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Title: Midday Sun
Rating: PG-13 MSR alert.
This story is part of the Places series. This story can be read as standalone, but the stories are much easier to understand and have far more resonancy if the previous stories are read. The Places series, currently stands as: . . So only mad dogs and Mulder go out into the midday sun. Does that mean that there's a difference between them? . Flat eyes, just the lightest rim of color hovering on the edge of dark-induced greyness. They catch in the reflection of neon lights, and then, there's a leisurely lunge forward to create the grind of a mouth twisting into his neck with the sharp burrowing edge of teeth. Metal taste in the mouth, trickling own the cheek after a tug of canines at the bottom lip, then the wet tongue down the sternum to coil a bite across the nipple. Strain on the bindings digging into skin and, move against the body crouched over him. Breathe around the edge of the gag, quick, desperate pants, then the response movement of rough denim across the inside of his thigh, on top of his hip, rubbing away, grating into his flesh to produce a whole hearted moan, tongue writhing underneath the crammed cloth. Moan, twist, shudder under harsh cloth on cock, peeling your skin away, and you could feel the raw flesh abrading again-- The very real, very unromantic pain of Scully's fingernails digging into his wrist, pulled him back to reality, and when he swung his head to meet her, he realized with weary surprise, that they were in the middle of a meeting. Round table. Faces he didn't recognize. Notes underneath him--pictures. A white, nude woman was sprawled across a black background, he didn't recognize her, he barely recognized Scully, and what was this? if he closed eyes to remember and collect his wits-- He stammered out an excuse and ran, and barely made it into the bathroom before he collapsed to his knees and started puking on the nearest available surface. Since he had made it to the bathroom, it was a toilet, but it wouldn't have been that bad anyways, for he hadn't managed any breakfast. Only pills. Only what Scully had prescribed for him, and he put four dollars and thirteen cents of pharmaceutical products into the water, and afterwards, he was curled up, shivering and sweating, with his head beneath his knees. At some moment, he made the mistake of shutting his eyes or taking a breath that was too deep and relaxed and-- The room was still, black and grey, with a streak of white on the very edge of his vision, where the moonlight was coming through the slit blinds. If he really twisted his head, he could make the white streak define itself into a rope looped around a wrist and pulled up around the hook in the bedpost; it was very poetically arranged--the contrast of the smooth wood and the rough rope that ran into an appendage that he vaguely recognized as an arm, which flowed into crisp linen sheets, that white and the black of shadows twisting across it, and after a few moments of struggling, he managed to regain enough control to whimper a, "Leave me alone. For chrissake, leave me alone, Krycek." "I thought you were Jewish. " The voice came from the foot of the bed, and it was smoking a cigarette whose tip glowed red. Mulder could almost feel the forthcoming burn on the edge of his hip, and he shrank back from it even as Krycek uncurled from his armchair and poured himself a glass of something that glittered from a decanter that glittered, even in the moonlight. "And besides, you, of all people, should know that I'm not Christian. Why the fuck would I do anything for *him*?" At that point, Krycek set the glass down on the night table with a little clink and bent to trace a small series of circles on the corner of Mulder's hip with a negligent finger; in his other hand, the cigarette hovered just inches from Mulder's skin, and the tip was now faintly coated with ashes. Krycek's fingernail slid across Mulder's hipbone. "Maybe I oughta get you a tattoo right here, something small, tasteful. A little present. From Alex. To Fox. With love."
The mouth was so close, the burn was so close, Krycek spoke, Mulder could feel, he could feel-- "You sure you want me to, Mulder, darlin--" The pain of a something smacking into his cheek was enough to break the memory. He resurfaced to a small, fierce Scully with her hand reared back for another slap; her fingers were digging into his upper arm to hold him against the bathroom door. His stomach heaved again, she let him go puke, and this time, he came out only with yellow bile that floated on top of the water. Going down on his knees, he cleaned out the rest of his stomach while she stood around the door of the stall and watched him vomit noisily for fifteen or more minutes. "You need something to drink?" He leaned against the blessedly cool walls, but didn't dare to shut his eyes or unclench his hands. "I need some air. I can't breathe." . Out in the light of the midday sun, the old rope-burns faded away to the eye, but Mulder could *feel* them crawling up and down his arm, burning themselves back into his body no matter how hard he clenched his fists and made sure he didn't close his eyes. "What happened in there?" Scully's voice was sharp, edgy. If he closed his eyes. . . "That's some powerful coffee they serve in the staff room, Scully. Think they dump some of those extra tasty Colombian exports into it?" He leaned against the wall, but kept his muscles tense just in case. Scully made a small exasperated noise and settled onto the wall next to him. Her hair kept on brushing his shoulder whenever there was the slightest wind, and he could smell the of shampoo-soap-clean clothes mixture. With this around, he could manage to relax. Her hand crawled down next to his and she wrapped both of her little hands around his, and when he closed his eyes, everything stayed calm. He could watch the blood vessels in his eyelids, felt the wind ruffle through his hair. "Mulder, what's going on?" She tugged on his arm for extra emphasis, and when he opened his eyes, *her* eyes were looking up at him with such earnest concern, they were so honest and blue--*blue*-- that he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and he kissed her, and the solid, clean feel of her mouth washing over him was almost as good as the pain, almost as good, it kept those little nightmares and those little memories down to the barest minimum. .end
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