DISTRIBUTION: X-Files Discipline sites, okay. Anywhere else probably okay, but please ask.
RATING: NC17
SPOILERS: Paper Hearts
KEYWORDS: Discipline, Slash, Skinner/Mulder
SUMMARY: This is a discipline first-time story, a prequel to Bringing Him Close, told from Mulder's point of view. It's a missing scene from Paper Hearts, taking place at the end of the day John Lee Roche is shot, before Skinner, Mulder, and Scully leave Boston to return to D.C.
DISCLAIMER: Skinner, Scully and Mulder belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox.
FEEDBACK: Welcome. Send it to geoffrey2@cox.net

THE WORST AND THE BEST
By Geoffrey
May 24, 1999

Almost midnight, and we've just checked into a new hotel after finishing up at the bus yard, the Ross home, and the Revere police station. On the third floor of this Holiday Inn, mine and Scully's rooms are across the hall from each other, and Skinner's is a few doors down. But when we get to Scully's door he stops, and I almost run into him.

"We'll see you in the morning, Agent Scully. Agent Mulder and I have some things we need to discuss."

It sounds ominous, but I guess it's not unexpected. Scully glances briefly at me. She can't protect me from Skinner's wrath, and I find sympathy in her eyes. Her own anger she'll put on hold until we return to D.C. Behind Skinner, I shrug, and manage half a smile at her. Looking up at him, she sighs.

"Good night, sir." One more time she meets my eyes. "Good night, Mulder."

And then she's gone, and I'm alone with him in the hallway. Turning to face me, he gestures toward my door. I unlock it and let him enter before me, and he immediately crosses the room, dropping his bag in front of the dresser, and turning on the heat. Following behind him, I set my own bag down near the closet and then head back toward the door to use the bathroom.

This isn't just a diversion; I really need to go. But it buys me a little time to collect myself before I have to listen to what he has to say. This is probably the end of my career. Will the blow come swiftly, or will I be subjected to a lecture first? Staring at myself in the mirror, I make note of what tie I'm wearing, what shirt, what suit, burning this pre-dismissal image of myself into my memory. Pain is coming my way, and I want to feel it intensely, with every fiber of my flesh. When I look back on this loss, I want it to be crystal clear.

After a minute I'm as ready as I'll ever be, and I return to the main area, tossing my jacket onto the bed. Skinner has also removed his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. That's my clue; I guess this is going to take a while. A round table in front of the window is surrounded by four straight-backed chairs. He takes one of them and sets it between the foot of the bed and the dresser, and then looks at me.

"Sit." I do as he says. He walks toward me -- I fight the urge to flinch -- and past me to the bathroom. "Stay there."

While he uses the toilet, I look around the room, memorizing it as well. The lamp on the far side of the bed is on, and the hall light behind me, near the door. Enough light for me to record the decorative prints on the wall, the pattern in the fabric of the drapes and bedspread, the curves of the rosewood stained oak furniture, the diamond motif woven into the carpet. This, then, will be the place of my loss. When he comes back into the room he turns off the bathroom and hall lights, and now, with the room dimly lit, I feel I'm about to be interrogated.

He paces. I'm tempted to speak first, to try to explain myself, to make excuses. Isn't that what I normally do? But the thing of it is, this time, I'm so much in the wrong. I can't deny it. What can I possibly say to justify what I've done? So instead I say nothing, and wait, watching him while he treads back and forth before me.

"Do you remember the first time you faced a gun pointed at you?"

His question takes me by surprise. I guess I expected him to launch into a catalog of my sins. That's what he usually does. That's been the pattern for every dressing down he's given me for the past three years. But this, I don't know where he's going with this. All I can do is answer the question.

"Yes."

"Remember the first time you saw someone killed?" He's so quiet, as if he's just interviewing me. Only his continued pacing betrays his fury.

"Yes."

A few moments pass before his next question. Then, "Do you still have nightmares about it?"

Fuck, yes. Don't I have nightmares about everything? "Yes."

"How old were you?" Shit. He's made his point, but he doesn't stop, he digs in. "How old is Caitlin Ross?"

I don't have answers for him; I just look away. I've hated myself all day, but he intends to make it worse.

"Tell me, Mulder. Did anything really bad ever happen to you when you were a child?

Much worse. I fight back the tears that want to well up in my eyes. I don't answer; he doesn't want an answer. He knows the answer, but he doesn't stop. He looks at me dead on, waiting until I meet his eyes.

"Did you get over it?" He comes closer to me. "How about this little girl? Do you think she'll get over it, Mulder? Counting down to her own death? Facing the guns, hearing the shots? Feeling the blood? What do you think, Mulder?"

Up until now he's restrained himself, but by the end of this he's literally vibrating with anger. And he doesn't stop looking at me, and I can't make myself look away. His next words strike deepest in me.

