and pulled him deep into his mouth. Above him, Mulder cried out, then moaned, the sound vibrating low in the center of his chest. Pushing forward, Jonathan buried his face in Mulder's lap, inhaling the rich, spicy scent of his arousal, the coarse hair hidden there tickling his nose. Pausing for just an instant, he then drew back until only the very head of Mulder's erection remained secreted on his tongue before diving towards the other man's crotch again. In no time, he established a rhythm, his hands braced on Mulder's thighs, holding them open, the measured pace seemingly devastating to the man who was its beneficiary. Back and forth Jonathan moved, relishing the way Mulder's body followed his lead, lifting and lowering in sensual counterpoint to his own. The needy, desperate sounds Mulder made trickled from between his lips as if his longing was somehow overflowing from within. Feeling Mulder tensing as if readying for release, Jonathan decided the season of giving was at an end. Sliding up Mulder's aching shaft one last time, his mouth slow and sure, he slipped the American from his hold. Mulder gasped in dismay at this unaccustomed liberty and looked up at him from the couch, his eyes dazed with passion. And maybe, just maybe, a kind of fear. "Come here," Jonathan gritted out, grabbing hold of his shirt and pulling him half out of his seat, manhandling him like a rogue cop would a murder suspect. Maneuvering Mulder easily, Jonathan turned him so that he knelt upon the sofa sideways facing the same direction as Jonathan. With one rough tug on the waistband of his jeans, he bared Mulder's ass, the rounded flesh pale and smooth in the lamplight. "No," Mulder whispered, his eyes shut, his head bowed, his hands planted shoulder-width apart atop the cushions. "Oh yeah," Jonathan murmured in reply, yanking down the zipper on his own pants and freeing his now rigid cock. "This is the good part, Mulder," he said, taking his heated length in his palm and pumping, once, twice, reveling in the friction, the promise of what was to come. "This is where you and I rocket together to the stars." Ready now to the point of pain, Jonathan balanced one knee on the couch, his other leg locked straight and strong behind him. Bracketing Mulder's hips with his hands, he bent down and swirled his tongue lightly around the puckered opening to the other man's body. Instantly, Mulder winced, and shifted his weight forward on his hands as if he thought to crawl right over the arm of the couch and into the frigid night, his jeans around his ankles. Jonathan quickly nixed that idea, wrapping his arm around Mulder's waist to hold him in place. "Oh, no. No, you don't," he muttered, positioning himself for entry. "Relax now . . . relax for me. I want you to enjoy this." Saying nothing else, he pushed forward, carefully past the initial resistance of Mulder's body, slowly, inexorably, stretching him until he was sheathed deep inside. "Christ!" Jonathan groaned, leaning over Mulder's now trembling form, taking a moment for them both to get acclimated to their new positions. "God, you're tight. You all right? Mulder, you okay?" Mulder didn't answering with words. Instead, he stayed very still, motionless save for the fine current of tension vibrating down his spine. Delicate little sobbing noises bled from between his lips. "Shh. Just give yourself a minute. It'll all be better soon. I promise you." Reaching beneath them both, Jonathan searched for and found Mulder's bobbing penis. Curling his fingers around it, he ran his hand along its length, petting it, all the while whispering encouragement. "That's it. Easy now. Breathe. Breathe for me. Just relax." After awhile, minutes spent with him crooning nonsense and stroking his guest's still formidable erection, Jonathan began to move, to ease himself into and out of Mulder. It felt amazing, he thought, eyes scrunched tight in pleasure, just like always. The warmth, the softness, the sensation of Mulder's body clutching fiercely, possessively, at his own. Fucking amazing. But what was even more astounding was that, seemingly, as soon as he adjusted to the fullness, to notion of being the blanketed by another man, Mulder also began to move. Slowly, he began to arch and sway, his head rolling gently from side to side, his shoulder muscles bunching, then releasing once more. "That's my boy," Jonathan said, picking up speed, his balls spanking Mulder's behind with every forward thrust. "That's the way. Give into it. Let yourself go." Grunting and gasping, Mulder did as he was told, his movements quickening. Wanting to get closer still, Jonathan yanked Mulder's shirt up so that it bunched against the back of his neck. Leaning down, Jonathan traced the length of Mulder's spine with his tongue, licking over each and every delicate, little ridge. "You're taking to this beautifully, you know?" he murmured against Mulder's heated skin. "Brilliantly. I told you this was meant to be. I knew it." Hearing this, Mulder groaned, his arms collapsing, and buried his face in the bend of his elbow. "And this is only the beginning," Jonathan continued, his voice turning thick, his hand still working Mulder's cock. "I'm going to do things to you you've never imagined, Mulder. Make you feel things you never dreamed were possible." Balancing himself on his knees, Jonathan stretched forward so that all his weight rested on Mulder's long, sculpted back. Reaching around with his left hand, he nestled Mulder's balls in his palm, his fingers gently rubbing over their papery skin. "You're mine now, Mulder," he whispered in the other man's ear, both hands working in concert to bring him to climax. "You understand? You're mine completely. I know you as no one else does on this earth." "No!" Mulder cried as his sex erupted in Jonathan's hold. Jerking and sobbing for breath, he found release, the almost violent shimmying of his ass pushing Jonathan over the edge as well. With a low moan, he stiffened then emptied himself into Mulder, stroking fast and hard until, his legs finally giving out, he toppled atop the American in a sated heap. They lay there for a time, Jonathan's hips making languid little pushing and pulling motions that were more an afterthought than anything else. Pulling down Mulder's shirt once more, Jonathan contentedly nuzzled the back of his neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses beneath his hair. "Let me up." Surprised at the harsh tone of Mulder's voice, Jonathan