Rating:   NC-17 [If you are under 18 go away, now]
Content Warning:   Slash: M/M sex, Mulder/other

Disclaimer:   Standard disclaimers apply. Everyone in this story either belongs to themselves or to other people.  I only own the words around them.

Acknowledgment:   To Rhiannon, who guided this ship out to sea.

Author's Notes:   The companion story from Adam's point of view was written by Rhiannon Shaw, and is called Stillpoint.

Summary:   Mulder meets a stranger and learns about love and himself.    "A hurricane is the equivalent of a formal introduction, isn't it?"

 

In the Eye of the Storm

by: Gyrfalcon
October 1998

Life seemed so simple.  Scully's alive.  I'm alive.  True, the X-Files are still closed, but I have every expectation of getting them back and operating.  Life is good.  I'm finally getting a handle on this emotional honesty gig and actually find I rather enjoy the feeling.  It was quite liberating to see Scully stunned into silence by my passionate declaration of what she meant to me.  Of course the fact that she was stunned rather indicated that I had been one sad bastard never to have even given her a hint of how I felt.  There is always a down side to every one of my victories.

We were standing in the parking garage of the Hoover Building just about a car length apart.  Much against my will, and despite my impassioned pleas, Skinner had just dictated a mandatory one week vacation for both of us.  My arguments stopped abruptly when it occurred to me that spending one week with Scully might be just what the doctor ordered.  Skinner gave me an extremely suspicious glare when I shut up.  I just smiled at him.  I think he suspected I had ulterior motives.

Scully worries me.  I have begun to notice a slow re-emergence of her emotional barriers.  I'll admit, after the first rush of making it back from the Antarctic alive, with all of our toes intact, I was content to let things slide along.  This was a mistake.  Not my first and probably not my last, but certainly one of the biggest.  I should have realized that both of us naturally veer towards emotional isolation when given half a chance.  I didn't realize I was squandering the opportunity to re-enforce the bridge we had begun to build between us in the hallway outside my apartment.

Walking down to the parking garage from our temporary office on the fourth floor, I rehearse a speech designed to get us alone and in private so we can continue a certain kiss that had been rather rudely interrupted a few weeks back by an apian terrorist.  Scully is talking about her nephew and how much he has grown.  I'm listening, but not really paying attention.  If pushed, I can respond intelligently even though my mind is off scampering after other subjects.  This little trick used to drive my teachers mad, but it comes in very handy in long boring meetings.  The words register, but it takes a moment before the shift in her tone of voice alerts me that there is trouble in paradise.

"Mulder, I ...  we need time to think about this."

I know that tone.  It's Scully's patented 'I need to step back and think sensibly' tone.  Usually it's directed at one of my more outlandish theories.  Now, however, I have this sinking feeling that it's directed straight at me and my hopes.

"Matthew is being christened in three days and I'm going out there with mom."

She's standing three feet away from me wearing a wary expression mixed in with stubborn Irish determination.  She's expecting a fight and I'm damn tempted to give her one.  She has chosen her battleground with care, no doubt hoping I won't embarrass both of us by a public display of my feelings.

Well, what if I don't want to step back? What if I'm perfectly happy to keep moving forward into uncharted waters? What if I would rather walk into fire than go back to just being friends?

For a brief moment, I consider walking around or over the car between us, taking her into my arms, and kissing her until we both pass out for lack of air.  Some of what I'm thinking must show in my eyes because hers grow wide, then narrow and I feel her body tense as if preparing to repulse an attack.  That tiny flinch, imperceptible to anyone who doesn't know her as well as I do, chills me to the marrow of my soul.

Like the coward I am, I step back and draw a shroud over my passion.  I tell her to enjoy the week with her family and even manage to sound as if I mean it.  I watch her relax and smile, content that I'm not going to be difficult about this.  My lips play Judas to my heart.  How can she not know that the kiss we shared so briefly had changed everything forever? Scully sometimes sees only what she wants to see.  Then again, so do I.  I saw infinite possibilities springing from that crystal moment.  Maybe I was just deluding myself.

I watch her get into her car and drive off, returning her jaunty wave and nodding agreement that we'd see each other in a week.  Maybe, I whisper to the silence she left behind.  I have more than a week's leave piled up.  This might be the time to use some of it up.

So, ten days later, I'm standing here in the driving rain on a wharf in Key West, staring into gale-force winds just take one step away from a very angry sea.  One step forward and the sea could carry me away from a life grown impossibly complicated.  Thankfully, I'm not in the mood for suicide.  Killing myself would be an admission of complete failure and I'm not near ready to give up on getting Scully to acknowledge we share something more than just friendship.  Besides, she's on better terms with God than I am; He might just toss me back.

Skinner was surprised, then concerned, when I handed him my request for three weeks' leave.  I doubt if he's very happy with me right now.  No doubt Scully has found the note I left her and has vented her frustration in Skinner's direction.  He's a strong man; I think he's up to the task.  It simply means I'll have two pissed-off people waiting for me when ...  or if ...  I go back.  Deep inside of me is the recurring question of why do I keep beating my head against a brick wall when all I get for it is a trail of shattered lives and dead bodies in my wake?

