MOTEL, 3 A.M.

Kat Allison

He's asleep. Face mashed against my shoulder, drooling on my arm. He came, he saw, he crashed. No, strike the "saw"--I bet he had his eyes clenched shut the whole time, and anyway you can't see a thing in this room, it's dark as hell. Dark as interstellar space, and just as cold. I pull him even tighter for a moment, thinking of that emptiness, at the same time thinking damn it, Mulder, I never used to come up with this kind of silly crap before I met you. Interstellar space, for christ's sake. I used to think things like "You want me to do you, friend, you get me off first." With Mulder I end up finishing myself off, dry-humping against his belly with him passed out asleep, feeling like I got the deal of a lifetime.

This may be the stupidest thing I've ever done. I don't do stupid, as a rule, certainly not of the self-indulgent flavor. It doesn't necessarily hurt to want something impossible, not that it helps either. But to act like you deserve to get it, to go ahead and take something just because you want it--that's the kind of stupidity that leaves you gut-shot and bleeding to death.

I didn't think the wind outside could blow any harder but suddenly it gusts, slamming so viciously against the side of this cheapjack motel that I put my hand up and touch the wall, just to make sure it's still solid. So weird, to think that right on the other side of that wall is fast death. The wind chill out there must be eighty, ninety below by now. It only takes seconds for my fingers to get cold, and I pull them back under the covers, careful not to put them right on his skin. As if anything could wake him right now. Under the blankets it's almost hot, I'm sweating where his skin is stuck to mine. Even asleep, he's running at 10,000 BTU.

So dark. I wonder who he was seeing when he came. Who he told himself he was kissing, whose hand he imagined was wrapped around his cock. Not mine, that's for sure.

It's going to be iffy in the morning. He can't help but see me then. I wonder...no, I know exactly what he'll do. He'll get all those words going, he'll be off to the races, and by the time he's done talking he'll have proven that neither of us was even here last night, that it was two other people having fast desperate sex in this bed, Judge Crater and Amelia Earhart or something.

Duct tape his mouth shut, tape his eyelids open, tie him up to the headboard, in broad staring daylight, head jammed forward so he's facing down at himself, so he can't not see me suck him off, so he can't not see himself come  for me. The thought turns me on so fast, so hard, that it hurts.

Fuck, this is no way to get to sleep. And I know, I know I need to sleep, but I don't want to. This moment is already sliding away from me, the smell of him, feel of his body solid against me, his skin, the heat, all disappearing.  With every breath he's floating away from me, further into that interstellar space...

You fucking idiot, Alex. Go to sleep.