Title: In Oxford
Author: Kathleen Brown
Rating: R? NC-17?
Classification: VA (AAAAAA) Pre-XF
Distribution: Go for it, Gossamer. I love you guys. <g>
Spoilers: You don't need to see Fire, just know Pheobe was. No spoilers.
Summary: Fox hits rock bottom halfway through his freshman year, going to
any lengths to survive in a strange land.
Disclaimer: Fox Mulder isn't mine, but if anyone's willing to give...
Notes: This is pretty heavy stuff. Prostitution, drug use, drinking and
driving (Controversy = Fun!). I tried to be nice to Oxford and England and
portray them accurately, but there are some things that just might not
jive. Sorry.
Life Lessons: Don't drink and drive (heck, don't drink), don't do drugs,
don't sell yourself, and for goodness sake don't be scared to ask your
parents for help!
Dedication: I'd like to thank Eric and dedicate this story exclusively to
him. Eric, you're my inspiration, both for this story and for life itself.
I'm thanking you the only way I know how.


--8---8---8--
In Oxford
--8---8---8--

	Fox Mulder laid passively upon the bed, going through the 
motions of lovemaking with no more emotion than a man would 
experience cooking himself dinner after a long day. 
	After an exhausting day of classes that started at six 
thirty a.m., three hours with his "Linguistics" tutor, and two more 
hours of research, all Fox Mulder really wanted was a stiff drink or 
a quick high, a decent meal, and a night. Alone.
	Mindlessly fucking some woman whose name he didn't even 
know was not his idea of a good time right now.
	Still, it was his job, it paid for that meal and that quick 
high, and it was a young New Englander's only chance alone in a 
strange country. His scholarship to Oxford only paid so much, and 
the money he worked so hard for in Yale would only cover the 
additional tuition costs, which meant that extras, like food and 
drugs (medicinal or...otherwise) needed to be paid for through his 
own means. Mostly this meant prostitution, a heinous violation of 
Fox's body and soul.

	The woman on top of Fox ground her hips against his, 
called out the name of a man not Fox, and buried her hands in 
Fox's thick brown hair, yanking at it hard from the roots. Mulder's 
orgasm came quickly, and he let himself fall into that beautiful pit 
of oblivion, ignoring the woman's cries and the deep scratches her 
nails left across his thin, flat chest and washboard stomach.
	Minutes later the woman lay in a heap on the hotel room 
bed, drowning in her tears while Mulder quietly slipped back into 
his black boxers, jeans, and sweater. As he pulled on his heavy 
combat boots, Mulder spied the woman's wallet and in a single, 
swift motion pulled out the agreed upon 300 pounds (leaving the 
other 300 for some other worthless rentboy). *I may be a whore 
but, dammit, if I'm not an honest one* Mulder left the woman 
there to wallow in her own misery as he slid out of the room, 
down the hallway, and into the dark cobblestone alley. He huddled 
deep in his sweater, trying to protect himself from the cold chill of 
Oxfordshire mist as he wandered back towards his college and the 
warm comfort of his dorm room.

	Mulder's dreams that evening were not pleasant.
	Bathed in sunlight on the beach on the Vineyard, Fox lay 
tangled limb-in-limb with his childhood sweetheart, Bayfiona, long 
dead. She, with her long blonde hair, slender build, and beautiful 
bone structure, lay as his polar opposite against his nearly black 
hair, and slim, rugged body, with his noticeably Jewish nose and 
altogether, in Fox's mind, horrendous face.
	The pair lounged necking in the afternoon, a bottle of 
liquor shared between them, a "gift" easily snatched from Fox's 
father's extensive collection. When the two awoke from their 
impromptu nap, sunburned yet comfortably satiated, they 
gathered up their belongings and piled into Fox's recently 
purchased '75 El Camino, beaten up beyond its years, for the last 
time. As Fox sped from the beach, deep into Chilmark, he and his 
girlfriend of four years laughed hysterically over one thing or 
another, sharing scotch-flavored kisses as tongues ran over teeth 
not their own and Bayfiona busied herself with the fine growth of 
stubble over Mulder's jawline. 
	Mulder did his best to keep track of the road despite his 
pride and joy's one busted headlight, the added handicap of 
glasses refused him for the past five years, and the blur of 
alcohol, but he did not succeed. Or, rather, the car in the next 
lane did not succeed. Not in the execution of an illegal left, not 
knowing that the boy beside him was too inebriated to notice the 
move, and far too young to anticipate the proper 
countermeasures.
	Sobering with the strength of his panic, and ignoring the 
wetness spreading throughout his sand-covered jeans, Fox 
grabbed the wheel of his semi-pickup and pulled off the road. He 
prayed for the cushioning blow of some trees rather than the 
twisting agony of metal and crossed his hands across the wheel 
to brace himself while his girlfriend, his best friend since that 
November night when he was twelve, was thrown from the car 
screaming, dying with Fox's name on her lips in the seconds 
before her spine was snapped on impact with the unforgiving 
pavement.