It took me nearly four hours to write a simple note.  So much for an Oxford education.  I finally reduced five pages of rambling, incoherent babble down to three lines.

Scully, I'm taking three weeks leave.
I need time to think.  I promise -
no aliens or monsters, just time alone.
Mulder

Concise and to the point.  I hope she appreciates my promise to stay away from monsters this time.  There's a haunted house not two miles from my guest house, but I'm being good and leaving the ghosts alone.

The wind is blowing so hard I have to fight to stand upright.  I like storms.  There is something wild and intoxicating about them.  Nature at its most unbridled, contemptuous of man and his works.  Sensible folk fled the islands last night.  I'm not sensible.  I'm also fucking tired of dancing to somebody else's tune.  OK, that's a piss-poor reason for risking my life out here with a storm surge coming, but it ...  is ...  my ...  life! I howl that into the teeth of the storm and get a face-full of sea water in response.

A laugh behind me startles me, and in pure reflex I jerk and start to turn.  Bad move.  My feet slip on the wet wood and the sea reaches for me as I careen off-balance.

From out of the blinding sea spray, a strong hand grabs my arm.  For a split second I'm the rope in a tug of war between the sea and my rescuer.  My arm feels like it is being pulled out of its socket.  I hear a guttural curse as I am literally yanked out of the sea's grasp.  The wave retreats off of the wharf without me.  The strength of that final yank pulls me forward about five feet before I go down on my knees.

"Taunting the sea never works.  It always gets the last word," a voice comments sardonically in an accent I haven't heard in nearly twenty years.  Mad dogs and Englishmen and stray Oxford grads ...  Of course, who else would be crazy enough to be out on a wharf in a storm?

"A lot like arguing with a woman," I reply as I cough up the last of the sea water.

Looking up I see a slender young man with close-cropped dark hair glistening with sea spray.  His long dark duster flaps wildly in the wind.  He looks like an undernourished graduate student until I happen to meet his eyes.  Ancient eyes in a young face; they draw me into their dark mystery before he chuckles and the spell breaks.

"Sounds like you've tried," he comments with a smile as he pulls me to my feet with no sign of effort.  Our hands remain clasped for a moment longer than necessary and I feel something akin to an electrical charge pass between us.  I connect with few people, but every so often I come across someone I feel instantly comfortable with.  Maybe there is something to this past life jazz after all.

"Yeah," I acknowledge sheepishly.  Memories of my arguments with Scully chase through my mind like lightning flashes in the darkness.  I feel her absence like a phantom limb aching in the cold.  She is so much a part of me that I feel incomplete without her.  She has her family and a respected career.  I'm not sure what I have without her, but I know I need to find out before I face her again.  If our relationship is to work, I have to be able to offer her a whole heart.

"Don't.  They'll always win.  Even when they're wrong, they win," my stranger says with a sly grin that turns his eyes a golden brown.

The wind is picking up now, and it requires an effort to stay in one place.  The storm is hurling its fury against the shore and smart boys should find a place to batten down the hatches and ride it out.

"I thought they chased all the tourists off the island yesterday," he comments as he faces into the wind.   Standing right next to him, I can barely hear him, but something about his voice, calm and sure, seems to carry through the howling of the wind.

I stretch out my arms and let the wind pluck at my shirt, billowing it out behind me like a torn sail.

"They have to find you first.  I didn't feel like leaving," I reply rather more sullenly than I intended.  I hope I don't sound like a petulant schoolboy.  I'll be damned before I let a little thing like a class three hurricane chase me back to Scully before I have even begun to sort things out.

He continues to face the raging sea, but when I take a sidelong glance at his face, he's smiling.  He looks like a pirate captain standing on the bow of his ship bracing for battle - his skill and his ship against everything the sea and the storm could throw at him.  All he lacks is a cutlass and a brace of pistols to complete the image.

"Why?"

A simple word, yet I suspect he is intrigued by my refusal to follow the sane, sensible path every other tourist had followed.

"I grew up near the sea.  I guess I just needed to feel a storm again without a city around me to blunt its fury," I confess, surprised and a little wary at how easily I can talk to this stranger.

My paranoia usually keeps me at arm's length from other people.  It's not that I don't sense that the man is dangerous.  He reminds me of the approaching storm, wild and deadly, but calm and serene in the center.  I'm in a fey mood tonight.  What is one more storm in my life?  Maybe I'll find the peace in the eye of the hurricane, or else it will blow me away and scatter me to the four winds.  At this moment in time, I'm not really sure which I'd choose.

"You're not afraid?"

"That's part of the deal.  If you're not afraid, what's the point?" I snap back.  I am afraid.  I've been afraid my whole life, but I'm like the shark.  I either keep moving or I die.  Deep Throat was right.  I'm tired and I want to rest, but I'm afraid that I can't; somewhere along the way I've lost my ability to be at peace.