"What did you do, Mulder? You endangered the living to identify the *dead*. You can't justify that. And I can't excuse it."

Too many thoughts at once crowd for space in my mind. Skinner called Samantha 'dead'. Skinner's mad at me; he hates me, because I ruined a little girl's life. Skinner's going to send me away.

"I'm disappointed in you, Mulder. You screw up, and I discipline you, and you don't learn. You make the same mistakes, again and again. I have given you second chances, third chances, and you've let me down. There is no reason why I should give you another chance, because I have no reason to think it will do any good."

"Sir... please..."

"Shut up," he snaps at me. "Just shut up."

He looks away, at the bed, the wall, then at the mirror. I watch his eyes when he first catches his own face in the mirror, and realize that he takes my failure personally. I want to apologize, but he's told me to shut up so I say nothing. He stares into the mirror, and I watch him watch himself, until he takes a deep breath. He's come to some conclusion, and I expect the final blow to fall now.

But it doesn't. He walks away from the dresser, then turns to face me, half sitting against the round table. For a long time he looks at me, judging me, and I look back at him. Then, finally, he speaks.

"You never change, Mulder, but you have to change, if I'm going to keep you in the Bureau. And I only have one idea left." His voice is calm, while his body language, the set of his shoulders and his arms folded in front of him, convey mastery and power. "It's drastic." A shift of his jaw before he continues, looking me straight in the eyes. "And it requires your consent."

For a moment, I stop breathing. My eyebrows rise, and I lean forward a little. I wonder if he's saying what I think he's saying. My consent? I'm afraid to ask, but I can't resist the possibility. "You want to fuck me?"

"I want to whip you."

Whip me. Not fuck me, but whip me. The word pushes buttons, giving me a rush. Skinner wants to whip me. Nobody has ever whipped me, not my parents, not anyone. When I was a kid my friends would talk about getting spanked, or whipped, but that wasn't my parents' style. After all, it would have involved touching me, something my parents rarely did. They had other, more distant ways of punishing me when I misbehaved, and so I listened to my friends stories of getting the switch, or the belt, and fantasized that one day it would happen to me.

It never did, but the fantasy has never wandered far away. A ready image springs to mind right now, drawn from a tale a friend once told of getting whipped, bareassed, lying over his dad's lap. For a split second I see myself thrown over Skinner's knee, naked from the waist down, being held still by his controlling arm while he whips me with a strap.

These thoughts flash quickly through my head before I respond. "Whip me. Like a kid? What am I supposed to get out of that?"

"A lesson, I hope, one you won't forget. A reminder of this fucking awful day. If I do it right, a new worst thing that's ever happened to you."

"You want to be the worst thing that's ever happened to me?"

"One way or another, Mulder, by the end of tomorrow that's what I'm going to be."

His anger is present, full force, and I try to deflect it with another question. "Do you whip a lot of people?"

"No." He doesn't seem to resent the question.

"Anyone? Ever?"

No answer. Huh. The man has uncharted depths; something within him wants to whip my ass. I wonder how long he's carried the idea. Did he just develop it today, or has he wanted for years to punish me this way when I screw up? Does it matter? The over the knee image pops into my head again. It's so appealing, the thought of being the object of that much concentrated attention. Skinner's attention.

He's paying attention to me now, watching me, waiting for an answer. My consent.

"What am I supposed to say?" I sound pathetic. Lost.

"Say, yes."

"What does it mean if I say yes?" I want to know what he thinks. I want to believe that he understands me, that he's offering me this particular form of salvation because he knows, better than I myself know, exactly how I will respond.

"It means you want to learn, and you admit you need this. From me."

I can't tear my eyes away from his. He does know. My God. "Yes," I tell him. He nods, slowly, and with his nod our deal is made.

"Get undressed." He goes back to the bathroom, taking his bag with him. I strip off my shoes and outer clothing, until I'm left wearing just my shorts and t-shirt. I wonder if I'm supposed to remove them too, but just then Skinner returns. He's changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants, his typical gym clothes. He seems satisfied with my lack of outerwear and, after hanging up his suit and tucking his dirty items into his bag, he begins to pull back the covers on the king size bed. The bedspread, blanket and sheet are folded neatly at its foot, leaving an expanse of pure white sheets and pillows.

"Lie down." He's watching me now. I move nervously to the bed, and stretch out in the middle of it, on my belly. I turn my head to see what he'll do next, and feel a chill when he retrieves his belt from the table. I don't know what I expected, but it's happening. Right now the thought of his belt slapping across my butt makes me shiver.

"Sir...." I need something from him, some reassurance. He reads my mind, and smiles at me, understanding. I've never seen him smile before. All his anger seems to have disappeared, replaced by kindness and concern, and something else, something seductive.

