feedback: msnsc21[at]yahoo.com
Title: Dead Romantic
Author: ML
Email: msnsc21@yahoo.com
Feedback: appreciated and always responded to
Timeline: pre-XF
Rating: adults only, please
Synopsis: Phoebe takes Mulder on a mystery tour.
Disclaimer: They are not mine.
Note: This is a continuation of the vignette, At the Cross Keys. However, this can stand alone if you haven't read that one yet.
Many thanks to beta Carol, who gave me the correct quote and set
me on a path that ended up being much more interesting than the original!
====
"Fox, wake up."
"Fox, *wake up*!"
Fox Mulder groaned and rolled over, groping toward the other side
of the narrow bed. It was empty but still warm. He opened one eye
as the bedclothes were unceremoniously yanked away.
Christ, it was cold in Phoebe's rooms. He knew she could afford as
much coal as she wanted or even a (prohibited) electric heater. He
suspected that she did it for his benefit, the "soft American" she
accused him of being. He was beginning to notice that she had a
cruel streak.
"What's the big rush?" he asked, sitting up in bed. He leaned back
on his elbows, letting his morning erection wave hello to Phoebe.
She was generally purposeful, but he found that sometimes she
could be distracted if he used the right lure.
Phoebe ran her eyes up and down his naked form, licking her lips.
"Oh, stop showing off, Fox," she said briskly, but with a touch of
indulgence in her voice. He noted that she was wearing only
panties - knickers, he reminded himself. Her breasts were small and
pointy, her erect nipples like punctuation marks as she stood with
hands on hips, oblivious to his stare.
This was not one of those times she could be distracted, he guessed.
But he'd give it the old college try.
"What's the big rush?" he repeated, and added in what he hoped
was a seductive tone, "Come back to bed."
"Another time, perhaps," she said in a clipped tone. He never got
used to the odd juxtaposition of her drawing room English and her
wanton ways. It was one of the things he found fascinating about her.
Defeated for the moment, he crawled out of bed and hunted around
for his clothes. Try as he might, he couldn't locate his underwear.
With a shrug, he pulled his jeans on without them.
"Where are we going? Have I got time to go back to my rooms?" he
asked. "I want to change clothes." She could just as easily be
kicking him out for another engagement, but for now he'd assume
he was included in whatever plans she had. They'd spent the better
part of every weekend together for the past six weeks, not to
mention many weeknights, despite the rules about overnight guests
of the opposite sex in one's rooms.
"You're too fastidious by half," Phoebe admonished him, though he
noticed that she'd taken a shower that morning. She pulled on a pair
of fishnet tights with a huge tear in one leg. Then a scabrous-
looking denim mini-shirt, a black sheer camisole covered by a
bustier style top and a ragged denim jacket, pinned and riveted
together. She bent over to look into her dresser mirror, giving him a
good view of her backside as she applied liner to her eyes. "You'll
do fine as you are," she said. "Not scruffy enough, really, but we'll
take care of that later."
"What's the matter with the way I look?" he asked defensively. And
what was the matter with wanting to be clean, anyway?
Phoebe turned to scrutinize him. She had transformed herself from
an attractive young woman into a street punk. If he hadn't been
with her when she bought the outfit, he'd have sworn they were
someone else's cast-offs. But Phoebe was experimenting. With her
privileged background, there was no way she could be a true punk,
but it was fun to play one at the weekends.
He began to feel uncomfortable under her critical gaze. Phoebe had
a way of making him feel he didn't quite measure up, sometimes.
The only time he seemed to truly "measure up" for her was when he
was deep inside her.
She sidled up to him and gave his ass a squeeze, and sniffed his
neck. "Besides, I like the way you smell right now. Like you belong
to me." She licked his neck and then said, "But sometimes you're so
-- so -- what do you Yanks call it, 'white bread.' We'll have to see
what we can do to scruff you up a bit."
Gerard had warned him about Phoebe. How she burned her way
through men, used them up and spat them out. Gerard denied ever
falling for her himself, but to Mulder, his warning had a touch of
bitterness to it. Just sour grapes, he figured.
Yes, Phoebe could be cruel, but she was generous with sex. She'd
taught him a thing or two. He was a fast learner, though, and liked
to think he gave as good as he got. And though Phoebe might
criticize other things about him, she'd never had anything bad to
say about his sexual prowess.
Besides, he was having fun. Before Phoebe, sex had been a
tentative, fumbling sort of activity. The girls in the States never
seemed all that eager, and he'd been too much of a gentleman (and,
he had to admit to himself, too inexperienced) to press the issue
past a little touching and kissing. But on his first time with Phoebe,
she'd literally taken him in hand. Maybe Gerard was right, and he
was being led around by his cock, but that was okay with him, at
least for the time being.
"Come on then," she said. She pulled him downstairs where a car
waited.
The car looked and sounded like it was on it last legs. The driver
was as punked-out as Phoebe, but to Mulder he looked like the
genuine article. Pasty-faced, grimy clothes, smelling of stale sweat
and cigarettes, he leaned out the car window and growled at
Phoebe, "What took yer so long, you bloody cow?"