	Mulder woke covered in sweat, shivering uncontrollably. 
This was nothing unusual to him, just the normal routine of an 
morning. Crawl into bed exhausted, wake at three, do a few lines 
to keep awake, and work on the extra two hours of research not 
completed the night before.
	True to form, Mulder slid out of his bed and wandered into 
his bathroom, opening up a medicine cabinet and pulling out a 
small bag of white powder. He picked up a mirror from its place on 
the top of the toilet and placed it on the side of the sink, shaking 
out a small helping onto the mirror, arranged it with the aid of a 
straight razor long since considered as a means of slitting wrists, 
and quietly, without grace or ceremony, inhaled the white 
powder. Mulder dabbed the blood from his nostrils with a several-
times folded square of toilet paper, then used that same piece to 
wipe the tears from his sweat-soaked cheeks. He stood and 
sighed, pulling off his clothes and stepping into his small shower.
	Nothing could get Fox Mulder clean now. Up to eight 
separate women a night, each one insisting from him peak 
performance, when some days he'd cry even as he orgasmed, 
weak and broken by exhaustion until he could get into the 
bathroom for a pick-me-up of amphetamines bought from Leland 
outside of the gay bar Fox dared not even enter. Fox was dirty, 
soiled by his living hell, his soul crushed by Phoebe's games with 
his all ready broken heart, his body disgraced by the diseases 
fought with ineffective condoms and antibiotics mostly forgotten 
between classes. His hips always bruised by overly zealous 
customers, his chest alive with the red, bloodied path that last 
woman's fingernails took across him.
	Fox hung his head in the shower and cried, sobbing for the 
fact that ten years ago his sister was stolen, and now, when he 
should be a young man ready for marriage, ready for a career, he 
instead lay as a worthless street whore in a strange country, his 
future uncertain, his heart left by the wayside, his dreams 
ignored. For this, Fox cried.
	At seven a.m., Fox walked across the campus to the dining 
hall, dressed in his favorite olive sweater and a loose, light pair of 
khakis. His hair fell forward into his eyes, muddy brown and 
unkempt, having dried into knots following his hour long shower. 
His tired, bloodshot eyes lay deeply in their sockets, nearly black 
with what Fox could only guess was the darkness of his own soul.
	Fox had long since become known as a misfit among the 
other members of his social grouping; the other students in his 
psych classes, the friends he made while dating Phoebe but never 
bothered to keep up with, and the students sharing the rooms 
surrounding his own. He was considered a loner and a quiet, 
moody young man, prone to fits of anger, moments of intense 
affection, all coupled with a clinging loneliness, a cry for attention 
from his peers unlike any of the other Brits had ever seen.
	Not much was known about Fox Mulder, only that he was a 
loner, a fighter, and an incredibly terrified young man.