did as he requested, rolling slightly to the side so the man beneath him could scoot free. As soon as the weight above was lifted, Mulder stumbled off the couch and to his feet, his jeans sagging at his knees, his face dark, his eyes feverish. "Is there a problem, lover?" Jonathan asked, lounging on the sofa as he watched Mulder right his clothes, his penis glistening against his belly. "Don't call me that," Mulder said tightly, his pants now zipped, his trembling obvious, even from where Jonathan lay. "Why not?" Jonathan said, pushing up to a seated position. "That's what we are. Now. After what just happened." "No," Mulder said, crossing on shaky legs to retrieve his shoes. "We are not." "What? Are you saying the earth didn't move for you, the planets didn't realign?" Jonathan said mockingly. "That's a load of crap, Mulder, and you and I both know it. I've got a stain on my couch that proves you enjoyed what we did." "What we did--," Mulder mumbled, whirling back to face him, his trainers still dangling from his fingertips, his balance clearly impaired. "What we did wasn't about love." "No," Jonathan said with a nasty smile. "It was about fucking. It was about pleasure. It was about forgetting all the pain, even if only for a short while." Mulder stared at him, blinking, his mouth opening and closing as if he thought to speak. Yet, he remained mute. "Did you think I wouldn't know, Mulder?" Jonathan asked, his voice gentling slightly. "Did you think I wouldn't recognize? I may not be a university graduate, but I'm not stupid." Mulder looked stricken, but still said nothing. Instead, he dropped heavily onto the ladder back chair by the door and, keeping his gaze averted, began shoving his feet into his shoes. Annoyed by the other man's seeming dismissal, Jonathan murmured spitefully, "You were good, Mulder. Have I told you you were good? All you need is a touch more practice. And I know just the man willing to coach you along." "Shut up!" Mulder shouted, standing a trifle unsteadily. "Just shut the fuck up, okay?" "Oh come off it," Jonathan said, tucking himself back into his clothes. "Don't get all virginal on me now. What we did wasn't rape, Mulder. You were willing. Oh, you put up a bit of a fuss. Threw out a few token objections. Funny though how once your dick was between my lips all your hesitation disappeared." Blanching at his words, Mulder shook his head. "Isn't it?" Jonathan said pointedly. Mulder wet his lips with his tongue and ran his fingers roughly through his now thoroughly tousled hair. "I've gotta get out of here." "Fine. Go," Jonathan spat, pressing to his feet. "Only think before you walk out of here. "You've got no one, Mulder. No one at all," Jonathan said as he crossed towards him. "Your family doesn't want you. Your girlfriend dumped you. You spend your free time like some kind of goddamned monk in his cell, writing papers, attending lecture, studying nonsense. And all the while, you're so lonely, you're choking with it. "I like you," Jonathan said softly, reaching out as if to touch Mulder, only to draw back when Mulder lifted his hands in an effort to ward him off. "I think we could be good together. Why don't you let me prove it? Why don't you let me be your friend?" Mulder had been standing there, listening to him, his eyes wild, his body tense as if ready for flight. As soon as Jonathan finished speaking, he shook his head once more. "You're not my friend," Mulder said, his voice guttural and low. "Friends don't use each other. They don't manipulate. They don't . . . hurt you just because they can. "Friends look out for each other," Mulder continued, his voice gaining in strength. "They support each other. They watch each other's backs. A true friend would never, never lie to me. They'd tell me the truth, even if it was something I didn't want to hear. They'd protect me." "I can do all that," Jonathan said with a careless shrug. "I can do all that and more." "No," Mulder said. "No, I don't think you can. Now, where's my coat?" "In the closet," Jonathan muttered petulantly. Turning, Mulder reached into the cubby and withdrew his jacket. Pulling it on, he kept his gaze focused stubbornly on the floor. "How are you going to get home?" Jonathan queried, watching him. "I'll walk." "It's a long ways." "Maybe it'll give me enough time to clear my head." "Why don't you stay?" Jonathan suggested nonchalantly. "I'll behave. Hands to myself and all that." Mulder raised his head to look him in the eye. "I don't trust you." Jonathan's lips thinned peevishly. "Nice. Very nice." Saying nothing in reply, Mulder made his way to the door. Sliding open the lock, he exited, pulling the portal shut behind him. Jonathan stood in place for a moment more, staring at the door. Locking it once more, he returned then to the living room. There, he spied Mulder's copy of Jung sitting atop the television, where he had left it. Picking it up, he caressed it lightly with his fingertips, imagining only for an instant that it was Mulder's body he was stroking, not merely something that had once belonged to him. Wandering over to the window, he pushed aside the drapes. There, just at the edge of his vision, he saw Mulder marching into the night, his head bowed, his path not particularly straight. The book would be a memento, Jonathan decided, holding it to his chest, a souvenir of a memorable night. Pity that poor Mulder hadn't left with a similar trinket, a token to remember him by. Then, with a smile, Jonathan realized, such a thing wasn't necessary. A man never forgets his first time. * * * * * * * * The End Endnotes: Here's where the real thanks comes--a huge debt of gratitude is owed by me to Caroline, Cat, and Dee, three women who gave of their time and energy to help make this piece as authentically "British" as possible. Thank you, thank you, thank you, you guys. If I ever make it over to England again, it'll be my shout. I promise. :-) Anything I got right, ladies and gentlemen, is because of them. Anything I got wrong is solely on my head. I know this wasn't my usual fare. Thank you for taking a chance on it. ========================================== "I want, by understanding myself, to understand others. I want to be all that I am capable of becoming. . . . This all sounds very strenuous and serious. But now that I have wrestled with it, it's no longer so. I feel happy--deep down. All is well." Katherine Mansfield, Journal (last entry) ==========================================