"You're smarter than you look, Yank," he says with a chuckle.  A chunk of wood hurtles out of the darkness, barely missing him.  He sidesteps with the grace of a dancer.

"I think the storm is beginning to get a bit rambunctious," he comments dryly.  He turns to face me with a penetrating glare that makes the glares Skinner gives me pale in comparison.  He sighs and mutters something in what I would swear was Latin.  I catch something about a fool, but don't know whether he is referring to me or himself.

"Come on, then.  You can stay at my place until this blows over.  I can't just turn you over to the police.  They wouldn't be pleased to have you on their hands, and I don't think you'd like the accommodations at the local jail."

I reflexively begin to refuse, but my gut instinct is telling me to accept his offer.  I came out here intending to face off with the storm alone.  Now I sense that what I really want, and desperately need, is simple human contact.  Standing out here in the storm, I realize how alone I am.  For some reason, beyond my ability to analyze, I know that if I refuse this offer, I will always be alone.

"You a local?" I ask, my paranoia making one last determined effort to protect me from a random act of kindness by a stranger.

"I come and go.  I have a cottage about a quarter of a mile down the beach.  It's stood up to a lot of hurricanes in its day.  I think it will stand up to this one," he answers genially.  I think he knows I'm weakening, even as I think he understands my hesitation.  This is a man who understands paranoia and loneliness.  Like recognizes like, I think as I shrug and step into the unknown.

"Fine.  I think the storm would have won, anyway," I concede with a grin.  He chuckles softly and heads back to the beach with me at his heels.  We match stride for stride.  He looks like a runner.  If the wind and the sea spray weren't blinding me, I might be tempted to challenge him to a sprint down the beach.  I haven't run competitively since Oxford and I'm a bit surprised to discover I still feel the urge to prove myself faster than the next man.  I chuckle at the thought.  He looks at me with one eyebrow cocked in a question, but I just shake my head.

Please, God, spirits, whatever, don't let this man turn out to be a monster or I'll never hear the end of it from Scully, I pray as I retrieve my duffel bag from a small shed at the end of the wharf.

My guide heads down the beach at a fast walk.  The sea is rising rapidly; I figure in about an hour the wharf I was standing on will be under about ten feet of water.  This hurricane acts as if it has something to prove.

I am beginning to think that this chance encounter may have saved my life.  Knowing my tendency to lose myself inside my head when I'm puzzling over a problem, I probably wouldn't have noticed I was in trouble until too late.  Either God is taking an unusual interest in me, or the devil has other plans for me.  I'm not sure which idea worries me the most.

My guide abruptly turns inland and I can see a single light up ahead.  As we get closer, I can see a small cottage nestled behind a break-wall in the grass at the edge of the beach.  It has that gray, weather-beaten look that long-time beach houses acquire.  No effort has been made to prettify the house.  It sits there like an old relic, haughty in its shabbiness.  It was obviously built to outlast every type of weather the sea could hurl at it.

"Nice," I comment as he opens the door.

"Comfortable."

Following him through the door, I quickly decide that if this was his notion of comfortable I really need to see what he considers lavish.  The entire cottage is about as big as my apartment in D.C., but there all similarities end.  The living room is open and airy.  The walls are hung with fishnets and tapestries, softening the corners of the room, giving the entire area the look and feel of a large pavilion.  Although the windows are shuttered against the storm, I can see where they provide a magnificent panoramic view of the sea.  A couple of large wicker chairs and lots of cushions appear to be the only furniture.  There are books piled everywhere.  Old books, new books, paperbacks to leather-bound monsters that have to be several hundred years old if a day.  I feel another surge of kinship with this stranger.

Setting off the bohemian atmosphere of the room, a heavy sword hangs by the door next to a brass rubbing of a knight.  For some reason, the sword suits both the room and the man who brought me here, though I am at a loss to say why.  Perhaps because both of them exist as something dangerous in the midst of opulence.

"I have very high standards of comfort," he says with a chuckle as I realize I'm still standing just inside the door.  I apologize with a shrug and look around for the bathroom.  I'm soaked with sea water, coated with sand, and a puddle is forming around my feet.

"Through that door, to the right.  There's a fresh towel in the cabinet," he offers before he disappears into what I assume is the kitchen.

"Oh my god," I breathe out as I see the tiles lining the shower stall.  I think I saw these scenes in one of the documentaries on Pompeii - a sort of how to do it primer for their brothels.  I see some positions I have never even considered before.  It takes me about five minutes to remember why I'm standing here buck naked with a bar of soap in my hand.  I wish Scully could see this.  She'd either blush clear down to her ankles or we would start bringing some art to life.  I salute the inspirational artist as I finally get down to the business of scrubbing the brine off my body.

"Beer and steaks sound good?" my host yells from some other part of the house just as the lights go out.

"Very good," I yell back as I begin to navigate towards his voice in the dark.  "Shit," I curse as I manage to ram my knee into a corner of the room.

"Watch yourself.  My theory on medicine is to amputate what hurts."

I hope that's a laugh I hear under those words.