	As Stephan Alvarez made his way over to Fox, he could 
see the heavy weight of sorrow upon the other man's young 
shoulders. He made his way over to Mulder and, knowing he was 
the best friend he had, sat beside him without a word. Mulder 
lifted his face to him, and Stephan had to suppress a gasp at the 
worn, drawn look of his friend. "You look like you've been dragged 
all the way to hell and back."
	Mulder's gaze traveled back to his meager breakfast and, 
with the aid of his heavily hooded eyes, Stephan couldn't tell if 
Mulder was asleep or awake for a moment or two. Eventually 
Mulder's small voice traveled to him and he shivered at the 
weakness there.
	"No, please, tell me how you really feel."
	*Same damn sense of humor. Bastard.* "What the hell 
happened to you?"
	"Late night."
	"I didn't see you at the pub last night."
	"I didn't go to the pub."
	"Were you out with Phoebe?"
	"What makes you think I'd want to be anywhere near that 
bitch?" Mulder looked up at his friend and took in his plain visage, 
with his only defining feature bright red hair formed into spikes 
atop his head with far too much gel for his own good. Fox 
wondered how long it would be until he burst into flames at Turf's.
	"Where were you?"
	*Just doesn't give up, does he?* "Out."
	"Don't be a bastard, just tell me."
	Mulder glared at his friend, wanting desperately to tell him 
that some days he wished he _had_ been born a bastard. "I just 
went out, Steph. You know I go out on the weekends."
	"But where the hell do you go?"
	Mulder sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Or... what 
he could manage to run a hand through. He could feel the hot 
tears of shame forming in his eyes and turned back to his 
breakfast, finding, as always, that his appetite had disappeared 
completely. He knew why, too. That made it all the more 
shameful.
	"Just drop it, Steph."
	Stephan leaned closer to Fox, grabbing his wrist and 
twisting it until Fox's tears broke free and dripped onto the 
wooden tabletop. His fierce whisper twisted Fox's guts with fear. 
"I know what you do, Fox. I know where you got the money for 
those clothes, those fifty pound boots you bought in London two 
weeks ago. I know why your pupils are the size of dinner plates, 
and I know why the hell you haven't eaten breakfast in three 
weeks, Fox. Your life is headed straight down the toilet and if you 
don't stop it right now, you aren't gonna come out looking very 
pretty."
	Fox's eyes remained fixed on Steph, and he knew that 
another two inches of pressure would snap his wrist without 
hesitation. Fox began to shiver. His voice, too, shook. "You think I 
don't know that?"
	"Someone's going to hurt you, Fox. You're going to get 
sick. You're going to get arrested in another fucking country! 
Soliciting is not going to look good on your record."
	Mulder's body now shook with rage at this man. Didn't he 
understand that Fox had no choice?
	Mulder let his head fall forward as Steph released his arm, 
then sighed and began to weep softly. Stephan stared as the 
young man collapsed before his eyes, unable to believe that Fox 
Mulder, prostitute, drug addict, was actually breaking down. He 
had assumed that Fox's life was of his own choosing, and that he 
did it as recreation.
	"What the hell is wrong with you, Fox?"
	"Can't you see I don't want this?"
	Steph stared.
	Mulder made a definite effort to pull himself back together, 
wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand and looking around 
the room for an inspiration to calm. Mulder sighed and inwardly 
declared this to be worthy of a day off, then walked out of the 
hall in silence. Stephan sighed and followed his friend.

	Mulder walked through the quad shaking, then bolted for 
the door to his building, running up the curling medieval stairs to 
his floor.
	Fox collapsed on his bed in a heap, his body wracked with 
violent sobs, his agonized screams echoing across the room and 
down the hall.
	And for the first time in his life since he could remember, 
Fox prayed. Begged God to kill him, to put him out of his misery, 
to suddenly make everything just go away. To take away 
Samantha, his father, his entire young life. To give him the only 
things he ever wanted. Love. Acceptance. Samantha. Happiness. 
Fox prayed for forgiveness for his life, prayed for the strength to 
walk across the room and grab his cocaine razor, to slit his wrists 
and be forgiven for the act.
	Fox cried until he ran out of tears, then fell into a deep, 
rich sleep.

