MISTRESS XANTHE AND THE GOOD BOYS CLUB
By Sergeeva  [November 2001]

Rating: NC-17, discipline/slash
Pairing: Skinner/Doggett (my first, yay!)
Category: S,A,R,
Disclaimer: Not mine. CC's, 1013's, Fox's, Mitch's & Robert's (bless you,
Mitch and Robert). ...and of course, Mistress Xanthe is totally her own
woman!
Summary: Xanthe and I thought it was about time there was a place where our
"best boy" Walter would be properly looked after and adored, and who better
than stalwart, sensible, caring Doggett to help that happen.
Archive: By all means <g>. Please keep my headers intact.
More Sergeeva?: visit the Walter Altar
 http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/7155 ) for fic and pics.
Feedback: Makes me blush and keeps me going - be gentle, though <g> Send to:
sergeeva@walteris.vbeautiful.co.uk

XXX~ This is really a belated birthday story for the wondrous Xanthe, who
has written more and better appreciation for Walter than anyone I know. Long
may you do so, pet! ~XXX


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[Part 01/02]

FBI Headquarters,
AD Skinner's office, 8pm

The big man leafed through the case file one more time. Re-read the witness
reports and his Agents' reports, spread the small bunch of photographs
across his desk blotter and re-examined his own reaction to it all. It
wasn't such a strange case, not really... he'd overseen many more disturbing
cases in his years supervising the X Files department, he was at a loss to
understand why this particular case seemed to have such a grip on his
thoughts.

Two members of the exclusive, private, "Good Boys Club" in Georgetown had
reported suspected use of dangerous drugs at the elegant townhouse that was
the Club's headquarters. That would have put the case firmly in the purview
of the DEA, but then one of the men claimed that the club was running
nothing less than a slavery racket, so that got the Bureau involved. The
first Agents assigned had gone in with an attitude, upset the club
management and members and consequently got nowhere with the investigation.
Skinner had been diplomatic, apologised all round and reassigned the two
incompetent Agents. By that stage the case was several weeks old and Kersh
was on his back about performance figures and clearance rates. John Doggett
was just back from a few days leave and there were no new X Files, so he'd
assigned Doggett to wrap the matter up. His own desk was fairly clear that
morning (despite Kersh's accusations) so on a whim he'd accompanied Doggett.

The owner of the club had shown them round herself, thanking Skinner for his
tact compared to the previous Agents' hamfistedness. She wanted an end to
this unpleasant matter, she said, and appreciated that there had to be an
investigation. The men who had reported her to the authorities were no
longer members of the club. They'd "been unable to enter fully into the
spirit of our activities here" she'd told Skinner and Doggett, and she
suspected that their resentment at being asked to leave had prompted a
malicious reaction. There was really nothing illegal or sinister taking
place, she assured them, and they were welcome to see for themselves what
services the club provided to consenting adults.

Mistress Xanthe ran a discreet and orderly establishment for men only. Men
who's tastes ran towards a BDSM lifestyle. She'd been completely open with
the FBI men about what went on behind the sober oak-panelled walls of the
Good Boys Club. Skinner and Doggett had been shown room after room of
beautifully appointed furnishings, all a mix of traditional gentleman's club
and something out of a high-budget Hollywood vision of a dungeon. Polished
oak bondage frames and spanking benches, oiled leather manacles and
restraints, racks of floggers, whips and canes, cabinets and drawers full of
objects that Skinner could only guess the purpose of... Until Mistress
Xanthe allowed them to observe "a scene" as she called it, with the
permission of the participants.

Sitting in luxurious velvet armchairs, Doggett and he watched as one man
handcuffed another to a bed and proceeded to "play" (the term Mistress
Xanthe used to describe it) with the naked, spread-eagled man for over an
hour. The submissive's nipples were adorned with tiny silver clamps,
connected by a chain to a leather harness that lifted and bound the man's
penis and testicles. A fat polished dildo was inserted into the bound man's
ass and then his Master flogged him, gently at first, then with increasing
intensity, swapping soft suede cats for heavier leather, then rubber, whips,
until the slave's body glowed and glistened.