Groping my way through the darkness, I finally spot a halo of light and head for it like a moth to flame.  My host is standing over a gas grill set in a small covered grotto.   He's shed his coat and is dressed simply in jeans and a fishnet sweater that hangs loose on his lean body.  Haloed by fire and water, he looks as if he had stepped out of the Irish hills of legend.

Torches line the area, giving the water in a small hot tub an eerie glow.  I'm suddenly curious to see if the bathroom motif is repeated on the tiles in the hot tub.

"Maybe later."

Startled to have my thoughts read so easily, I turn to stare at this stranger who is not quite a stranger.  He hands me a frosted bottle of beer and offers me a plate of bread chunks surrounding a small bowl of what looks like oil and vinegar.

"Adam," he offers after I've taken a swig of some of the best beer I have ever tasted.  The oil and bread leave a tart, tingling trail on my tongue that immediately requires more beer as a chaser.  I think I could learn to love this custom.

"Fox."

I had given some thought to using an alias, but it didn't seem right.  This was a fey night existing outside of time within the eye of the storm.  When the storm passed, the real world would return with its laws and customs.  This cottage is the hollow inside the hills where the Sidhe held their revels and lured mortal men into dreams lasting a thousand years.  From the looks of him, my host could be one of those Sidhe or perhaps a Selkie come ashore to seduce a lover.

All at once, I become aware that this last supposition might not be far off.  There is an air of seduction in this place.  I am being offered a choice.  I also sense that a refusal would be calmly accepted.  Since no words have been spoken, there is nothing to unsay, no discomfort to overcome.  A pleasant evening would be had with no memories to lighten or darken the aftermath of the storm.

A brief flash of memory takes me back to the summer after Phoebe left me in search of new conquests.  I went on a walking holiday in the Lake Country and met Arthur.  He took me under his wing and slowly, over the course of the summer, rebuilt my shattered pride and sexual confidence.   I've always found it strange that loving and being loved by a man was exactly what I needed to heal the wounds Phoebe left behind.  At the end of the summer, I returned to Oxford and Arthur vanished back into his own life.  In the course of a few short weeks, he tried to teach me that I was worthy of being loved.  Arthur was the first person who ever loved me unconditionally, as much for, as in spite of, all of my myriad faults.

Adam is not looking at me, giving me privacy while I try to make up my mind.  As odd as it sounds, considering that I am deeply and passionately in love with a woman, I want to be seduced by this strange young man with the old eyes.   I'll try to analyze the psychological implications of my decision later, when I'm back in the real world and back in Mulder's life.  Tonight, I am Fox and I exist nowhere except here in this house for just this one night.

Moving quietly, almost on tiptoe, I walk over to Adam and lightly lay my hand on his arm.  A simple gesture, but I can feel the electricity flare as I touch his bare skin and my groin tightens in anticipation.  Adam looks at me, reading my assent in my eyes and in my body, and nods with a half-smile.  I shy a bit skittishly when he raises a hand to cup my face.  It has been a long time since I have trusted anyone enough to give them control.  Hell, for that matter it's been a long time since I had sex with anyone other than my right hand.  He smiles and once again I realize that we are too much alike.

"There's time.  Come on, you can help me skewer the meat and veggies."

I'm not a domestic kind of guy.  If it weren't for Stouffer's frozen entrees and take-out food, I probably would have starved to death years ago.  About the only thing I can cook is spaghetti and steaks; scarcely a balanced diet.

Adam, however, is a cook.  He is also a master at seduction.  I can only hope that my subconscious is taking notes.  If I live through this night, my tape collection is history.  I pray that, given the chance, I can bring Scully to the point I'm at now; to give her the exquisitely painful pleasure that is drowning my senses.

I never really considered the act of slicing and dicing vegetables to be erotic, but then I never knew Adam before.  His touch is driving me mad.  His hands graze mine, or brush against my arms and I feel myself wanting to lean into his touch, to rush towards the climax I feel smoldering inside of me.  My entire body has become sensitized to his touch.  It has been too long since I felt a lover's hand caress me.

By the time Adam puts dinner on a fully automated grill, I am stretched as tight as a violin string.  This isn't just about being lonely and wanting someone to connect to anymore.  I want him.  In a way, I'm frightened by how easily all my paranoia and my isolationist defenses have crumbled at his touch, but it just doesn't matter.  What matters is the need I feel deep in my groin and in every nerve of my body.  Outside the storm is pummeling the island with everything it has.  Inside this hollow hill, I am beginning to understand at last what it is to be seduced, to surrender control of my pleasure into someone else's hands.  It is terrifying and alluring at the same time.

"Come here," he says smoothly as he takes my hand and leads me over to a stone ledge covered with a thick towel.

Feeling slightly foolish, I follow.  It's strange not being in control, not being the one to make the moves.  I feel partly embarrassed, yet also intensely aroused by the sheer uncertainty of what he has planned.  I hope I have the strength to let him lead me where he wants to go.  I hope I manage to remember how he got me there because I would like to take Scully on this journey some day.