--8---8---8--

	Andrea Brown had worked at Oxford for her entire life, 
since she was twenty years old. She replaced her mother's job as 
a scout, cleaning the rooms of unruly college students in the early 
hours, getting to know them maybe a little too intimately in their 
three years of schooling. Andrea didn't know Fox Mulder, though. 
He was one of the few who, she guessed, chose to clean his own 
room. But his bin, for some reason, today remained inside his 
room.
	Andrea stepped into Fox's room, then stopped and stood 
stock-still. She had not seen this room, or, subsequently, spoken 
to Fox for several months. She watched him lay motionless on his 
bed, his eyes red and swollen, his pillow saturated beneath his 
face, the rest of him lying on his stomach, curled slightly around 
himself.
	What had happened to this poor young man? At the 
beginning of the year his room lay completely neat, now it 
appeared in a constant state of disarray. He had once awoken 
early each day for a long run before rowing with the rest of the 
young men, now it seemed, if he was up before noon on a day off 
it was surprising. Andrea quietly cleaned Fox's bathroom, her eyes 
growing wide at the sight of Fox's mirror and razor, the rolled 
American greenback. Not this poor young man.... 	Working as a 
sort of maid left her privy to certain things, things held in 
confidence between her and her students, and the drug use and 
the drinking she witnessed was one of those things. No comment 
was ever made even about the couples that were formed in these 
rooms, be they unexpected or downright unusual.
	Andrea cleaned Fox's room methodically, emptying his bin 
and noticing, not by chance, that in Fox's drawers lay what 
seemed like hundreds of prophylactics, and yet, by some miracle, 
none lay used with his trash.
	Andrea knew that could mean only one of several things. 
And by Fox's recent appearance and behavior, she guessed it 
meant only _one_ thing. Andrea shook her head and sighed, 
picturing this young man tossing his life away like so many sheets 
of crumpled paper.
	She walked quietly over to the sleeping young man and 
roused him from his slumber, pushing him onto his side and 
stepping away as his hazel eyes slowly greeted her.
	"Need to change your sheets, sir."
	Mulder gave a soft groan, stumbled out of his bed, and 
flopped onto the floor, inadvertently banging his head against his 
dresser but not really caring. He pulled his legs up to his aching 
chest and sighed, feeling his hands shaking. Mulder closed his 
eyes and let his head hang against his chest and knees.
	Andrea quietly stripped Fox's bed and gave him fresh 
linens, not lifting her gaze from the student for a single moment. 
When she finished she gave him a light tap on his shoulder, 
starting as those intense brown eyes met her soft blue ones. 
Tears glistened on those young cheeks, and Mulder's gaze begged 
her the unspoken question. Andrea knelt beside the young man 
and brushed back his soft brown hair. His body quivered beneath 
his clothes and he quietly gripped his lower lip between his teeth. 
Andrea reached out and wrapped her motherly arms around him, 
steadying him as he shook against his tears. Andrea closed her 
eyes and tried to imagine the impact this would have on Fox. She 
couldn't begin to imagine.

	Fox crawled back into his bed and buried his face in his 
pillow, shaking as his tears returned, but now rather than agony, 
they came in relief. Relief as Fox came to understand the meaning 
of his young life, the path that would need to be taken as he 
would make every effort to fix the mess that had been made of 
his existence.

	Fox Mulder quietly wandered down the long hall of his floor 
to the stairs, then wandered into the quad, through the 
psychology building, and out into the college's courtyard. Once 
there, Mulder walked out in the open, unafraid of being found out, 
though oftentimes the walls and gates of Oxford made him feel as 
though he were caught in a prison. If somehow prison offered the 
option to sell yourself. of course. Fox slid into the red telephone 
booth and slid the door shut, punching in the numbers to America, 
to the Vineyard, to his father's house, knowing full well that the 
bill would be astronomical, but that it would be paid anyway.
	"Hello?"
	Mulder's throat was dry. He ached for a good, old-
fashioned American can of pop. "Dad?"
	"Fox?"
	*No, Dad, it's Sam...* Mulder rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it's 
me, Dad."
	"What's going on? Is everything all right?"
	Fox swallowed hard, trying desperately not to choke on his 
own tongue. "Yeah...no."
	"What's wrong? Are you ill?"
	"Dad..." Fox fought his tears to keep going. He sighed and 
shook, then slid to the floor of the booth, clutching the phone 
desperately to his ear. "Yeah."
	"What's the matter?"
	"I'm sick, Dad."
	"What is it?"
	"I don't know. Dad... I'm sorry."
	"Fox, tell me what's going on. Right now."
	"Dad, I need you to send me money for the doctor's bills. 
I'm sick. I need your help." Fox could imagine the overwhelming 
sense of accomplishment welling up inside his father. *How does a 
forty year old man find pride in watching his twenty year old son 
hit rock bottom? Why does he take such joy in my failure? Is he 
so insecure with himself that watching his child fail is the only 
reassurance that he is greater than someone?*
	"Didn't I tell you that this would happen, Fox? That you 
wouldn't be able to make it in England by yourself? Didn't I tell you 
that every day for three months? And still you refuse to concede 
to the fact that I was right."
	*This isn't about power, Fox, this is about survival... 
ignore your pride, worry about your life... don't think about him, 
Fox... just let him give you the money...*
	"Please, Dad. I need the money."
	*Such a sigh, Dad. Is it so much to ask for the money to 
pay for fucking doctor's bills?* *Not doctor bills, Fox.* *Yeah, but 
he doesn't know that.*
	"How much?"
	*Oh, Jesus, Fox, he's giving it to you...* "A thousand 
pounds should cover it..." *That sounds like so much...* *It is, 
Fox...*
	"You'll have it by the end of the week."

