Frohike took one last look around his tiny apartment and went over his mental Friday checklist. Clutter--pushed back; napkins--out; bugs--swept for; beer--refrigerated. Everything was ready. As usual.
A soft beep drew his attention to the screen of his surveillance system. Mulder was rounding the corner and he had the pizza.
Frohike punched the code to open the door, then went to meet his guest.
"Hey, Mulder." Frohike took the pizza box and opened the lid an inch. Dammit, he'd forgotten the anchovies again. Even without, it smelled good, spicy tomato sauce and extra pepperoni. He set it down on the kitchen table and got out two plates.
"Hey, Frohike." Mulder came up behind him. "Don't I get a kiss?"
Frohike closed his eyes a moment and put down the plates, then turned into the waiting embrace.
Mulder kissed well, not too wet, not too dry, and Frohike felt a small stirring of warmth in the pit of his stomach. But, God, couldn't Mulder at least brush his teeth before he came over? Oh well, after three beers and half a pizza, it would be all the same.
Frohike backed up and bumped into the counter. He gave Mulder a little push, breaking the kiss. "Sorry, buddy, my neck gets sore when we do that."
Mulder rubbed the top of Frohike's head. "S'ok, buddy. More later." Pulling open the fridge, he grabbed two beers and twisted off the caps. He took a long swallow of one, pushing the fridge closed with his foot, and handed the other to Frohike.
Frohike stared at the bottle caps lying on his clean counter. As usual. "Mulder, the garbage is where it always is."
Mulder tossed the caps. "As you wish, Martha Stewart. C'mon, couch."
Balancing pizza and beer, they settled down side by side on the saggy brown couch. Mulder pressed his leg against Frohike's. Warmth, contact--it was nice, familiar.
Frohike turned his head a little and studied Mulder, reading his face like a favourite book, enjoying the lines because he knew them already. He'd forgotten how attractive Mulder was, face shading between masculine and feminine beauty, mind darting between genius and madness. It was good to remember.
"So," Mulder said between bites, "let the show begin. What do you have this week?"
Instead of answering, Frohike took the remote, dimmed the lights, and started the tape.
The title screen declared the video to be "Northern EXXXposure" and jumped right into the action with an RCMP officer in red serge confronting a lumberjack in touque and flannel.
Mulder leaned in closer to Frohike, swigging down the last of his beer and setting down the bottle. He slung one arm around the smaller man's shoulders and gently squeezed his upper arm. Mulder chewed on his pizza, but his bites became slower and slower as they watched the lumberjack give the Mountie an expert blowjob.
"Wait, didn't we see this tape last week?" Mulder asked, stealing the last crust from Frohike's plate.
"No, that was about those plumbers and that rich woman."
"I remember now. Sometimes it's hard to tell from week to week."
Frohike muttered, "Tell me about it."
"What was that?" Mulder turned to face Frohike.
"Nothing. Want another beer?" Frohike stood and gathered plates and bottles.
Mulder nodded, then continued to watch the video.
In the kitchen, Frohike carefully rinsed the plates and stacked them on the counter. Slowly, he got two more beers out of the fridge, disposed of the caps, and made his way back to the couch, dropping down beside Mulder.
Frohike handed Mulder a beer. The Mountie came. Mulder drank. Frohike took a few swallows before setting down the bottle. It just didn't taste right.
The movie played out its improbable situations with impossible characters having innumerable climaxes. Frohike felt the weight of Mulder's hand on his thigh. After a few minutes, he reciprocated, resting his hand on Mulder's neck, fingers teasing the soft hair at the nape.
As the movie progressed, he kept his touch light and his eyes on the screen, while his mind drifted to other matters, the article he was writing. Maybe he should change the order of his points and...
The weight became a definite pressure as Mulder stroked and kneaded his flesh. Measure for measure, Frohike worked his fingers a little more firmly.
The couch creaked as Mulder shifted to graze Frohike's neck, soft scrape of teeth, hard push of lips. Frohike touched Mulder's stomach with his free hand, a caress he knew by heart, rounded and sliding downwards. Turn about is fair play.
A strong hand turned his face and then his mouth was full of Mulder, warm and alive and a little bitter from the beer. Closing his eyes, Frohike put all his will into the kiss, all his concentration. He felt Mulder's arousal in every movement of his body. There was no need to touch his cock to know it strained against the denim. No need except for Mulder's. Frohike outlined the hardness with his thumb, each stroke a sigh against his lips.
A hand job, Frohike thought. And then I'm too tired.