"Why don't you get comfortable? Between the grill, the torches, and the hot tub, don't you think it's getting warm in here?" His eyes have turned a dark golden brown as a hint of huskiness enters his voice.  So, I'm not the only one feeling the pressure of need and desire.

I've never really given much thought to dressing or undressing.  It's always been the most awkward part of any sexual encounter - how to peel your partner and yourself out of the inconvenient clothes.  Usually I've just gone for the frantic pull them off and worry about rips and tears in the morning.  I've never met Adam's method of undressing before.

Like a mimic, he echoes my every movement.  My hands reach down to unbuckle my belt, his hands follow to his belt.  I swallow and my tongue flicks out to moisten lips grown very dry.  His tongue slips out to echo mine.  My hand dips down to try to pry loose jeans that are suddenly way too tight, and his hand dips down to his own crotch.  I'm beginning to realize that I am a fucking amateur in this game, but losing is going to be very, very sweet.

In slow motion, breathing as hard as if I had run a race, I pull off my T-shirt.  Adam's sweater follows a moment after.  His chest is smooth, unblemished.  Remembering the scar on my left shoulder, a neatly puckered reminder of how far Scully is willing to go to save me, I blush.  I feel like a battered second-hand car next to this young man.

Still, I'm not going to be intimidated into retreating.   If he is repulsed by my body, I'd rather know it now while I can excuse myself to that lasciviously decadent bathroom of his and jerk off, then come back out and spend the rest of the evening in pleasant conversation.

His expression doesn't change, but I think I hear his breathing quicken.  It has never occurred to me that he might find me attractive.  It is getting very warm in here after all.

It's time I turned the tables.  I have no desire to take control, but I find I would like to tease him just a bit; to bring him to the same painful awareness of me that I have of him.  Reining in my breathing, I slow down my hands as I lower them to the zipper on my jeans.  His eyes are dark burning holes in his face as he stares at me, leaving his hands to find their own way to his zipper.  We are mirrors to each other.  Moving in synchronization without conscious thought, our bodies so sensitized that what one does, is instantly mimicked by the other.

My jeans fall to the floor, quickly followed by my boxers.   I want, I need, to see him naked before me.  He is beautiful - all long, lean limbs, narrow-waisted like a dancer or a long-distance runner.  Dark hair covers his groin and runs up his stomach in a narrow V.  His cock hangs flaccid but I can see the faint blush rising as he begins to feel the stirrings of arousal that already have my cock bobbing at half mast.

With one long stride he closes the distance between us until my cock is brushing against his.  I feel his cock harden and rise to meet mine and I have to clutch at the fraying edges of my self-control to stop myself from moaning.  His fingers trace the outlines of the scar on my left shoulder, then drop to feel the deep concave scar on my left thigh.  There is a deep sadness in his eyes.  Very slowly he leans down and kisses the scar on my shoulder.   My body hums as every nerve comes alert.  If he kneels down to kiss the scar on my thigh I will not be responsible for what I do next.  There is only so much self control available to me and it is running out fast.

Thankfully, he pulls back and raises his hands to cup my face instead.  Arthur was never one for kissing.  I've never been kissed by a man and I find I am very curious.  Adam smiles again, definitely a measure of wicked amusement in this smile.  I suspect I am going to find out how close to the breaking point I can go tonight.

His hands shift to my shoulders and I feel a slight downward pressure.  I allow myself to be pushed down on the couch, face down.  Despite my willingness, even desire to feel Adam's cock inside of me, I tense slightly.

"We're in no rush.  Dinner first, dessert later," he says with a chuckle.

"You are a very wicked man," I tease, pleased to find I still have a functional voice.

"You have no idea." I'm not sure whether he is joking.   He sounds rather serious.  Right now, however, I don't give a damn.  The storm has me; let it take me where it will.

To my surprise, the bench is very comfortable.  As I ease down, trying to avoid squashing anything important, I feel his hands begin to knead the iron-tight muscles in my back.  When his thumbs hit a knot that has been in my back since I started profiling, I wilt and groan in mingled pain and relief as it gives way.

Within minutes I don't think I could move if I had to.  I think I'm melting into the bench.  As I'm drowning in a sea of total relaxation, I hear a bell chime in the distance.  The hands that have reduced me to a limp noodle pause.  Something about the silence sends an alert to my brain, but I'm too befuddled with pleasure to react.

A sharp slap hits my ass followed by a series of slaps up and down my back that sting me awake.  Muscles that were limp as dishrags just a moment before are now taut and ready for action.  As I gather myself up to roll out of the way, Adam chuckles and delivers one last slap that slides into a soft caress across my ass.

"Dinner's ready," he says as he slides out of reach.  He moves with the controlled power and grace of a leopard and walks with the self-assurance of a prince.  I tear my eyes off his ass and stand up.  I feel ten years younger.  As I follow Adam over to the grill, I make a mental note to find a reputable masseur and make regular visits.

"More beer?"