Mulder guessed it was a term of affection, as Phoebe bent down
and planted an open-mouth kiss on him. He couldn't turn his head
away as Phoebe let this guy practically crawl inside her mouth.
"Sorry, Stan," she said cheerily. "It's Fox's fault. He wouldn't
get out of bed. Guess I wore him out last night."
Stan gave Mulder a skeleton grin, displaying a mouthful of
nicotine-stained teeth. "Fucked yer brains out, did she mate? She's
good at it, is our Phoebe."
"Come *on*, Fox," Phoebe said before Mulder could react to that bit
of news.
She got in the front seat and Mulder had no choice but to get in
back. The noise of the radio and the rattletrap car made it
impossible to hear what was being said. He didn't like Stan's
familiar ways with Phoebe, but she didn't seem to mind.
"Where are we going?" he yelled above the din of the car and the
radio.
"Mystery tour," Phoebe said, and turned her attention back to Stan.
He resigned himself to waiting until Phoebe was ready to reveal
her plans. He could do nothing but stare at the back of their heads,
and to notice when Stan's hand wandered over to Phoebe's thigh.
He had no doubt she could keep Stan in line, even though Stan
seemed as smitten by her as most men did. Pounding Stan into the
pavement was not an option right now, so he settled back into the
back seat and tried to glare a hole in the back of Stan's head instead.
He'd not tried to analyze what it was about Phoebe that men
responded to -- maybe because it was too much like self-analysis.
Now, with nothing else to do, he wondered. It couldn't be just sex,
he told himself. At least he and Phoebe had more in common than
that. She had the same interest in psychology as he did. They'd
traded true-crime tales from their respective countries. She'd
shared some tales that made Charles Manson look like a choir boy.
They'd visited Madame Tussaud's together, not to see the celebrity
waxworks, but to visit the gallery which held depictions of some of
the self-same true crime tales Phoebe had told. They liked many of
the same authors, and shared a fascination with the study of the
criminal mind.
But what did Stan see in her? It was obvious that he was not now,
nor was he ever likely to be, a member of any college. He'd thought
that punks were scornful of the upper classes, though maybe that
was the appeal. Maybe they were each using the other. It seemed so
textbook that he doubted his own analysis.
There was a scent of danger around Phoebe. She seemed fearless
and uncaring of what others thought of her. She was splashy,
flamboyant, in-your-face, but could turn on a dime and be a
sophisticated member of the Aristocracy if the occasion demanded
it.
As someone who'd learned to try and be invisible, to not attract
attention to himself, he was fascinated by someone who cared so
little for public opinion. Even though she didn't seem to give a
damn, she could play the part when necessary.
It seemed like a very useful skill. He admired it, thought it might
be worth cultivating himself. But right now, it was pissing him off.
Phoebe was definitely a woman of parts, but she was just a little too
free sharing some of them.
Eventually, despite his intent to remain vigilant, he fell asleep.
x-x-x
"Fox, we're here."
He sat up and looked around blearily. "Here" seemed to be an
ordinary, if somewhat shabby, street in an unknown town. He
wasn't sure how long he'd slept, and the sky was too overcast to tell
what time it was. He rubbed his eyes.
"Sleepin' Beauty," Stan sneered. Now that he was standing outside
the car, Stan's true size was revealed, and Mulder lost all interest
in a display of physical superiority. Stan was at least a head
shorter, small and bandy-legged. He was the very image of
something one might find under a rock. The word vampire crossed
his mind, and he scoffed at himself, then thought bantam rooster as
Stan noticed him smirking and bristled.
He got out of the car and stretched, standing beside Stan.
Stan ignored him as he would ignore a lamp post. "Let's get this
effing show on the effing road," he suggested to Phoebe, and
stumped to the nearest door, yanking it open and climbing up the
stairs it revealed without a backward look.
"Phoebe, what the hell is going on?" Mulder demanded in a low
tone. "Where are we?"
"Fox, you have to promise you'll be open-minded about this," she
said. "It's a little social experiment. Just a bit of fun on the
weekend." She gave him a long kiss, a promise of more to come.
"Trust me."
"Okay," he agreed reluctantly, not really knowing what he was
agreeing to, but deciding to trust her until proven otherwise.
"Where are we?" he asked again.
"We're in Sussex. Near Crowborough in fact. Do you remember
what's in Crowborough?"
"I haven't the foggiest," he said.
"Elementary, my dear Fox. We're in Conan Doyle country."
"He lived somewhere near here, didn't he?"
"That's my bright boy," she cooed. "He did indeed live here. Died
here too. He was buried in the garden of his house. Do you like my
surprise so far?"
"Yeah, it's great," he said sarcastically. "How does Stan figure in
all of this? Is he the caretaker or something?"
"No, of course not. I just wanted to make this more than an
ordinary day-tripper experience. It's an interesting juxtaposition,
don't you think? Punk and Victoriana; polar opposites. You get to
see two worlds in one."
