Title: Dead Romantic
Author: ML
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?