	No goodbye? No "feel better, son"? Not even a "you 
worthless son of a bitch"? No closing?

	Mulder sighed and wrapped his arms around his legs.
	Without thinking, he jimmied open the late gate and made 
his way into the city, seeking out a pub.
	Mulder hadn't anticipated finding a job. He didn't anticipate 
anything other than finding Steph and a few of his rowdy Irish 
friends and getting a little bit smashed. Until he realized he had 
left his room broke. Not a pound to his name. Mulder was ready to 
leave when a woman, apparently realizing his predicament and 
somehow knowing about his "profession", offered to take him up 
to her room where he could borrow a few dollars. He didn't have 
to be a psychology major to figure out this woman's strategy.

	Pulling off his boots, Mulder sat on the edge of the 
woman's bed, his body tense with the free-floating anxiety that 
somehow only managed to float his way before a job. The woman 
came over and sat beside him, obviously waiting for him to begin. 
Mulder watched her dispassionately. Pretty enough, nothing too 
special. No reason why she would need his assistance, though. 
Still. It was not his job to critique his customers, it was only up to 
him to fulfill their needs. "What do you want?"
	"What are you offering?"
	"Anything you like."
	"I want you to fuck me, Foxy. And do it right, none of that 
cold nerve response I hear you give out."
	Mulder didn't lift his head, merely stared into his lap and 
tried to contain his nervous shivering. He sighed and nodded. 
"Three hundred pounds."
	"I'm not going to pay you, Fox."
	At this, he lifted his head. "I won't do it, then."
	"You're not being given a choice."

	Sensing his predicament, Fox quickly stood and grabbed his 
boots, making his way to the door, but before he could reach it, 
his boots were grabbed out of his hands, held by the woman. 
Fox's heart pumped wildly in his aching chest, and with each 
passing second he wanted more and more just to run out, boots 
or no boots. He didn't even want to work tonight, and to be 
forced into it would be enough to destroy him. The woman 
watched him with wild eyes, excited by his fear. Mulder trembled.
	"Give me back my boots. I'm not going to work for you."
	"You need money for the shuttle home."
	"I'll walk. I've done it before. Just give me my boots."
	"No."
	"Please..."
	"Not unless you do something for me."
	"No. I don't want to work for you."
	"Then you don't get your boots."

	Mulder was left with no choice.

--8---8---8--

	Mulder barely dropped into his bed by dawn, belly-flopping 
onto his mattress, burying his face into his pillow, sighing as he 
toed his boots off aching feet hanging off the end of the small 
twin bed.

	Mulder arrived late for his mid-term evaluation, after 
having forgotten about it over the past few hectic days. He 
awoke at seven, with the evaluation set for seven-thirty, and, 
over the course of a full ten minutes, managed to shower and 
dress, grab out his robe, and run to the office where the 
evaluation was taking place. Mulder had only met the College 
head once before, in his last term evaluation, and was not looking 
forward to it, after having been out all night working, as it ended 
up, and then getting only three hours of sleep. Mulder 
appropriately looked as exhausted as he felt.