"Scared, Mulder?" he asks quietly. He's playing with the belt, doubling it over, flexing it, winding and unwinding it around his hand. "It's all right to be scared. Remember, I'm right here with you. I'll give you what you need, and you'll learn, and then it'll be over. And we'll still be here when it's over."

He comes onto the bed, on his knees, and puts the belt aside. There are about five pillows laid end to end along the head of the bed, and he grabs one of them and temporarily sets it by me, alongside my hips. Then he sinks down beside me, lying on one side with a knee in the air, resting his weight on one forearm. He lays his other hand across the small of my back.

"Let's get you comfortable." As he says this, he sits up a little to shift his balance, and begins to slide one hand underneath my waist, palm pressing against my shirt. "Lift up." I raise my hips, and with both hands, he pushes my t-shirt above my waist and slips his fingers under the elastic of my shorts. A couple of smooth tugs later, they're down around my ankles and then gone completely, and the skin of my unprotected ass trembles in the cool air.

I start to lie flat again, but just for a second he rests a hand on my butt. "Wait. Up." I lift again, and he reaches under me for the pillow, positioning it below my hips and laying his own hand upon it, face up, fingers outstretched. Then his free hand is on me again, pressing me down into place. His hand on the pillow receives me, warm and intimate, just above my groin, and I draw my knees forward a little to raise myself so that I'm not pressed so hard against it.

It doesn't work, though, simply gives him room to maneuver. He begins to gently massage my belly, moving his fingers in a circular rubbing motion. I feel terribly naked. My position allows him access to my cock, and if his hand ventures any lower I don't know how I will react. My discomfort drives me to burrow my face into the pillow beneath my head, clutching tightly at its edges.

"Relax, Mulder. Just relax."

His free hand is touching me again, tracing a circle around my ass. Every time it slides low, across the top of my thighs, I feel a trickle of warmth spill through me.

"I know what I'm doing. It will hurt, but there won't be any permanent damage." He stops circling, and smooths his hand over the curves of my bare ass, caressing first one cheek, and then the other. I feel his eyes on me, as if he's inspecting me, thinking about what it will be like to whip me.

I know I agreed to this, but I want to get up and run away. It's not like I expected it to be. I thought he'd throw me down on the bed, or over a chair maybe, and just have at me, swinging his belt through the air to land on my back and my legs and my ass. I imagined distance, him standing away from me the length of his arm and the belt, with no physical connection between us. I thought to get caught up in the whistle of the lash and the sting of contact, so caught up in the sound and the feeling that I'd forget about him. I thought I'd be in control of myself.

But this is different, this is intimate. This is... personal. He's using his fingers to touch me now, touch me like he owns me. His fingers wander between my cheeks and spread me, exposing the center of me, and all at once I want to cry. It's confusing; I don't know what to think now. I can't concentrate. My stiffening cock tells me I'm aroused by what he's doing, but at the same time I'm so scared. He's doing all the wrong things. He said he'd whip me, punish me, to teach me a lesson. What lesson am I supposed to learn from this?

"I thought you didn't want to fuck me."

"Shut up."

And I am lost. This is a new world, with a new Skinner. Doing whatever he wants to me, fondling me, making me feel so many focused sensations and making me like it. My nerves are singing. I don't know who he is any more, touching me like this. I don't know who I am, wanting it. He holds me between his hands, and I feel small.

Long minutes of this, and then finally he stills, resting his hand in the small of my back.

"I'm going to whip you now."

I was becoming almost comfortable with him, but now I freeze, self-conscious again. I am overly aware of everything, the pillow under my head, my t-shirt stretched across my back, his hand still resting under my belly, and my naked ass raised to be whipped. Without lifting my head to look, I know he is reaching behind him for his belt, and winding the buckle end around his hand. At the same time his thumb slides along my abdomen and it's too much at once, the conflict, the idea that he will whip me while at the same time embracing me.

Suddenly the belt lands five times, sharply, across the fleshy bottom of my ass, and all thought disappears as I cry out in shock. The pain is intense, concentrated within a small area, and my cock shrivels. I wasn't ready, but my punishment has begun, and it continues as he whips me again and again, laying on stripes beginning just below my waist, and moving downward. Those first rapid strokes must have been just to get my attention, because now he's taking his time, aiming and striking with determination. I clench my cheeks and press my hips deep into the pillow, trying to get away, but his hand beneath me pushes back, ensuring that my bare ass is offered up to meet each stroke.

A dozen powerful lashes and it hurts so bad, like fire, more than I ever thought it could hurt. Every time the belt lands there's a flash of pain that becomes a stinging burn as the leather darts away. I am gasping for breath, and with each stroke a piteous whimper escapes my open throat. He keeps on, implacable, and I want to beg him to stop but I can't, because I know it's what I deserve. I think of Caitlin, of everything I've done to her, and how this is my punishment for that. I begin to cry now, for so many reasons. Because it hurts, and it's all my fault, and I deserve this. Because I'm sorry, and he hates me, and nothing he can do to me compares to the pain I caused to that little girl. All these things and none of them, really. I don't know what I'm crying for, but crying feels good even though being whipped feels bad, and I'm lost in a place where there's only sensation and emotion.

