A Rat's Tail

by Liza (sequel by Micetro)

I told myself I wouldn't come back again. Especially now, especially after what's happened. But here I am. And it's still surprisingly easy to get in. I can't help thinking that he wouldn't be so paranoid if he lived in a place that was even fractionally more secure. Still, I suppose there is a comfort in the familiarity. It's not as if I spent a lot of time in the apartment itself, but I've certainly watched it enough on and off through the years.

Same typewriter poster on the wall. A Royal typewriter. The instrument of a writer, a journalist. A reporter. The tool used to expose or reveal the truth. At least, I think that's the significance of it. I like to think it is. It beats thinking he picked it up on a whim in the home furnishings department of Walmart.

Fish in the tank, and they look... Jesus, Mulder! They're PLASTIC!!! How pathetic is that? Scully give you those for Christmas? Maybe the last Consortium guys assigned to watch the place installed them so they wouldn't have to keep watching the real ones belly-up.

The kitchen, bereft of food as always. Guess I'll be dining out then. No dishes in the sink... that's impressive. I don't exactly know why I thought it might be different. Because so much has happened? So much has changed? As I said, there is some reassurance in the frozen-in-time quality.

I guess the hall closet will be my base. The door doesn't hang quite right, so I can see pretty much most of the apartment, and judging by the layers of dust on the crap in here, it doesn't get used much. A tennis racket... didn't know you played. Well, again, judging by the dust, I guess you don't anymore. Box of magazines... oooh, a box of those magazines. I suppose that will help me pass the time.


I surely didn't score this spot too soon. He enters with a sigh, slamming the door shut behind him. I hear the click of the lock. Really, Mulder. Think that does any good? His coat flies across the room and lands on the desk chair. Yeah, no worry about the closet.

TV clicks on first thing and he wanders into the bathroom. I can hear him pissing. There is no sound of running water afterward. Shame on you, Mulder. Hasn't Scully talked to you about proper hygiene? He wanders out of the bathroom and into the bedroom unbuttoning his shirt, fly still open. It forces me to swallow.

Ok, it forces a lot more than that. I close my eyes, take a shaky breath and can very nearly feel the softness of his skin against mine. Just one time. That's all. Just the one time. No drug is as dangerous as Mulder. One dose, that's all it takes for a lifetime of addiction. And the withdrawal. It's hell. It's why I'm here, even now. I steady myself against the wall, backing further into the corner. Hunkering down to watch. To wait. For what? I don't know.

It doesn't help my stability when he crosses in front of me in a pair of sweats, manhandling a sweatshirt into position so he can pull it on half way through the living room. No, I want to yell, leave it off. Let me look.

Obviously, I don't. He picks up the remote and does a quick spin through forty or fifty channels. He does it so fast I have no idea how he knows what's on and what's not. He throws the remote on the couch and goes into the kitchen. I can only see a part of it from here, but I can hear the slamming of one cupboard and then another. Then the refrigerator. Mulder, you don't buy food. Why do you think you'll find anything?

He returns to the sofa in only a few moments with a bowl in one hand and a beer bottle in another. To my horror, I watch him shovel Lucky Charms into his mouth. Tiny, coloured marshmallows and Bud. My stomach actually churns. Despite what I've been forced to eat myself in recent days, this is a meal that even I, Rat Boy, would reject.

The remote is in his hand and the channels fly by again. Now, here's an X-File if ever I saw one. Eating what he is, surfing those channels as fast as he is, and he doesn't puke from it. Maybe there is a cure for Mulder addiction after all. Maybe I just need to keep watching him until I'm completely grossed out. Pick your nose for dessert, Mulder, and I can be out of here before you know it.


 I'm not sure exactly when I dozed off. I remember the beginning of a Star Trek TNG episode... the one where they regress to their primordial origins. I think Mulder's snoring. He does, a little. I know that from our stakeouts together. Listening closely though, I realise he's not. Oh shit, Mulder. He's crying. His back is to the TV, knees pulled up, shoulders trembling, crying quietly. Oh Mulder. What are you crying about? Who are you crying for? Samantha? Yourself? Me? By any chance, could you be crying for me?

Fat fucking chance.

It's uncomfortable. There's no way it's not. I can't do anything. Can't go out there and ask what's wrong, rub his back, tell him it'll be ok. I'd be dead before I got halfway across the floor.