	The report didn't go well. Mulder's grades had remained 
admirably high, but no one was pleased with his steady decline in 
social and extra-curricular activities. His Fellows were painting him 
as sullen and exhausted, and Mulder seemed, to all people 
involved, to have completely dropped out of the running to be on 
the College's most prestigious rowing team. Mulder hung his head 
in shame, wanting nothing more than to admit his need for help, 
but knew these old British men would have no pity for him, and 
offer him no assistance.

	Mulder's mind wandered as his sins were cataloged to him, 
all the practices he missed, the classes he slept through, tutorial 
sessions skipped. Mulder's tutor stood behind him, back to the 
wall, facing Mulder's back as the young man hung his head, 
staring into his lap. Mulder's mind escaped into that one beautiful 
summer on the Vineyard with his girlfriend. *She'd turn over in her 
grave if she saw me now...* Mulder's eyes filled with tears before 
he could even realize that he was feeling ashamed, and they ran 
glistening tracts down his cheeks before he could even think to 
stop them.

	The room was silenced in an instant, and Mulder fully 
expected to be reprimanded for his inappropriate behavior, but the 
only sound in the room was his own ragged breathing. Mulder 
didn't even know if the college head was done speaking before he 
began his soft pleas for forgiveness. "I'm sorry." Mulder's eyes 
traveled up to take in the serene visage of his instructor. "I've 
been having some... problems. I'm trying to take care of it as best 
I can, but without _anyone_ to offer me even the most seemingly 
insignificant bit of encouragement, I'm failing miserably. Right now 
I'm too busy trying to survive to worry about rowing and making 
all my classes. My thesis' are all coming along well, and I definitely 
think I can turn them in satisfactorily, and on time. I just need a 
little more time."
	Mulder's tutor, a tall, broad-shouldered man of forty-five or 
so, stepped forward to sit in the rich leather chair beside his 
brightest and yet most troubled student. "We're worried about 
you, Fox. Academically we're not concerned in the least, and the 
rowing team has all they need. We're just worried about _you_. 
As an individual."
	Fox looked from the tutor to the College head in shock. He 
swallowed once to try to get some saliva into his cottony mouth, 
then looked back at both of them. His voice was not above a 
whisper. "I'm okay."
	Andrew Mitchell shook his head and sighed, placing his 
hand on the arm of Fox's own leather chair, thinking of the 
discussions the two had as Fox slowly began to deteriorate, how 
even then the young man managed to get excited over the 
smallest detail, to make connections that Andrew himself probably 
could have never made. "Fox, no matter what you tell us, it won't 
leave this room."
	With his hair hanging so long into his eyes, the childlike 
innocence shielded only barely from the rest of the world, Mitchell 
swore that Fox looked no older than sixteen years old. Sixteen 
years old, with all the agonies that are borne with childhood, all 
those events which shape, mold, and shatter young lives every 
moment. Mitchell shivered with the soft expression in those eyes, 
for behind the innocence lay an ages-old world-weariness, like 
those eyes had seen murder and death greater than Fox's years 
allowed, tragedy that tore families apart, drove fathers to drink 
and mothers to run, and little boys to cry in their room for little 
sisters stolen.
	Mulder blinked slowly, breathing deeply, evenly. His skin 
was slick with sweat below his arms, and his head swum through 
a cocaine hangover and the unbearable shock of being fussed 
over. Fox felt alive for the first time in days. Tears poured down 
his face, pooling in his hands as he doubled over to lay against his 
own thighs, his sobs reverberating throughout the room's four 
wooden-paneled walls.

	Waking in John Radcliffe Hospital for the second Thursday 
in a row, Mulder found himself lying between clean, cool white 
sheets, his body cocooned in warm knit blankets, an intravenous 
line pumping uncomfortably cool fluid into his left arm. It was 
quiet. He lay in near-complete silence, watching the fog out the 
window, his entire world contained in that hospital room. Just Fox 
Mulder and his mind. No Dad, no Mom, no Sam... Stephan probably 
sitting in with his tutor, Phoebe probably shagging some bloke to 
kick off one of her long London weekends. And here Mulder lay, 
antibiotics seeking to cure his diseases once and for all, a soft, 
controlled drip of morphine to soothe his jangled nerves, his mind 
appeased by the bliss of his silence, his calm, perfect morning 
unspoiled. Mulder soon drifted into an easy, deep sleep.