And I'm not alone; he's here with me, hearing me, seeing me, and touching me. Laying my soul open wide with the action of his own arm wielding his own belt upon his own... me. I lie exposed and aching below him, and I am his; I am owned. My sobs become hysterical as I try to communicate all these thoughts to him. Crying. Apologizing. Thanking. And finally, pleading for him to stop because the pain has become more than I can take.

"Stop! Oh, please stop. Don't hurt me any more. Please."

He pauses, and drops the belt. His hand feels huge as it slides over my burning flesh, gentle and soothing. "Shhh. This is what you need. You won't forget this, will you? You'll learn. I'll teach you, and you'll learn."

It's a paradox, wanting comfort from the one who inflicts the pain. Right now I'd do anything, say anything, to earn some sign of approval from him. "Please. I've learned. I'm sorry."

"What have you learned?"

All I have are tears, and no words, because I don't know how to answer. I have learned something -- about myself, and where he's taken me, and what he means to me. But I don't know what he wanted me to learn. Something about trusting convicted felons and endangering children, I think, but I don't know how to answer him. I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"What have you learned?" he repeats.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say," I wail, anguished.

He brings his hand to my shoulders and slides it up and down over the cotton, along my spine. It feels good, and safe. "There's no wrong answer." He massages my back for a few moments. "I want you to learn to think before you act. Think about what could go wrong. Ask yourself, what's the worst thing that could happen, and could you live with it. I want you to remember what happened this time. I'm whipping you so you don't forget." His comforting touch, his fingers straying over my back, they ease my distress.

"This is an experiment, Mulder. I'm betting this is what you need to drive a lesson home. Do you think it will work?"

I do, I really do. "Yes."

"Why?"

I want to trust him, tell him, make him understand what I don't fully understand myself. I do trust him. "Part of it feels good. Even though it hurts, part of it feels good." Relief comes with this confession, and I go on, encouraged by the press of his hand on me. "It's the worst, and the best."

"The worst and the best that have ever happened to you? I can believe that. Hold on. I'm going to teach you. And take care of you. That's my job now." He stops rubbing my back, and I realize he's picking up the belt again, re-wrapping it around his palm.

"Oh God, no. Please, no more. I can't."

"Yes. You can take it. I'm teaching you. Making you strong."

"Please, oh please, no." But pleading does no good, and he whips my bruised ass twice with the belt.

"What's the lesson, Mulder?" The belt slices near the top of my thighs, where it hurts the most. "Repeat it back to me."

"Oh, God... worst thing that could happen...." Another burning stroke. "Can I live with it...." Two more strokes across the fleshy underside of my asscheeks. His hand on the pillow underneath me, raising me into the air. "Think... what could go wrong... before... oh, Christ..." I cry out, as three great strokes cut into me hard, and then the belt flies over me through the air to land on the floor, and I know he's done.

It's over, he's finished, and he takes me in his arms, pulling me into the kind of embrace I've needed all my life. I'm enveloped by him, arms and legs, and I'm allowed to sob into him so hard I can't breathe. Beyond myself in tears, I burrow into his neck, and he's right there with me, clutching my hair, showing me how much he cares for me. He murmurs my name sweetly, over and over, his lips tender against my ear as he rocks me back and forth, and I know I'm forgiven, and loved. None of this could happen if he didn't love me.

Gradually I settle down, lulled by the comforting motion of our bodies. He rolls back and reaches out an arm to turn off the lamp, and we're in darkness. Releasing me long enough to bend toward the foot of the bed, he draws the sheet and blanket over both of us, then pulls me back to him.

It's more than I could dream, the realization that I will sleep in his arms tonight. And it's ecstasy when he kisses me, my forehead, eyes, cheek, and finally my mouth. I remain passive as his lips slide over mine, and then nip at me gently. His tongue licks at my top lip, and then slides over my bottom lip as he sucks it into his mouth. My lips part and instantly his tongue darts inside to lick at my own, and that's it now, I'm kissing him back, exploring his tongue and his teeth and tasting his mouth and letting his tongue fuck mine until we separate for air.

I fall onto him, exhausted, and his hands come away from my head to wrap themselves around my shoulder and waist. What is this place where we've arrived?

"I thought you didn't want to fuck me."

He raises his head enough to kiss my forehead, where it lies tucked against his throat. "Shut up. Sleep."

It's enough of an answer for now. If I'm lucky, by morning the pain will fade away, and he and I will be all that's left. I close my eyes and give myself up to the cradle of his arms, and the night.

- end -

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