"You've missed your calling," Mulder said. "You should be a tour
guide."
"I'm content to be just *your* guide," she said, sliding her hand up
his jeans-clad backside. "In fact, there's quite a lot I want you to
experience today. We'll just call it a part of your education." She
turned and led the way up the stairs Stan had taken.
Student rooms could be dens of squalor, but this place had the
worst of them beat. The walls were spray painted with every
epithet imaginable, and a few he'd never seen before. It smelled of
piss and beer and smoke.
Stan kicked at a pile of clothes on a mattress by the door.
"Gerrup," he said.
The clothes moved and resolved themselves into another young
man -- more of a boy, really, just as pasty as Stan but rather taller.
He blinked in the harsh overhead light.
"Go change, Niall," he ordered, and the other man rose and shuffled
off to another room. Mulder sized him up. He was almost as tall as
Mulder, though maybe it was only the ratty Mohawk that gave the
impression.
"Me brother," Stan offered, jerking his head toward the departing
Niall, "and this is Mab," he pointed to another lump which had
resolved itself into a waif-like girl, wearing an oversized tee shirt
and not much else.
"Mab, go get yer stuff," he ordered, and shouted as she left the
room, "and get me some tea." He went off in the direction Niall had
gone.
Mulder started to ask again what the hell was going on, when Stan
reappeared with a bundle of clothes in his arms. "Where's the fifty
quid you promised?" He demanded of Phoebe.
"Pay the man, Fox," Phoebe said.
"What for?" He asked, getting his wallet out all the same.
"Costume rental, you might say," Phoebe replied. "And a spot of
transformation."
A minute later, Mulder was sitting in the only chair in the place
while Phoebe and Mab messed with his hair. He could hear
snipping and spraying and felt pulling, but there was no mirror to
see what was going on.
Phoebe cast a critical eye over their efforts. "He needs something
more," she decided.
"A black eye, maybe?" Stan suggested. "A fat lip?"
"How about an earring? Or a nose ring?" Mab suggested, the first
words she'd spoken.
Mulder was about to protest when Phoebe said, "I think just an
earring would do."
Mab went back into the kitchen and came back with an ice cube,
and a needle stuck into a cork. Stan produced a bottle of whiskey.
He took a swig and offered it around.
Mab started rubbing the ice cube on Mulder's earlobe, and he
jerked away, knocking the chair over.
Phoebe took his hand and brought him back to sit, kneeling in front
of him. "You're fine, Fox. Don't you trust me? You promised you'd
trust me."
He almost shook his head, but Phoebe looked so sincere that he
relented. He took the bottle that Stan offered and took a large
swallow. Before he knew what was happening, Mab had stuck the
needle through his earlobe.
He would not show a reaction. Not in front of Stan and Phoebe.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Phoebe asked, taking a swallow of
whiskey herself and leaning in to kiss him. She took out one of the
three studs in her ear and inserted it into Mulder's.
"Aw, how sweet," Stan smirked. "Like yer engaged or somethink."
He picked up the bundle of clothes and dumped them in Mulder's
lap. "Niall needs 'em back by tomorrow morning or he'll keep yer
stuff," he said. "C'mon, give over."
No way in hell was he changing in front of these people. "Where's
the bathroom?"
Stan jerked his head. "Through there, Lover Boy."
If possible, the bathroom was more squalid than the main room of
the flat. He tried not to touch anything.
The clothes were still slightly warm -- Niall must have literally
given him the clothes off his back. Faded black tee shirt, ripped at
the neck, and black jeans stiff with dye and who knew what other
substances, held together along one leg with safety pins. He'd never
considered himself overly fastidious, but it was vaguely creepy
putting on someone else's clothes, a stranger's clothes. He really
regretted not having his underwear now.
The ensemble was topped off by a leather jacket so old it was
decaying, the lining inside shredded, the powdery outside surface
seemingly held together by patches and buttons protesting or
proclaiming anything and everything.
He glanced at the mirror and a stranger stared back at him. His
hair was black in patches, and spiked out haphazardly, like he'd
combed it with a pair of scissors. A trickle of blood had dried on
his earlobe. He curled his lip at the image in the mirror. He was
surprised at how dangerous he looked, even to himself. More Billy
Idol than Elvis now, he decided. His ear hurt. That would probably
keep him snarling.
There was a moment of silence when he returned to the main room.
Phoebe's stare was approving; Stan appeared shocked for a split
second before his usual don't care sneer reasserted itself. Mulder
mirrored his stare for a few seconds, until Stan bent down to pick
up a pair of heavy, lug-soled boots.
"Lose the pansy trainers, mate," Stan said, and threw the boots at
Mulder's head.
Mulder caught them easily, his reflexes honed by years of baseball
and basketball. He curled his lip at Stan.
"Thanks 'mate,' he sneered back.
At least he had his own socks.