	Lying on his bed with Bay curled in his thin arms, Fox let 
her blonde curls twist around his fingers, gently enough to afford 
him only the barest whisper of the hair's feather softness, but 
with enough motion to give Bay a bright, perfect smile. She 
wrapped her arms around his chest and pulled him closer to her 
until he lay on his back, and she sat straddling his hips. Mulder 
watched her closely, his eyes wide. Bay smiled and pushed his 
black T-shirt up his chest as far as it would go, until Fox finally 
lifted his arms enough for her to slip it completely off of him. Bay 
reached forward and smoothed his soft brown hair, her gray eyes 
not leaving his soft hazel ones. "I love you, Fox..."
	"I love _you_, Bay..."
	She smiled and lay against his chest, her cheek against 
the still hairless, tanned flesh. He was sweating slightly, and he 
worried that soon she would see that he was more excited than 
he let on. But Fox needn't worry. Bay knew. Bay always seemed 
to know. She picked up her cheek from his chest, kissing the spot 
she just vacated. Kissed softly along his neck, then down again to 
his chest, kissing his hardened nipples, eliciting a moan from Fox 
that came not from the act itself, but from the utter fact that 
someone dared touch him so lovingly.

	Fox's hips bucked under Bay's tender ministrations, his 
body and mind catapulted to the netherworld of pure bliss as she 
finally caught him in her mouth, keeping him for only bitter 
seconds before Fox could hold on no more. She retreated to the 
end of the bed as Fox sought to regain his focus, to recover from 
the dizziness that follows a young man's orgasm. He closed his 
eyes and wiped forgotten sweat from beneath floppish hair, his 
lips parting into a smile as he felt Bay curl up by his side, felt her 
warm breath against his cheek. Fox's eyes slid open and he 
reached out to capture her mouth with his own, tasting both her 
and himself in a single sweet breath, tasting their salty sweat and 
their chaste lovemaking, mixing into a single entity worthy only of 
their love.

	Mulder woke from his dream sweating, his body pleasantly 
satiated in a way he could hardly recognize it had been so long. 
Mulder sighed and stretched from his fingers to his toes, his back 
cracking along each vertebra, it seemed, until he could no longer 
hold the position and fell into a heap. He turned onto his other 
side and laid against his pillow, his soft hair brushing across his 
forehead, his mind at ease, his body slowly recovering.

	Fox was lucky. None of the diseases he contracted over 
the course of his "career" were untreatable, and all of them would 
likely leave no severe impact on him or his future sexual partners.
	Fox's father supplied him with funds weekly now, enough 
for food and books, Fox discovered, and not enough to finance his 
drinking or drug use. Fox broke down and cried when he realized 
this, thanking God for his fortune (since even his own father didn't 
know of his habits), and realizing that now, it would all be over. 
Fox didn't need to drink or do drugs to escape from his reality as 
long as he could tolerate it, and the only thing that truly drove 
him to drink was his need to sell himself for the money for food. 
Fox slept for 16 hours straight, waking for only minutes at a time 
before dropping back off to sleep.
	Fox wouldn't be arrested for his solicitation, for he was 
seeking help to the satisfaction of the Oxfordshire and London 
Police (most of Fox's business took place in London during the 
weekends, to the point that he wouldn't make it home until 
Monday mornings with a pocket full of cash and the drugs to 
escape), and his academic records would remain unblemished by 
this indiscretion as long as his studies continued with the level of 
ability Fox had all ready displayed.
	He would return to the rowing team as soon as he was 
released in good health, and he would make the team by the end 
of his freshman year.
	In two more years, he would graduate with honors from his 
College, then go on to two more years of higher learning, 
graduating as a psychologist from Oxford University in 1986.

Copyright Kathleen Brown June 12, 1998.


Quack.