He reached for Mulder's waistband, but too late. The kiss broke, and Mulder knelt before him, sliding open Frohike's thighs, a small smirk playing on those cocksucking lips.
It died there.
"I'm just tired, Mulder. C'mon, let me do you." I am just tired. I am just tired.
"No, that's not it."
"Nothing, Mulder, really." I am just tired.
"Frohike, tell me."
He hadn't known it himself until that moment, but he *was* tired. Tired of this.
"Mulder, I...I don't know, don't you ever want something else?"
"What else?"
"Change. Something new. Meet new people. Go out. A relationship that involves flowers and dates and someone who calls you by your first name." The look on Mulder's face almost stopped him, but too late now. "A change from beer and pizza and blue movies and blowjobs on the couch. Don't you want more than a Friday night fuckbuddy?"
Mulder stared at him, unmoving. "You are more."
Frohike looked at Mulder, still kneeling, long-fingered hands still spidered on his thighs. The small part of him that was taking all of this down to torment him for the rest of his life looked at Mulder too. It said, Isn't he beautiful when he's in pain? It breaks my heart.
Frohike looked at Mulder and saw man born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward. He saw sharp lines of sorrow, carved in marble. He saw the blue screen, flickering silently. He saw Tara burning.
"Mulder, I didn't mean..." I'm just tired.
"Frohike--" Fingers tightened. "Mel. I count on this. I count on you. Everything is chaos--a hurricane. This is the eye of the storm. You and me, Friday night." Eyelids crinkled. "I need you. I trust you."
"Mulder, get up." Guilt lent Frohike superhuman strength and he pulled Mulder onto the couch. "I'm sorry." He put his arm around the other man's shoulders. "I didn't know."
The brown head fell against his shoulder and Frohike stroked it, murmuring vaguely "it's OK, it's OK," and staring at the empty screen. Mulder had to take care of the world; Frohike had to take care of Mulder. Big jobs, both of them.
Mulder's arm slid around Frohike's waist and they sat, holding each other, for long minutes. Guilt and affection filled Frohike and he pressed his lips to Mulder's temple, against tender skin and a feather of hair. Another kiss, his hand stole up to caress the cheek, man-rough on his fingers. After a moment, Mulder turned into his palm.
Sometimes guilt and affection can substitute for desire.
Deliberately, Frohike hooked off his glasses and tossed them onto the coffee table. And they were away. The flesh was still weak, but now the spirit, at least, was willing.
Mulder made love with an unusual urgency, an earthquake survivor's passion, and to an extent swept Frohike along with him. The smaller man focussed tightly on his lover, providing what was needed, and trying to take what Mulder needed to give.
This time it was Frohike on his knees, spreading and opening and pulling Mulder into his mouth. He was unskilled at fellatio, preferring to work with his hands, but Mulder was beyond caring about finesse and somehow it seemed right. When Mulder's hot semen hit the back of his throat, Frohike gagged a little and swallowed it down, willing it to work some magic inside him.
He climbed back onto the couch. Mulder lay there, head back, clothing awry, in some sort of trance state.
"C'mon big guy." He ruffled Mulder's hair. "Pull yourself together."
Slowly, Mulder turned to face him. "What about--"
"It's OK. I'm just tired, that's all." Frohike looked Mulder straight in the eye. That would make it true.
Mulder seemed to accept that, whether or not he believed it. Languidly, he pulled and tucked and zipped himself into a semblance of respectability. Then he looked at Frohike, just looked long and hard. Frohike steeled himself for what would come next, but Mulder dropped his gaze and grabbed the remote control.
"I"m tired too, Frohike. Mel. Let's just watch TV."
Side by side, Mulder's arm around Frohike's shoulders, they took in a couple of sitcoms, then began to watch a Mash rerun. Mulder's body was warm next to his. Frohike relaxed, finally, leaning in and beginning to drowse and drift...
The wind howled, chilling Frohike to the bone. He and Hawkeye trudged through the dark, silently as they could, heading to where they knew Mulder needed their help with the war. Which war?--Frohike couldn't quite recall. He asked Hawkeye, but he only said that Frohike was going to get them killed if he didn't shut up. His body screamed for a cigarette; Hawk wouldn't let him have one.
Then they were inside Stalag 13 and he wanted to escape, but Hawkeye said they had to stay and help the Allies. Mulder was there somewhere, Frohike knew, investigating the murder of Bob Crane. Name a murder weapon, one hundred people surveyed, top five answers are on the board. Before he could hit the buzzer, the TV changed to a blank blue screen and he stood there in the jungle staring at it, rain falling on his face.
FINIS
I hate it