Phoebe looked him up and down and sauntered up to him,
plastering herself against him. "You look amazing," she said. "You
feel amazing, too," she whispered in his ear. "You're not wearing
any underwear, are you?"
As if she didn't know. He suspected that she'd hidden them from
him this morning. All a part of the fun and games. He sneered at
her, because he could. The whiskey wasn't sitting well on his empty
stomach.
"Time to go play," Phoebe said, tugging at his hand. "Are you
coming?" she asked Stan and Mab.
"I'm yer fuckin' chauffeur, ain't I?" Stan said by way of answer.
Mab seemed like a sparrow in the company of crows. No amount of
black lipstick or eye liner could change that. She had an almost
cherubic face compared to the rest of them. She sat quietly in the
back seat next to Mulder, looking out the window, paying no
attention to either him or the two in the front seat.
Stan stopped outside a fish and chips shop and sent Mab in while
he took Mulder down the street to the off-license. He grabbed beer
and cigarettes and sauntered up to the counter. The clerk viewed
them both with suspicion.
"Pay the man," Stan ordered Mulder. The clerk looked at the notes
and Mulder suspiciously, but took his money and gave him the change.
Mulder felt the man's eyes boring into the back of his head as they
left the shop.
The car was redolent with the smell of hot grease when they got in.
Brown paper sacks sat on the back seat between Mab and Mulder as
Stan drove them away from town, toward open country.
They arrived at a car park where signs indicated picnic areas
nearby. The car park was nearly empty; not such a surprise on a late
autumn day threatening rain.
Mulder noticed a couple of people packed up their things
hurriedly as their group approached the picnic area.
"Your reputation precedes you, Stan," Phoebe said.
"I think it's Lover Boy scarin' 'em off," Stan said. You shoulda
seen the look on the guy's face in the off-license." He sounded
almost proud of Mulder.
What was next? Beating up other picnickers? A spot of armed
robbery? Mulder didn't truly think Phoebe would knowingly
involve himself or her in something like that, but he wondered if
Phoebe really knew Stan that well.
And yet Stan was solicitous of Mab in an offhand way. He'd gotten
her lemonade at the off-license. He frowned at her when she lit up a
cigarette. He wasn't sure what Mab was to Stan, but his concern was
almost brotherly.
On the other hand, Stan amused himself by flicking lighted matches
at Mulder while they ate. Mulder didn't even flinch, though he saw
Phoebe watching him closely. He smoked defiantly, taking long
drags and just happening to let the smoke out in Stan's direction.
Until he'd met Phoebe he hadn't smoked at all. Another new
experience thanks to her.
He also watched Stan pawing Phoebe, who didn't seem to mind. He
wondered how Mab felt about that. She said nothing, and hardly
seemed to notice what Stan was doing. He leaned in and whispered
to her, "Is Stan your brother?"
She nodded slightly. Mulder was somewhat relieved; she seemed
too young to be with such a hardened yegg as Stan. He wondered if
the flat they'd been to was their only home, if Mab was even old
enough to be out of school. He started to ask her something else |
when Stan interrupted.
"Leave Mab alone," Stan said menacingly. He flicked his cigarette
at Mulder.
"Knock it off," Mulder said quietly. Enough was enough.
"Think you can make me, Pretty Boy?" Stan asked, standing up.
Mulder stood up too, this time deciding to take full advantage of
his physical superiority over Stan. "Yeah."
The two young men sized each other up. Mulder wondered,
belatedly, if Stan had a weapon of some kind. Mulder didn't even
carry a penknife.
Phoebe watched them both but said nothing.
Mab didn't say anything either, but stepped over and put her hand
on Stan's arm. He shook it off but he also relaxed imperceptibly,
allowing Mulder to back off a little, too.
"I've had enough of you and yer Pretty Boy," Stan said to Phoebe.
"You can find yer own way home." He stepped a little closer to
Phoebe, evidently finding it more comfortable to menace a female.
"I should make Pretty Boy take off Niall's clobber right here."
Phoebe stared back at Stan, a small smile on her lips. It was hard
to tell if this was going according to some plan she'd already
worked out in her head, or if she was waiting for Mulder to make a
move. Was this part of the 'experience' she promised him or just a
bonus extra?
He wasn't sure he was ready to get himself killed for Phoebe.
All at once, Stan was backing down. "C'mon Mab, we got better
things to do than play games with the toffs." Mulder started after
them but it was Phoebe's turn to do the restraining. "Let them go,
Fox. I was getting tired of Stan anyway. He's not worth fighting
with. Though I am flattered." She pecked him on the cheek. "I was
afraid you'd let him get away with something."
Mulder had begun to suspect that Stan was more flash than action,
but he wasn't sure that Phoebe was aware of that. Then again, she
was brilliant. Everyone said so, and he'd been pretty impressed
himself with the depth of her knowledge about some arcane
subjects. But trying to determine who knew what in this situation,
and what their motivations were, was beginning to give him a headache.
Phoebe slipped her arm through his. "Someone'll give us a ride,"
she said optimistically.
