Title: Suits and Ladders Author: drovar Email address: drovar@alltel.net Rating: Slash, NC-17 but not really too explicit Date: 1/14/01 Archive: Gossamer: No, Others please let me know where Summary: There's something silly and messy going on in Mulder's apartment. Notes: This is the first thing I've written in a couple of months. Nothing terrific, just an notion that grabbed my attention. A man walks up the dark stairs of a DC apartment house, there is a weariness about him, a resigned air of suffering. His suit hangs loosely on him, bunching and folding at the elbows, dragging and catching at his heels; Ill-fitting as if tailored for a larger man. He stops before a nondescript door, hesitates and finally produces a key from a deep pocket. He fumbles with the lock, testing it with the key, first this way, then another, as if uncertain. Finally the door opens and he steps into the dark apartment. All is as it should be: The aquarium with somehow still living fish, a pizza-box of indeterminate age next to a pile of empty Chinese take-out containers, video tapes of dubious nature piled around the TV set. Yes, all as it should be. His eye catches something on the floor ... a note. He picks it up gingerly, and holds it up in the dim light. The writing is askew as if scrawled in a hurry. It reads: THINGS ARE LOOKING UP The man tenses, as a black-leather clad figure charges out of the darkness. There is a moment of panicked struggle before the man in the suit is pushed to the ground. The intruder pulls a gun and points it in his face. He can see the glint of the yellow kitchen light on the gun barrel, it's the real thing, not a toy, not this time. There is a look of anticipation in his attacker's eyes, green eyes too clever to be truly wild and feral, but dangerous in their own cunning way. He can feel the other man's breath stirring the air between them. He takes a deep breath as the gun draws close to his face. The air is warm, suffused with the smell of leather, human skin and the greasy tang of gun oil. The tip of the gun nearly creases his brow when the other man speaks. "You must be losing it. I could beat you with one hand." The man facing the gun stifles a sudden chuckle and replies. "Isn't that how you like to beat off?" The leather clad man looks at him with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. He pokes the gun forward tapping the suited man just above the bridge of his nose. "Ow" "That's not right." "Okay, okay," the man on the floor says rubbing his forehead. "Uh, isn't that the way you like to beat yourself?" The man in the leather jacket twirls the gun theatrically and touches it lightly to the seated man's forehead; between the eyes, just above the nose. He cocks the gun; the snap and click seem to explode in the sudden silent stillness of the dark apartment. The seated man gives a small involuntary gulp. His voice cracks unevenly when he speaks again. "If those are my last words I can do better, honestly." The gun tip trails down the seated man's face, gently past eyes that close, down the classic nose, and to rest lightly on soft lips, then moving again, in a caress of metal and oil. The seated man jumps almost imperceptibly when the safety is clicked on. He opens his eyes and watches the gun land on the couch in with a muffled thump. "You could have killed me," he says. "Yes," the other replies simply. "One sneeze, or twitch and my brains would be painting the walls." "I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to help you," the man in leather says. He moves in closer, bringing them eye-to-eye, their lips near to touching. "Hey, thanks." The seated man more breathes than speaks. His lips brush quickly and feather-like across the others. The leather-jacketed man hunkers down. His voice is heavy and layered with warmth. "You know, if it wasn't in my best interests, I would just as soon squeezed that trigger." The seated man reaches up, his lips pressing against the other's firmly, lingering and then fading along the line of the other's chin. His hands slide beneath the leather jacket, exploring the warm firmness beneath. "What stopped you?" " Hear this ... listen very carefully because what I'm telling you is deadly serious." "Uh-huh," The seated man begins to nuzzle at the other's neck, as his hands slide between layers of material finally reaching warm bare skin. The jacketed man groans lowly and then regaining his concentration continues to speak. "There is a war raging, and unless you pull your head out of the sand, you and I and about five billion other people are going to go the way of the dinosaur." "Really? Tell me more." The jacketed man groans loudly then as a hand moves down to the crotch of his jeans, and massages roughly. "You don't have a line there," the jacketed man says between quickening gasps. "Right, sorry." "I'm talking planned invasion. The colonization of this planet by an extraterrestrial race." "I thought you were serious." the suited man replies. The jacketed man lets his jacket slide from his shoulders as he pulls the other into a firm embrace, their bodies moving against each other in rough syncopation. He slowly slides behind the suited man and begins to grind against him. His hand slips forward and down the other's suit, finding his hardness and stroking in rhythm to his own body thrusts. The suited man dropped to his hands and knees able to do little more than groan and support their weight. "Kazakhstan," the man on top said between slurred staccato breaths. "Skyland Mountain, . . . Pennsylvania. All alien . . . colonization will begin . . .battle being waged . . . struggle for heaven and earth . . . fight or die. . . resist or serve." "Serve who?" The man on top stops briefly and lifts his lips from the back of the other man's neck, looks puzzled for a moment, as if trying to follow the end of a half-heard conversation. "Eh, who cares," he says finally and return to his gyrations. Within moments the suited man begins to jerk and spasm in the other's hand. With a muted cry of pleasure he slumps forward as if suddenly weak with rangy muscles gone slack. The man on top continues thrashing his hips against the other man's slacks covered ass and then suddenly fumbles at the fly of his jeans. He pumps quickly, his hand and flesh a blur in wavering light cast by the aquarium. The suited man rolls to his side and watches the other placidly. A satisfied grin spreading across his face. "You're a murderer, a liar and a coward. Just because you stick a gun in my chest, . . . um face I'm supposed to believe you're my friend?" The other man tenses, gasps, "I was sent by a man ... a man who knows, as I do, that . . . that . . ." And collapses in string of what might be Russian, if the suited man knew any Russian. His hand and flesh still now. He runs his fingers through the other man's sweat-dampened hair and waits for his breathing to slow. In a near-perfect imitation of his partner the suited man finishes the dialog. " . . .resistance is in our grasp, and in yours. The mass incinerations were strikes by an alien rebellion to upset plans for occupation. Now, one of these rebels is being held captive. And if he dies, so does the resistance." The suited man raises an eyebrow when the other man looks up. He glances quickly at his watch and pulls himself free of the other's grasp and climbs to his feet. The suit is rumpled and creased with large slowly drying stains at the crotch and seat. "Time for a quick shower, then we have to get out of here, he'll be back soon, less than an hour I'd guess." "Don't forget to hang that suit back up, what's Pendrell telling him it is this time?" "Bolivian Yak, I think." Sometime later the two men, leather-jacket back in place for one, and a better fitting suit for the other, descend the fire escape outside the apartment building. They walk through the dark streets in companionable silence for a while, before the man in leather speaks. "You don't suppose he'll rat us out do you?" The man in the suit stops adjusting his FBI badge and grins back. "And lose his Tuesday afternoon blowjob? No, I don't think so." [end]