"Yeah," I agree enthusiastically.  It's almost sacrilege to refer to the stuff sold in grocery stores as beer after I've tasted the real thing.

Adam hands me a platter of grilled steak and vegetables so that I'm standing here stark naked with a beer in one hand and food in the other, looking for a place to sit down.  I can't help but wonder if Adam is going to come up with a very erotic way to eat dinner.

The man has got to be psychic.  No sooner than the thought zips through my mind, Adam raises an eyebrow and assumes a slightly affronted look.  OK, so maybe I am an open book, but usually it takes someone at least a year or two to read me half as well as Adam is doing in just under two hours.

"I'm old fashioned.  I like to keep dinner and sexual pleasure completely separate.  Eat.  I promise, you'll need your strength, Fox," Adam says with a sly smile that takes the sting out of his rebuff.

OK, so I have a dirty mind.  I think it comes from having sex exactly once in five years while being partnered with a woman who drives me mad with desire.  If the body isn't going to get any, then my mind is going to try to take up the slack.

Over dinner, we talk.  I reminisce about Oxford and realize that there were more good memories than bad once I peel off the sticky layer of my encounter with Phoebe.  Adam confesses to attending St.  Aidan's College and talks about his history studies.  I wish I'd had him for a lecturer back in Oxford.  I might have napped less and learned more than simply regurgitating the textbook.  As he relaxes, he weaves tales of warriors and lovers and tragic heroes that sounds as if he knew each one personally.  His comments are sharp and acidic.  He cuts through the romantic trappings to reveal the complex person at the center of the myth.

Leaning back against the stone bench, full of beer and steak, we debate the comparative merits of the Rolling Stones and Queen.  Gradually, we let the silence take over.  I close my eyes and allow contentment to wash over me.  Adam's fingers begin playing with my hair, stroking it until I'm ready to purr.  Hands pull me down until I'm lying down beside him.

My breathing quickens as his hands tease my nipples.  They harden into taut peaks that are hypersensitive to his touch.  I open my eyes to see his face about a foot from mine.  His eyes are greenish-brown with flecks of gold swimming in their depths; chameleon eyes that change as his mood changes.  I'm pleased to know that he can't hide all his secrets.

"Close your eyes.  Let me take you where we both want to go," he whispers as he leans down and blows short puffs against my nipple.  A shiver ripples through my body as his tongue begins to lave the nipple.  The hardest thing I've ever done is to obey him and lay my need in his hands.

Before I comply, I decide to make my desire very clear.   Almost shyly, I raise up slightly and run my tongue along the rim of his ear.  To my delight, he shudders.  I lay back down with a grin and file away that particular erogenous zone for later reference.  Just because I am allowing myself to be seduced, doesn't mean I won't return the favor and the pleasure later.

Lips and hands alternately caress, nip and tickle me everywhere except the one place aching with an urgent need to be touched.  Adam is going to drive me mad.  I'm not sure what I expected, but what I'm getting is nowhere near anything I have ever experienced.  Arthur was soft and gentle and together we seemed to reach climax by accident, rather than intent.

Adam, however, is not soft.  I won't call his style rough, but I had no doubt in my mind that he is in control.  His hands and lips assault my senses.  No lover ever took the time to discover that I melt when my belly is caressed and stroked and fingers play in the hair that arrows down to my groin.  Despite my intent to remain quiet, I begin to thrust upwards towards his hands.  I have a hard-on that is excruciatingly balanced on the pain/pleasure threshold.   I am having to bite my lips to keep from begging him to take me now and take me hard.  His lips seize mine and his tongue smoothes down the rough ridge where I had been gnawing.  His tongue probes, seeking entrance as his hands slide down to caress the inside of my legs.  I'm twitching now, helpless to stop my body from seeking more of his touch.

I feel him smile against my lips as I open them to his thrusting tongue.  Our tongues play with each other as I taste beer and spices.  My heavy evening stubble rubs against his cheek as we nuzzle each other.  Just when I have given up all hope of ever feeling his hands on my cock, he takes me into his hand and begins to lightly stroke the sensitive underside of my shaft.  I buck into his hand, causing him to chuckle deep into my mouth.  I can't help it, I start to laugh and twitch at the same time.

With a final lingering sweep of his tongue, Adam pulls away from me and I remember to breathe.  Languidly, he trails his other hand down my chest to idly trace circles on my stomach as he shifts his attention downward.  Anticipating what he plans, I manage to shift up until I am half leaning against the stone bench to give him better access.

Fuck! Adam's mouth is hot and wet and I nearly come right then and there when he starts to draw his tongue slowly up the underside of my cock.  His tongue swirls around the tip, drawing out the pre-cum forming there.   It's been too long.  I'm not going to last.  I hang on the edge of release, gripping the last fragment of control before I let go and slide into the maelstrom.  My senses shatter into incoherent fragments as my body arches up into his mouth.  Adam rises with me, suckling and lapping until I can't think any more.  I'm on fire.  His mouth continues to milk me until I explode into a thousand different shards of light.  I stream across the night sky like a comet until nothing is left of me but the vapor trail.