The car park was empty, and no one along the road seemed
inclined to pick up a pair dressed as they were. It took a while to
get somewhere to call a cab to pick them up, and even then Mulder
had to show the cabby that he had money before he'd let them in.
The cab let them off on the main street in Crowborough. It was late
afternoon, but there were still plenty of people on the streets.
There were none that looked like Phoebe and him, though. They
were definitely on the wrong side of the tracks. He'd never felt so
out of place anywhere in his life. He turned and stared back at some
of the gawkers, amazed when they backed off. He hadn't even had to show his snarl.
"This looks like a good place," Phoebe said gaily, and pulled him
into The Sherlock Holmes Pub. "Not a very original name, but I
suppose that's to be expected," she said, nibbling on his ear.
Mulder noticed the stares of disapproval over their public display
of affection, but their eyes slid away from him as they passed. Stan
would probably have cussed them out, said "What are you starin'
at, you old cow?" or worse, but the most Mulder did was look at
them. The outfit, he supposed, did the rest.
He tried to be as oblivious to the stir they caused as Phoebe
appeared to be. He'd been stared at and whispered over in the past,
though for vastly different reasons. It was no more comfortable now
to be suspected of something because of his appearance than it had
been to be suspected because of who he was when he was twelve.
He felt other patrons pull away slightly as he approached the bar.
He felt, rather than saw, one older man nudge another. He heard the
man say, just loud enough, "Looks like one o'them crows escaped
again."
"Yair," the other man said, very quietly into his beer, and Mulder
turned to look at them. He caught a glimpse of fear in Beer Guy's
face.
Afraid of him? What a novelty.
He took the beers back to the table where Phoebe waited.
"Isn't this fun?" she asked, eyes sparkling.
"Fun for whom?" he asked. The bar was filled with people, many of
them sneaking glances at their table.
"Are we done with your little experiment?" he asked. Niall's boots
were a bit too small, and his feet were sore after the long walk.
"Where's your sense of adventure?" Phoebe asked.
"I think I left it in my other pants," Mulder said. "Niall is
probably having the time of his life."
"You just have to ignore them," Phoebe said, gesturing toward the
pub at large. "We've as much right to be here as they."
"This isn't us," he said with a hiss. "No one would care if we
didn't look this way."
"Exactly," Phoebe said. "Do you dislike being the center of
attention so much? At a guess I'd say that plenty of people notice
you, all the time. You just don't respond to them. *I* noticed you.
You'd stand out in a crowd no matter how you dressed. This is just
a different kind of attention than you're used to, a kind you can't
ignore, really. Isn't that it?"
"I didn't ask to be psychoanalyzed by you," he said.
"You're just proving my point," she said.
"And what point would that be?" he asked. "That I don't like
making an ass of myself?"
"That you're too comfortable in your own narrow little world,"
Phoebe answered. "That you're suspicious of change, or of anything
that's not your own idea. You Americans are all alike."
"If I'd known I was representing my whole country, maybe I would
have tried harder," Mulder retorted. "I apologize on behalf of my
countrymen and will take defeat gracefully. Let's get out of here."
"And go where? We can't go back to Stan's. He has to cool off.
And besides, you haven't gotten your money's worth yet. I thought
you Americans knew the value of a dollar -- or a pound, in this case."
"You can stop referring to me as 'you Americans' any time now,"
Mulder said. "In case you've forgotten, my name is Fox Mulder. I'm
here for my own reasons, not to further British-American relations."
Phoebe changed tack. "But you're doing such a good job," she
pressed her breasts against his arm and whispered in his ear. "And I
haven't given you your surprise yet." She licked his earlobe.
"Has it got something to do with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.
"Maybe," Phoebe said. "You'll see. Have another beer first. We've
plenty of time."
It was full dark when they left the pub. The air was much chillier,
with more than a hint of rain in the air.
Mulder stood back a little as Phoebe hailed a cab. The driver
stopped for her, though he blanched a bit at Mulder's appearance.
"Windlesham Manor," Phoebe told the driver.
The driver looked her up and down. "Are you sure?" he asked.
Phoebe nodded and let her eyes go wide. "I'm going to visit my
gran," she said.
"Right you are," the cabby said, with another glance at Mulder.
Windlesham was in an area of nice, estate-like homes. It may have
been in the country in Sir Arthur's day, but no longer. A sign on
the gate said, "Windlesham Manor Home for the Aged." It was
locked, but there was a call button.
"Your grandmother is here?" Mulder asked.
"Don't be dense, Fox. This was Sir Arthur's home." She lowered her
voice. "He's buried in the rose garden."
"Really? Well, it looks like visiting hours are over. Let's go."
He'd had one too many beers and just wanted to find some place to
lie down. As long as it wasn't Stan's place.
"I just wanted to get the lay of the land," she said. "We'll come
back later."
"Later, as in tomorrow?" he asked hopefully.
"No, later tonight. When we're sure everyone's gone to bed."