Two universal truths... I am addicted to Mulder, and Mulder hates my guts. I shift from side to side. He's starting to quiet, maybe falling asleep. Oh Christ. Crying himself to sleep and eating kiddie cereal for dinner. I'm in no position of offer up my nursing services. Mulder, I thought we were working on ways I might get over you, not on ways to keep me here.

When at last he's quiet and his breathing has settled into sleep, I slip out for a bite to eat. Sleep well, love. Sleep well.


After he's left for work the next morning, I wander out of my hiding place. He's a pig. It's not a surprise, it's just a fact. Yesterday's clothes are strewn from one end of the bedroom to the other. Eight hundred to a thousand dollar suits crumpled up without a thought. I think about what that says. I add it to what else I've seen, what else I know. He's a temporary inhabitant in this life, is what it says. You don't need a psych degree to see that. Tangible things hold no value for him. Scully's life holds value. That's about it.

I look heavenward, as if I might find the answer to saving Mulder on his ceiling. The sigh I expel isn't much different from his sigh last night. Letting my eyes fall on the floor again, I see a pair of navy blue silk boxers. Impulsively, I cross the room and take them. Back in the closet, I rub my face over them, catching my whiskers on them the tiniest little bit. I can smell him.

Smell, the mightiest memory trigger. I groan as I begin to swell between my legs. I start to salivate. I remember what he tasted like. His lips, his flesh, his sweat, his come. The slick cloth on my chest quickens my breath. Oh God. I can't believe this is happening. I'm going to bring myself off with Mulder's shorts. It's sick. It's sexy. I don't have a choice. It's happening. I cry out as the hot-cold fabric slips then skids on the wet pink of me. Harsh breathing, wet-dry humping, a dizziness and numbness as every essence of me seems headed to the tip of my cock. If the place is bugged, and it probably is, what the hell are they going to make of my muffled cries as the semen spurts out of me and into his shorts? I don't care. I'm coming and it feels better than it has in a long time, because I can smell him and taste him and feel him against me.


It's past nine when he gets home. He doesn't bother with the kitchen so I assume he's already eaten. This evening I'm treated to a tantalising strip tease. It begins in the living room, he toes his shoes off. Loosens, then slips his tie off. He's standing in front of the TV. It's the only light on and it silhouettes him. The buttons come down. He pulls the shirt open and the light catches it... for just a moment, I swear, I see wings. The trick of the light shining through the fabric and the tails coming free of his pants... he reminds me of an Italian statue. An angel standing over a grave. At that thought, I shiver.

He's coming closer. He balls the shirt up and launches it through the hall and into the bedroom like it was pigskin. There's something in his step, a sort of a determination I didn't see yesterday. He's angry, I realise as he passes so close I could almost touch him. I hold my breath reflexively. I don't need to. The anger seems to have carried him someplace away from here. I watch the rest of the clothing fly and land. It kicks up an amazing amount of dust in the beam of TV light before me.

He comes back around the corner, sweats in his hand. Naked. Naked and half hard. I only get to see it for a second and then his perfect ass is moving down the hall away from me. I remember dragging my face across those delicious white cheeks. He growled sort of... a sound from deep down in his chest when I moved against him with the grain of my beard. Then against the grain, sinking my fingers into the soft flesh beside my face, he gasped. I gasped. My cock bounced against my stomach, daubing my belly wet. Shit, I'm hard. I shift to feel the silk of his stolen boxers against me.

I hear his piss, the flush. The medicine cabinet opens and he rummages around knocking a few things into the sink. Then he apparently finds what he's looking for, scoops the stuff that spilled out of the sink, and slams the door. Before leaving the bathroom, he pulls the sweats on. Don't Mulder, don't. Shit.

He comes back up the hall, jaw clenched, vein standing out against his forehead. It stills me. Into the kitchen and a cupboard slams, then the refrigerator opens. Ice into a glass. Who is he mad at? Scully talk down another theory? More likely Skinner. Probably kicked back his expense reports or reamed him about lost or destroyed government property. Wouldn't sign a 302. He comes back into the living room, sets a glass of water and something else on the coffee table and squats in front of the VCR stand, flipping through the tapes.

I took a look at the titles while he was at work today, a couple I recognised from the old days. Mostly they seemed raunchier than his taste used to be. Familiarity breeding boredom? Maybe. Society is getting jaded. It takes more to get off than it used to. For me it still takes just one thing. Mulder.