Slowly I fall back to earth in the drifting ashes.  I don't know how long I lie there, listening to the howling of the wind and the pounding of the rain against our shelter.  Adam's body is nestled next to mine and he is cradling me in his arms, soothing the fading shudders with his hands.

I feel his cock brushing up against my thigh, hard and insistent.  Adam has waited long enough, it's his turn now.  His eyes are closed, but he is breathing heavy and I sense that he is exerting control over his own need.

"Hey," I whisper huskily.  My voice seems to have scattered along with my senses.  Damn, that has never happened before.  Then again, I have never experienced an orgasm that tore me apart either.

Adam's eyes open; dark pools that hide secrets in their depths.  My hand raises to cup his face while my fingers play with his ear.  His breathing goes very ragged.

"Your turn," I say as I lean in and nuzzle the hollow at the base of his throat.  My other hand reaches down and lightly strokes his cock.  He arches into my hand, his eyes closed, as he bites his lip.  His control is slipping.  For a moment I am tempted to bring him to climax as he brought me, but there will be time for that later.  Now, I want him inside of me.  I think he wants it, too, but won't ask.  Both of us are too damn civilized.

Making sure my body rubs enticingly against his, I turn over on my side until his cock is resting against my ass.   He is big and hot and very ready.  I hope I'm going to be able to walk out of here when this is all over, but right now I don't care.

Warm hands, cold lubricant, hot anticipation send shivers up my spine.  First one finger, then two probe me, stretching me while setting up a gentle pumping action.  I don't want gentle right now.  I want to be fucked and fucked hard.  Growling deep in my throat, I shove up against his fingers.  I hear a startled grunt, then three fingers plunge into me in a hard, steady rhythm until I begin to feel the first stirrings of arousal begin again.

The fingers are replaced by the tip of his cock pushing slowly into me.  I feel myself stretching to accommodate him.  Adam moves in slowly, giving me time to get used to him.  My hands clutch the towel in spasms, not from the pain, which is minimal, but to keep from shoving my ass right up to the root of his cock in one hard move.

Finally, I feel his balls brush my ass and I relax into his rhythm.  There is a pattern to his thrusts; I can't make out what it is, but it feels so good I may pass out.   My own cock twitches in envy as I lightly stroke myself in echo to Adam's thrusts.  His breathing has gone all to pieces and I sense that he is very close to the edge.  The slapping of our bodies sounds soft against the renewed fury of the storm just outside our hollow hill.  Two thrusts, deep and hard, then one more.  I clench around him and feel him shudder as the climax hits.  I shudder as the echo of my own climax returns and I soar out of my body to travel across the sky in his wake.

Still joined, we lie spooned together in the flickering light of the torches, too limp to move.  I feel Adam's breathing slow and allow myself to drift into a dreamy languid doze.  His arms reach around my chest and pull me close.  The eye of the storm passes over us as we lie together, shedding some of its peace onto us.

**************

Showering with Adam is definitely an experience.  His  hands move faster than an octopus.  The shower stall is going to need a thorough cleaning, but we are having fun.   Slick with soap, we end up on our knees with the water pouring down on us, laughing too hard to even come close to climaxing.  Eventually, clean and damp, we dash through the darkened house back into the grotto.  The torches are soft flickering embers glowing in halos of steam rising in waves from the hot tub.  Outside the storm is picking up again; the brief respite is over.

Fortified with beer and cheese and bread, we slip into the hot tub.  For a brief moment I feel like a Maine lobster then I relax as the heat soaks into my tired muscles.   Adam is puttering around waist-deep, setting the beer and the food within easy reach.  Over-confidence is my ally.   Every campaign this evening has been his; it's my turn.

Quietly, I slip up behind Adam and simply stand there, like a second shadow.  I've seen him move.  Sneaking up on him would be impossible, and I have a feeling that if I did, I might not survive the surprise.  I don't want to know what has given Adam such reflexes.  He doesn't bear the scars I do, but I can sense them in his mind.

I feel his breathing quicken as he drops all pretence of arranging the beer bottles in the cooler.  A slow flush rises from his well-formed ass until he's wearing a blush like a cape on his back and shoulders.

Without a word, I move forward until our bodies are touching.  I stand in his shadow and envelop him with my presence.  I watch the hair on the back of his neck stiffen and rise as my breath tickles his ear.  His arms fall to his sides in willing surrender as my hands begin exploring his body.  I count his ribs, feeling the muscle ripple over the bones.  He twitches slightly as my fingers trail down to the stiff hairs above his groin.  I have to bite my lips to keep from chuckling in response.

I take my time, teasing him as he teased me.  I let the responses of his body guide the course of my hands.  I make no effort to see what my hands are doing.  They are blind servants to his pleasure.  My lips and my tongue are busy exploring his neck and those elfin ears.  Not a word is spoken, but his soft groans are the symphony of his growing arousal.

At last my hands glide down to his groin.  His cock is taut and rising.  It feels strange to touch another man, to feel doeskin softness over molten rock, knowing that I am arousing someone else, not myself.  I give myself over completely to the raw sensuality of caressing him.