"Why?" he asked.
"Aren't you curious?" she asked.
"I could be just as curious in the light of day, and I'll bet they'd
even let us in through the gate," he said.
"What's the fun in that?" she asked.
It had stopped being fun for him a while ago, but he couldn't say
that to Phoebe. She just got more stubborn as he objected more. He
gave up.
x-x-x
Back in the business district they found a movie house to go to, to
kill a little time. Phoebe enjoyed the looks they got when they
asked for two tickets to a family film. They sat in the back of the
theater, away from the rest of the audience, and kissed and fondled
each other until Mulder was in such a high state of arousal he could
hardly walk. He hoped that Phoebe was in the same state and
would just forget about the nocturnal visit to Windlesham.
The town clock chimed ten as they left the theater.
"Time for a nightcap," Phoebe decided. "Then we can go pay our
respects to Sir Arthur."
They went to a different pub, one with a more eclectic mix of
clientele. Neither of them got so much as a glance. Mulder went to
the men's room. A beer and a shot glass of whiskey awaited him at
the table when he came out. Phoebe waited until he sat down, then
tossed back her shot, following with a swallow of beer.
He eyed his drink.
"Go on, then," she said.
He'd never liked the smell or the taste of whiskey. It reminded him
too much of home, the sour smell on his father's breath, the strained
silences. The swig he'd taken earlier that day was just showing off -
- trying to prove something to Stan, or Phoebe, whatever. But here,
in this steamy crowded pub, with Phoebe pressed up against his
side, the light glinting off the golden liquor, it was different. He
picked up the shot glass and tossed it back, the unaccustomed burn
making his eyes water. He took a deep drink of his beer, letting the
cool mildness flow through him.
Phoebe giggled. "I'll make a man of you yet, Fox."
The drink went in two directions at once: straight to his head, and
straight to his groin, helped by the fact that Phoebe had her hand as
close as she could get to his erection without actually touching it.
She was whispering in his ear again, using the opportunity to bite
his earlobe -- fortunately, the one without the stud in it.
"I want you so much right now," she whispered. "Let's go." She
rose and gestured to him to follow her.
"Where are we going?" he asked. Please not Stan's, he thought again.
"Why, to see Sir Arthur, of course," she said. "It's a perfect
night -- look at the moon through the clouds. It's like something
out of 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'."
He'd hoped she'd forgotten. "Let's just wait until tomorrow," he
said, hoping that this was one of the times she could be distracted.
He pulled her by the waist, pressing himself against her. Maybe
they could find a dark doorway. That's what Stan would do. The
thought enflamed him even more.
"I want to see it tonight. I'll make it worth your while," she
said, rubbing in just the right spot to make him bite back a groan.
It was easier to agree with her than to argue with her. He'd
already experienced Phoebe's way of making her displeasure
known. He didn't want to be left all night with a raging hard-on just
because he couldn't wait a few minutes longer to be gratified.
He still thought about the dark doorway, and as they walked down
the quiet streets, he pulled her into one and kissed her, pressing his
body into hers, pushing her against the door. For a few moments,
Phoebe went with it, then began to push him away. She licked her
lips and appraised him, thinking about it. He couldn't see her eyes,
but felt her calculation.
"Come on," she said finally, leading him back to the main street.
He went, the moment obviously past.
The neighborhood around Windlesham was quiet and very dark.
The house too was dark and quiet; all the residents sound asleep
for the night. There seemed to be no night watchman or caretaker in
evidence.
"The rose garden is along the side of the house. His study
overlooked it," she said.
In his inebriated/aroused state, it was a little difficult to scale
the wall. Somehow Phoebe was able to get over it before him. She
walked sure-footedly in the grass along the gravel path, relying on
the scant moonlight to pick her way.
"Here it is," she said, gesturing.
There was no plaque that he could see, no stone to commemorate,
just a small hedge surrounding a patch of lawn and a couple of rose bushes.
"Shouldn't there be a headstone?" he whispered.
"Wouldn't want to upset the old people," she said.
"Don't they know?" he asked.
"Probably not," she said. "It's one of those well-kept secrets."
They stood looking at the moonlit garden for a moment.
"Cool," he said. "Can we go now?"
"I have a better idea," Phoebe said. "The perfect way to mark the
occasion." She put her hand on his cock and squeezed.
Stars exploded in his head. "You're kidding, right?" he asked when
he could speak.
"Doesn't it seem desperately romantic?"
"No, it seems a little...creepy," he said.
"You're not shocked, are you Fox? D'you think we're the first to
think of this?"
"Would you like it?" he countered.
It was the wrong question to ask her. "Why not? Wouldn't you like
to think of people enjoying themselves above your final resting
place? I'd rather be alive than dead, but who's to say that the
grave is so fine and private as Donne says? Maybe we'll go to his
grave next and test the theory out."
"In the middle of St. Paul's? We'd be arrested for sure."
"I had no idea you were such a scare-cat, Fox. Or maybe you're just
a prude. Oh well, I guess you're just not that interested in me.
