Sunday Afternoon
Walter sighed softly as he drew out the brush. He was thinking, despite
his best intentions not to do so, not now. But he couldn't help it. As he
placed the necessary items on the bedside table, Mulder filled his mind.
Thoughts of him, thoughts about him, images of the younger man swirled past,
too quickly for him to do anything but watch them shift and change.
Mulder, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes glacial and cool as his
opinion was dismissed. Mulder, hands on hips as he glared hotly at a
"superior". Mulder, hands up and out, beseeching understanding. Mulder,
hands in fists, eyes desperately focusing on nothing when he spoke of
anything too personal.
Skinner would have sighed again, but he was lighting the candles now,
and didn't want to ruffle the flames. He noticed the bare hint of sandalwood
fragrance, their subtle yellow glow filling the room, and after ensuring
that he'd missed none of them, allowed himself to get lost again. Lost in
Mulder. He wondered, as he stripped almost idly, at how the words "lost" and
"Mulder" seemed to go together.
Lost in Mulder. Lost with Mulder. Lost because of Mulder.....I lost
Mulder.
He paused, the swift, sharp ache racing through every part of him, making
him shudder once, violently, before closed eyes and a firm breath pushed it
away. He was dealing with that, had dealt with it, would deal with it. But
not right now. No, not right now.
Walter was soon naked, and he put his clothes away carefully on the chair.
He reached for the small bottle of oil in its warmer, checked to make sure
it wasn't too hot, then poured some into one broad palm. A vague hint of
almonds reached him, as the oil sparked soft and pale in the low light.
Normally, he would have simply rubbed his hands together, then applied
where needed, but this was not normal. No, this was a moment for
luxuriating, for decadence, for reverence and appreciation. For
supplication.
He turned a bit, facing the mirror a little more directly, but not truly
looking at himself, not yet. He was aware of bits and pieces, a flash of
lightly tanned skin here, the shadow of a muscle there, a hint of red
highlighting threading through body hair. But he wouldn't really look, see
everything, until he was finished.
He raised the cupped palm to his chest, allowing the oil to dribble down
of its own accord, letting the slow splashes catch on the soft curls of his
chest, the ridge of breastbone, the flat nub of a nipple, before almost
tenderly soothing it into his skin. He didn't rub it in, that would have
been too efficient and impersonal. Instead his hands were caressing,
lovingly coating his flesh with the warm shimmer.
His slick, sure fingers found the swell of biceps, teased the under
curve of his pectorals, followed the line of his abs and back up to ghost
over his ribs. He reached again for the bottle, adding more oil, this time
using his palm to find the swell of his calf, to tickle the hollow at the
back of his knee. Walter gave a breath of pleasure as he traced a languid
series of figure eights on his sensitive inner thighs.
A few more minutes and he was coated, his body aware of a slow-simmering
arousal, ready for more. Walter tilted his head back, drinking in the
sensations, eyes closed as he began to let go, to turn loose, to transform
into someone else entirely. It was time.
He raised his face to the mirror, eyes roaming appreciatively over his
reflection. The body he'd worked so hard for, the body he now worked even
harder to keep, was highlighted in gold and vanilla, the skin luminescent
with life itself. He watched the pulse in his throat, the way his chest
moved with each breath, the play of muscles as he swallowed.
His groin was heavy with blood, a delicious weight between his legs. His
backside was taut, the muscles refusing to quiver in either fear or
anticipation of what was to come. His back and shoulders were a glorious
sculpture, down to the deep dimples at the base of his spine.
As his eyes slowly roamed back up to his face, he had no choice but to
smile.
Dark chocolate brown met hazel, and Mulder's smile was as loving as his own.
From his seat propped against the headboard of their bed, his partner spoke
softly.
"Now. Now you see what I see, what I've always seen. Do you love him,
Walter? Can you look at that man in the mirror and love him as much as you
used to hate him? Can you?"
"Yes." It was barely whispered, but the word lifted them both, raised
them above the past and the present, eased them that much closer to the
future.
Mulder said nothing, but his smile was like the sun on a perfect day in
spring. Turning, he picked up the hairbrush from the bedside table, kissed
the back of it almost respectfully, and reached out his hand for his
beloved.