He makes a selection, puts it in, hits play and takes a seat on the sofa. Before settling back to watch the tape, he sets it to rewind and opens what I now realise is a prescription bottle. He shakes a quantity into his hand, shovels them into his mouth and chases them with water. Then he picks up the remote, slides back against the pillows, lets his legs fall open and I find myself needing to swallow again.

I've seen Mulder beat himself off before. Hell, with the type of surveillance he's under half of Washington has probably seen him. But this is different. This is more intimate. I'm in the apartment. I'm in his closet. This time I'll be able to see just what on the screen actually brings him off.

I'm not sure exactly what it is about the video he's selected that's doing something for him. I think it's more the sounds because his eyes are closed. He speeds up and slows down in parts contrary to the action on the screen. Are you thinking about us, Mulder? Are you thinking about how I sucked your cock as you pull up and down? Back and forth? Is it my lips you imagine on your balls as you pull the skin so gently away from them? When you speed up and puff so hard, are you remembering my cock sliding into your ass, so hot and so tight?

I inhale deeply, believing I can smell the sweat that gives depth and shine to his chest. As if he were reading my mind, he tweaks a nipple, the right one. I can't stop myself from groaning, but he doesn't seem to hear it above the groans coming from the TV. His head begins to move from side to side, his upper lip is snarled, he's close. Rapid shallow breaths, his body folding up, his hand is a blur. I can hear the slap of skin on skin. Oh Jesus, Mulder. Do it. Come, Mulder. Come with me.

And he comes just then, as I do. Convulsions shoot his semen high up on his chest. His face is frozen, a long breath carrying a not entirely arrested ‘Fuck’ with it.

When he's caught his breath, switched the movie off and had a sip of water, he stands up. He weaves across the room toward the kitchen, returning with a dish towel mopping over his chest. Like the shirt, it's then flung down the hall landing only a few feet from the closet. I can really smell him now. It permeates this small space, threatening to arouse me again. I turn my attention back to him though. He's settling in. The Sci-Fi channel is on, he's lying down. Within minutes he's out.

Time for my dinner. I move slowly and quietly across the floor.


 Dinner was disappointing, but watching Mulder sleep, I don't much care. He looks so peaceful, so young. Innocent, even. Who pissed you off today Mulder? Tell me and I'll see they don't do it again. I quell the urge to touch his brow, to feel his hair, trace his lip.

What if. I can't help thinking it. What if I hadn't done their dirty work? Would we still be partners? Working together, sleeping together... I think we'd have been good for each other, Mulder. I do. One thing's for sure, you wouldn't be eating Lucky Charms for dinner if I was still around.

Who were you thinking about earlier, Mulder? Was it me? Is that why you said ‘Fuck’? Do you ever wonder what if? Your lip just quivered. Are you dreaming of our kisses? Our first kiss, stolen in a parking garage in New York City, so electric we could have powered all the air conditioners in Manhattan for the night? I dream about it, Mulder. Every day, every night. I feel your hand holding my neck, keeping my lips on yours. I feel your arm pulling my body against yours, the heat of you. You wanted me. You wanted me, Mulder. I want you now. I want you forever.

The light flickers. The light from under the door. Shit. Whoever it is is good. Very quiet. The place must be under surveillance again, probably saw him swallow the pills. Shit, Mulder, wake up! I see the knob begin a hesitant turn.

Shit. I brush against his fingers, Wake Up, Mulder! Wake up! He starts and our eyes make contact for only a moment, then the door's opening and he's going for his gun. I take off down the hallway toward the bedroom, never looking back.


I watched the place all night long... swarming with Sheriffs’ department uniforms and plain clothes, FBI, coroner, Med-Techs... it was a regular party of comings and goings. When he didn't go to work in the morning, I finally wandered off. He was probably safe enough, I reasoned. Now, just before dusk... the lights are off, the place is still. He must have gone out while I was otherwise engaged. I let myself in. Looks like it was a hell of a gun fight. Chalk marks and evidence stickers all over the place.

I wander down the hall, ready to take my place in the closet. Jesus, Mulder! Trying to kill me again! Is this the thanks I get for saving your sorry ass? Think I can't read? D-Con Rat Poison, Kills Rats Dead.

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