Maybe I'll go back to Stan's after all." She turned and took a few
steps away.
It was blatant blackmail, and he didn't believe for a minute that
she meant it. But he couldn't deny how aroused he was. It wasn't
the place as such; but the illicitness, and Phoebe's willing
complicity.
And the fact that Stan would probably do it. In fact, perhaps he
already had.
He grabbed her arm. "Not so fast," he said.
"That's more like it," she grinned. She rubbed her body against
him, her hand once more finding the bulge in his jeans and
squeezing it. This time he was braced for it.
She moved away from him, and beckoned him forward. "Come on,
don't keep me waiting."
He stumbled after her, fumbling at the unfamiliar belt and buttons.
"Lie down," she said. "D'you expect me to act as a cushion for you?
Let your ass be the one on the cold ground for a change."
He realized fleetingly that she couldn't be referring to him. They'd
never had sex anywhere but a bed, so far. Then other more urgent
matters wiped it out of his mind.
He pulled his pants down. Yes, the ground was cold under his ass.
But when Phoebe straddled him he forgot all about it.
She stripped off her upper garments, her breasts gleaming in the
dappled moonlight. He reached for them, and she slapped his
hands away. "I don't like it when you grab at me," she said, though
she'd never complained before. She'd seemed to like things a little
rough. "Be nice," she admonished him.
He was going to explode. He could feel her heat, so close, yet she
had him pinned down both literally and figuratively.
"Wh-what do you want?" he managed to blurt out. Any fear of
being caught was overwhelmed by his immediate need for relief
from this torture.
"I want you to ask nicely," she said. "Tell me what you want."
"I thought," he puffed, "that you wanted me to be a bad boy."
"But you're not, are you? You're really a nice boy, and all you
want to do is please me, right?"
"Y-yeah," he agreed. Anything. Anything she wanted.
Then say it," she said.
"I wanna...I wanna please you," he gasped desperately.
Phoebe smiled. "I love to see you like this," she said. "Man,
reduced to his elemental self, with no control over anything, and no
desire save one. They say that the hand that rocks the cradle rules
the world, but I think it's the hand that holds the cock, don't you?"
Mulder couldn't reply. If he tried, all he'd do was groan, he was
certain. Later, he might think of something smooth and
contradictory, but at the moment she was right. He didn't want her
to be right, but he had no choice.
"Oh very well," she said. "Did you remember to bring condoms?"
Oh fuck. Or not, it appeared. This time he did groan. Just kill
me now, he thought.
She stood up, then she grinned. "No worries, love, I'm always
prepared." She took one out of the pocket of her skirt, and removed
her fishnets and underwear, leaving the skirt on. She straddled him
again, holding the shiny packet between her teeth and ripping it
open. She rolled it onto his straining cock. Then, rising slightly,
she sank down on him.
The shock of her warmth suddenly sheathing him nearly rendered
him unconscious. He was afraid that one stroke would undo him,
and Phoebe would never let him hear the end of it.
She yanked on his chest hair, bringing him back to earth. "Why am I
doing all the work here?"
He began to thrust up into her, his back and his legs protesting.
But as a reward, Phoebe leaned over him, dangling her breasts near
enough to his mouth that he could capture one.
Phoebe urged him on. He increased the pace as much as he was
able, digging his heels in to gain more leverage. Within moments
Phoebe gave out a sharp, "Oh!" and collapsed against him.
He was still hard inside her but Phoebe wasn't moving. He gently
bit her earlobe. No response.
"Phoebe?"
"Um..." she replied, but didn't move.
"I think I hear someone coming," he whispered desperately.
"That must've been me..." she whispered back, but began to roll off
of him. "You still have a little problem," she observed. "Well, not
so little," she amended. She reached for him and rolled the rubber
off, stroking him briskly. After a few seconds, he had his release,
though not as satisfactorily as he'd anticipated. He took the tissues
she offered and cleaned himself up.
"If you messed up Niall's clothes, he'll just have to keep yours,"
she said.
Spent and humiliated, Mulder stood up, made sure all his buttons
were buttoned and buckles buckled, and walked away.
"Where are you going, Fox?" she called softly after him.
"Home," he said. "Playtime's over."
"Don't be such a poor sport, Fox," she said a little more loudly.
He kept walking.
It was highly unlikely that he'd find a cab in this part of town at
this time of night, and even less likely that one would actually stop
for him dressed as he was. He walked back to the center of town.
The mist was starting to turn into a light drizzle and by the time he
found the train station his person was as damp as his spirit. He
curled up on a bench to wait for the station to open.
He wasn't sure how much later he felt her hand ruffling through his
hair.
"I'm sorry, Fox," Phoebe said. She'd changed from her punk attire
into ordinary jeans and a sweater, transformed back into a fresh-
faced twenty-something. Nothing could change those big, sensuous
lips, though. "Forgive me?"
He shook her hand off and burrowed his head in his arm. His feet
hurt, his pride hurt, and there was probably gravel embedded in
his ass.
