He was beautiful in the moonlight. It turned his dark hair silver and his skin to marble, making him a statue that moved. Even in his sleep, he couldn't be quiet, he couldn't be still. It was a new thing to watch him sleep in my bed, in the moonlight.

"What are you doing here?" I stood at my door and whispered, hoping that my neighbors would stay safely in their own apartments.

"Sir, please. I have nowhere else to go." My most troublesome agent stared at me with his ancient eyes.

"What do...come in, Agent Mulder." When he seemed frozen to the spot, I pulled him in by his leather jacket and shut the door behind him. He stood awkwardly in my foyer, his eyes down.

"What do you mean? What is wrong with your apartment?"

"I can't...he's..."

*He's?* My mind danced around the possible meanings. Mulder moved in into the light. His t-shirt was torn and there was a rip in his jacket. Most damning of all was the shadow of a bruise on his chin.

"What the Hell happened to you? Were you in a fight?" I knew even then that there was violence in him, simmering beneath the smart mouth and expensive suits. I knew he had to let it out.

"Some people would call it a fight."

"What do you call it?"

"Foreplay." He smiled when he said it, but he was serious. It chilled me to the bone. His eyes grew distant and a little fearful.

"Who?"

"Really, sir. Shouldn't you ask me to sit down?"

I gestured to the sofa. I even took that jacket. There were more shadows on his arms and he sat carefully. I didn't mistake that.

"Who was it, Mulder?"

"My...lover. My enemy. I don't know. I hate him. I...love him."

I hadn't misheard. "Agent Mulder, your...he's a man?"

"Oops. I think I just told." There was an echo of a smile. "I never really grew out of the 'girls are icky' stage."

I looked at him. "Don't you realize that you could have risked your job?"

He shook his head. "I don't think I did. Sir."

He was right. "Who was he? Does he have a name?"

"Oh, yeah. Several. I just don't know which one is real."

"Mulder..."

"I can't tell you. He's running. Always running."

"A fugitive." It wasn't a question, and I knew who he was then.

"Yeah. He comes out of the shadows, the dark places. And then he goes back."

"Why are you here?" Why wasn't he with him?

"I had to. He's gone. I woke up and...no good-byes."

"You're lying."

"He is gone. I woke up, after...and I was alone. He showed up out of nowhere, we did our little dance." He mimed boxing. "We both won. Or lost. And then..."

"I don't want to hear this, Agent Mulder." I was lying.

His eyes stared at something only he could see. "Sometimes he's so gentle I could cry; sometimes he's so rough I do. He craves my tears, I think. The way I crave his fists, his body. We use each other. Maybe we even love each other."

"Why are you here?" To torment me? To see how jealous I can be? I was seething.

"He left me alone in the dark. And this night...and this night I left the darkness looking for something else. Shelter. Safety. You." He turned and stared straight into my eyes.

"Me?" I couldn't breathe. "Why me?"

"Because...because you are strong enough. Because you are the light I follow when I lose my way. I got up from my bed and found these clothes and told the cab driver to come here."

His eyes burned. I touched a darkening bruise on his hand, and then one on his arm, and another and another. He watched, unblinking, almost unbreathing. My lungs felt as though I was inhaling fire. Time stilled.

I finally reached his t-shirt sleeve. It was soft, much-laundered faded-black cotton. The collar was newly torn. I fingered the raw edges. He didn't move.

Then - I think my hand had its own will - my fingers gently brushed his jaw where *his* hand had hit. It was late in the day. I could let my fingers ruffle his stubble and then move to the smooth skin beneath those eyes. He moaned an moved his face until I was cupping it, his chin cool on my palm. I let my thumb caress his neck. He shivered.

"Is this what you want, Fox?" I let his name roll from my mouth.

"Is this why you're here?"

"I don't know." He bit his lip.

"Be sure. Because if it is, I will not let you go. You will be mine." As I was already his.

"Yours. Walter." I could barely hear him. "How long?"

"As long as we have." I wanted to promise forever.

"I wish...if only...yes." His hand crept forward to rest on my bare shoulder. I'd pulled on my trousers hastily when he rang the bell...memories of another night. He licked his lips.

I leaned forward, my hand still on his face. He met me halfway. I meant it to be gentle, a counterpoint to his night's earlier violence. I wanted him to forget another man had laid hands on his body. I wanted to forget the same thing. Six years of unrequited passion took over. I was greedy for his mouth and he let me devour it. Indeed, he was also greedy. We wrapped our arms around each other - he was hard and substantial despite his slenderness.

I don't know how we made it to my room, if we walked or flew or teleported, but there we were. I had my pants off in seconds. He took longer. There were more marks on his shoulders, his back, bites around his nipples. For a moment, I was overwhelmed with anger at that man's audacity, but it faded. Fox's beauty overwhelmed the damage to his body as his brilliance overwhelmed the damage to his soul.

He smiled at my arousal and licked his lips again. Then he knelt with surprising grace and practiced ease, and looked at me through his lashes. He put his hands on my hips then, and wrapped that mouth around me.

He was good; he was perfect. Almost instinctively, he knew exactly when to suck, when to lick, when to use his hand. And hew as utterly absorbed with the task, focused on giving me as much pleasure as he could. He moaned around me as if it were my mouth and his penis. And when he brought me off, when he let me use his mouth, and absorbed my thrusts, he swallowed every drop, liking the excess neatly from his face.

I collapsed on my knees beside him and held him, kissed him, tasting myself in him. He was erect, gloriously so. He followed my glance.

"My turn, Walter?"

I nodded, pleased at his use of my name but unable to speak. He smiled blindingly and led me to my bed.

"Please...lay down." I did, wrapping my arms around a pillow. He began to kiss my back, working his way down my spine until he reached my cleft and I learned that his mouth had many talents. As his tongue entered me, I found myself thrusting back; wanting, needing more.

He stopped. "Do you have...?"

I gestured vaguely to my night stand, moaning at the loss of his attentions. I heard a packet tear. He'd found my condoms and lube.

I felt a slick finger enter me. It was too small. I pushed against it. "More."

"Yes, Walter, sir." I heard the grin in his voice. Moments later I felt something far larger than a finger press on my muscles and push me open, enter me. He went deep, so deep, and settled for a moment, letting me adjust. It had been years, but my body remembered.

And then we moved, timing our strokes. He grasped my hands in his as I, aroused again, rubbed myself on the bed. My second orgasm of the night barely preceded his...I didn't want or need to know what number. I fell on my back and lay there until the last spasm left him and he could pull out slowly. Then he rolled off.

I wanted to hold him all night, but he was too sleepy, too restless. We used his torn t-shirt to clean ourselves and the bed. He'd wear something of mine later, although the thought of Fox Mulder in just jeans and that torn leather jacket, kneeling in front of me, nearly caused my spent flesh to rise again.

He rolled to one side and fell asleep...he who rarely slept. I couldn't sleep at all, so I watched the moonlight caress him and turn him to living marble, the shadows of the bruises my rival gave him mixed in with the others. For now, though, this man in my bed was mine and if I could, I would keep him there.

"I love you, Fox." He didn't wake at my whisper.
 

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