My blind hands map his cock, tracing each ridge and vein as they journey from stem to root and back again.  I close my eyes and rest my face in the curve of his neck as I allow all sensation to be focused in my hands.  My own arousal is channeled into enticing his.  My pleasure is to give him pleasure as he gave it to me.  We are echoes of each other; the sea-born and the earth-bound finding rest together while the storm lasts.

Just when I feel him hurtling towards the precipice, I withdraw my hands, leaving him suspended on the razor's edge of release, feeling his body tremble against mine.   Wrapping my arms around his chest I lean back, pulling him slowly down into the steaming water with me.  There is only a second of resistance before he allows me to control his backward fall.  The simple trust in that release of control nearly undoes me.  I could love this man with all my soul and heart if they did not already belong to someone else.  But, if I cannot give him my heart, then I will give him my body's love.  I think he understands, for I sense that his heart and soul belong to another as well.

I let him float free.  My eyes caress his body, memorizing its curves and hollows.  I want to remember this dream when I return back into the world of men.  Outside the storm has reached it's full fury, hurling sand and debris amid the rain to smash against our shelter.  We are in the still center of the fury, safe within our hollow hill.   Adam opens his eyes as he floats.  They are almost black with desire.  Chameleon eyes, like mine, betray our moods to all who know us.

Still holding his eyes, I move down until I am in position.  Giving him a wicked grin, I reach under him to support his body as I take him into my mouth.  He startles briefly as my tongue laps his tip, but I manage to keep my footing.  Now it is my turn to close my eyes as my tongue and lips play him until he is as taut as a guitar string.   I can feel the rumbling growl deep inside of him as his arousal builds in a slowly spiraling cyclone of pure physical passion.  I anchor myself and prepare to ride out the storm.  I give him no peace, no respite, until he lies limp and flaccid in my arms; a piece of driftwood cast into these shallow waters by the retreating waves.

We spend the remaining hours of the night relaxing, drinking beer and simply talking; two tired lovers content to rest in the aftermath of passion.  I fall asleep floating in his arms.  Later, near dawn, I hold him as he slips into a light sleep.  The storm dwindles down to a flurry of wind and rain.  Sand coats the outside shell of the grotto, but I can see the first light of dawn driving away the night.  It will be days before the sun returns to burnish the sands of this island.

The gray dawn banishes the magic of this hollow hill and reminds me that I have duties and people waiting for me outside.  One, in particular, is no doubt waiting with a mix of anger and concern.  I am ready for her now.  In some strange way, I have found my answers.  Adam has reminded me that I am worthy of being loved and of offering love.  Maybe it needed a stranger to show me the quality of my own heart.  I am Fox as well as Mulder.  I think Scully needs to meet Fox when I get back.

My mind rambles on as my body lies contentedly in the warm water.  Even with the reminder of Mulder's life pressing in on me, I remain still, cradling Adam in my arms, reluctant to wake him.  At last his eyes flutter open to reveal hazel eyes washed clean of passion, young eyes masking secrets.

"Morning," I announce as greeting and reluctant admission that I must be going.

Adams stretches out of my grasp and stands up, shedding water in rivulets down his body.  I lie back and give him a soft whistle of admiration.  He glares back in mock indignation.

"Smart aleck.  Come on, I'll fix breakfast while you get dressed.  I know a man who can get you to the mainland with no questions asked," he says with a smile.

I chuckle.  It would be just my luck for me to experience a night wreathed in magic only to end up in jail the next day before being ignominiously deported.

As we eat on the small deck, we watch the gray-green sea pound the shore with angry waves.  The wind is dying down and the rain is only a fine mist flying from low gray clouds that seem to touch the tops of the palm trees.  We are silent.  Words would only spoil what we shared.  I sense that between Adam and me, words are too barren to express what magic we wove between us last night.  Part of me wants to see him again, to try to recreate the passion, but I'm not sure I would be able to walk away if we did meet again.  His eyes speak of the need to be with someone else and my own soul feels the tug of my bond with Scully.

In silence, I pick up my duffel bag and we begin the walk back into the world.  On impulse, I reach over and lay my hand against his cheek.  His eyes look at me with a question.

"I'll remember," I say simply.  It's all I can offer.

"So will I," he replies just as simply and I know he understands.

As we step onto the sand off the last step leading down from his house, I feel the last tug of the magic release me.  I am Mulder again, but changed somehow.  I have supped and slept with one of the fey folk, and no man leaves the hollow hills unscathed.  I think that part of me will always be here, a part of me that the Consortium cannot touch or foul.  I hope that one day I can lead Scully to a hollow hill, outside of the world we live in, and show her the magic of what love can create.

As I sit in the passenger seat of a small two-engine plane, I watch the island recede and wonder if I will ever know who or what Adam is.  I wonder if I even want to know.  For once in my life, I am going to let a mystery remain a mystery.  He is Adam.  That is all I really need to know.

The End

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