"I have a room at the pub," she wheedled. "A big, soft, warm bed
and your favorite cuddle toy."
He opened one eye and glanced at her. "I'm better off here," he
mumbled.
"I said I'm sorry, Fox. What more do you want?" She started
stroking his hair again, still stiff from the crap they'd put in it
earlier. "There's a tub big enough for two -- but I won't force my
attentions on you. I'm just trying to make up."
He still didn't answer, but he was starting to feel a little better.
"So you've had a bad experience, and we've had our first fight.
We've had a good time otherwise, haven't we?"
Slowly he sat up. He couldn't say that everything that occurred was
bad. Just most of it. But he remembered what he'd told himself
earlier. They were still learning about each other. So what if
Phoebe pushed him a little too far out of his comfort zone? Besides,
bed sounded wonderful, Phoebe or not.
"Okay," he said grudgingly. "If you think they'll let me in,
looking like this."
"They will," she said smugly. "You'll be with me. And I have some
clothes for you. Niall can keep yours."
"He can have his back, too," Mulder said. Especially the fucking
boots.
"I think I like you better as Fox Mulder anyway," Phoebe said.
"You're too frighteningly good at role-playing, no matter how you
feel about it. Even Stan thought it was creepy."
He allowed himself to be led out of the train station, but Phoebe's
words gave him pause. It had been easy to "channel" Stan once he
got into it. How much of that was his own preconceived notions of
who Stan was, and how much of it was truly understanding him?
That was a thought for later. At the moment, all he wanted was a
bath and the warm bed. Phoebe was optional, and even she seemed
to realize it. He suspected, however, that she wouldn't stay
subdued for long.
x-x-x
The next morning, fortified by a little early-morning sex followed
by a substantial breakfast, he was ready to put the whole weekend
behind him. Phoebe had been sweetly compliant in bed that
morning, and now she just kept smiling at him and touching his hand as they finished their breakfast. The attention they were
getting from the staff and their fellow diners was quite different
than what they'd experienced the previous day. He was wearing
ordinary clothes. The hair dye had mostly washed out and now he
just looked like he'd been the victim of a bad haircut. His ear still
hurt from the crude piercing but he'd given Phoebe back the
earring, and the hole hardly showed. He and Phoebe each looked
like One of Them.
It made him feel hypocritical. Even if he looked like them, he
wasn't one of them. He never would be. And whatever Phoebe
might think of him, he didn't want to be. He didn't want to be Stan,
either.
He just wasn't sure exactly what it was he wanted.
"All in all, I think it was a successful experiment, don't you?" she
asked.
"As in, you achieved the outcome that you expected, or that you
learned something new?" he asked.
"A bit of both, actually," she said with a mysterious smile.
"I'm not sure I like being your test subject," he said.
"Don't you feel amply rewarded?" she asked. "Did you do anything
you truly didn't want to do? I may have applied some pressure, but
no force."
He had to admit this was true, finding himself once again on the
losing side of an argument with Phoebe.
"Don't take it to heart, Fox. I'm quite fond of you, you know.
That should reassure you, since one should never get too fond of
one's test subject."
"And what was Stan?" he couldn't help but ask.
"Just my lab assistant," she said. "He means nothing to me, really.
He was a, shall we say, a convenience?"
"At least I know I'm not just another pretty face to you," he said
lightly, though Phoebe's choice of words to describe him, as well as
her expression, gave him a frisson of unease.
"Never that," she said, touching his cheek briefly. "It's just part
of your charm. You'll thank me some day for this, I'm sure."
"I'm sure," he echoed her words, but not her certainty.
end.
=====
A few notes on the setting of this story:
When I started out writing this story, it was set in Minstead, which
is Sir Arthur's current resting place.
However, my beta pointed out to me that Phoebe mentions "a
youthful indiscretion" atop Sir Arthur's tomb in Windlesham, not Minstead.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did start out buried "in a vertical position"
in the rose garden at Windlesham Manor, as was his second wife.
Twenty-three years after his death (around 1953), they were both
moved to a churchyard in Minstead. Today Windlesham Manor is a
nursing home in the town of Crowborough.
What to do? Follow canon or historical accuracy? I split the
difference. It seemed like more fun that way.
It's possible that there is still something commemorating Sir
Arthur's first resting place, but I'm guessing it isn't anything as
large as a tomb, considering what Windlesham Manor is today.
Crowborough didn't even have a statue for their most famous
resident until the early 90's.
For the purposes of my story I decided that the fact that he was
once buried there is not widely advertised, and kept low-key at the
manor itself. After all, if you lived in a retirement home, would
you want to look out at a tomb in the garden, even if it's the tomb
of someone famous? Talk about memento mori.
Though I've tried to get the general locations correct, I've taken a
few liberties with the town of Crowborough itself. Any errors or
misstatements are mine.
Did Phoebe ever tell Mulder the truth about Sir Arthur's final
resting place? Did he find out on his own? What's your guess?