|dusty (dustandroses) wrote in dustyrydersrecs,|
@ 2005-10-30 01:05:00
|Current music:||Last Train To Clarksville - The Monkees|
Title: The Last Train To Clarksville
Genre: PWP, Slash, First Time, Hurt/Comfort
Notes: I think I'll use the author's own words, here, since they cover everything so perfectly: Mulder and Skinner, the first time; a locked boxcar, it's cold and dark, there's some chocolate -- what more needs to be said? This is a PWP - it has no redeeming virtues - it does not advance the plot, doesn't explain anybody's secrets nor plumb anyone's soul. I'm rather proud of that, actually. Well, it works for me.
“Where’s your coat, Agent Mulder?”
The agent’s grin flashed whitely in the gloom. “You sound just like my mother.”
“I doubt your mother is a baritone, Mulder. Where’s your coat?”
“In the car,” Mulder said defensively. “And, before you ask, my cell-phone is in the pocket.”
“Of course it is, “ Skinner said tiredly. “Actually, I knew that. I expected that.”
“I’ve got my gun, though.”
“Well, that makes a nice change.” Skinner couldn’t help it, he began to chuckle. The sound was unwilling, creaking, as if he hadn’t done it in a while, but it was unmistakably the sound of human laughter. Mulder’s disconcerted stare did nothing to stem the tide, which threatened to degenerate into undignified and helpless giggling.
“Oh, Mulder, with a host of mutants, Senate subcommittees, assassins, alien shape changers, killer telepaths and the Beltway to choose from, we’re likely to freeze to death in a boxcar, locked in by a paranoid computer hacker with zits and a brand-new theory on the Kennedy assassination. You don’t find even the slightest bit of black humor in this situation?”
Mulder’s lips quirked a little. “There *is* a certain weird humor to it...” he admitted. “It would probably be a lot funnier if my head wasn’t pounding. When I catch up with the little asshole, I’m going to pound him into microchips."
I rate this fic: I Like This One