Skinner sat transfixed, ashamed and embarrassed by his profound reaction to
the scenario. Beside him, John Doggett seemed perfectly relaxed, leaning
back in his chair, ankles  crossed, while Skinner sat tense and
uncomfortable. He was fascinated by the responses of the submissive man...
his gasps and moans were full of pleasure and arousal, he arched against his
restraints in sensual abandon. And his tormentor spoke to him continually in
stern, loving tones, taking charge in the most basic way. Skinner found
himself getting hot and bothered in a most unprofessional way.

Afterwards, he left most of the questions to Doggett, concentrating on
gathering his scattered wits as the other man efficiently wound up the
investigation. The "dangerous drugs" were simply aromatherapy capsules and
massage oils used to enhance sensitivity and mood for the members' games.
The slavery was entirely consensual - sane, adult man indulging a lifestyle
choice. Statements were taken from Mistress Xanthe and from several club
members, photographic evidence was obtained, case notes checked. Only the
routine paperwork remained, so they'd headed back to HQ. But Skinner
couldn't get the experience out of his head. Images kept coming back to
haunt him at the most inopportune moments. In the midst of Kersh's weekly
briefing he'd found himself speculating how a padded ottoman in the DD's
office would make an ideal spanking bench. Burying himself in budgets and
requisitions had kept his wayward thoughts occupied until late afternoon,
then Doggett had come up to hand in his report and go over the case.

It was all in perfect order. Unlike Mulder's imaginatively worded and
creatively phrased reports, John Doggett had a soothing crispness to his
writing style. No wasted words, no unfounded speculation, no wild
unsubstantiated theories. All was clear, thorough, intelligent and
efficient. Doggett gave the stranger aspects of the case due attention and
measured consideration but he didn't strain after the exotic answer, just
the facts. Skinner found his already considerable regard for the other Agent
warmed by a sense of relief. He wouldn't have to endure more of Alvin
Kersh's sneering criticism over this case. It was solved, closed, over.

So why was he still here, four hours later, the open file still in front of
him?

He let words leap out of the printed pages to confront him: "discipline
scenarios", "submissive roles", "consenting to bondage", "coercion only
within agreed limits", "safeguards", "safe words", "safe... safe... safe..."
His eyes flicked over the photographs - men pleasuring each other, the
Slaves as much as the Masters, men finding something they clearly needed.
Was it something *he* needed too? Skinner shivered at the idea, it was both
scary and exciting.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


John Doggett exited the elevator on the fourth floor and wondered if he was
making a fool of himself. Something about Skinner's manner earlier in the
day had caught his attention and made him think that maybe the AD wasn't
quite as neutral about this particular case as he'd appeared. Of course,
Doggett had learned, with Walter Skinner there was always more going on
under the surface than met the eye.

Over the months he'd been working under Skinner's supervision, he'd gotten
pretty good at reading the Assistant Director's expressions and picking up
all the things he said in between the things he said aloud... The man
provided a wealth of signs and clues to someone who paid attention, and John
Doggett had come to enjoy paying attention to Walter Skinner. He enjoyed the
big man's company, they worked well together, Skinner was an excellent
boss - responsible, realistic, dedicated, intelligent. He'd been surprised
at first by the older man's openness to the unusual and put it down to
over-exposure to Mulder and his outr propositions. However, even in matters
completely unrelated to the paranormal, the AD had shown himself to be
flexible in his thinking, respectful of other's ideas. That counted for a
lot with John Doggett.

He'd grown to respect Skinner in return and to view with increasing disgust
the way his superior was treated by many in the Bureau, including Kersh, his
own boss. Skinner ran the largest, most demanding division of the Bureau
with faultless professionalism. He worked incredible hours and got through
massive amounts of work, but lately it seemed that his every decision was
queried, his actions double-checked, his judgement called into question, as
if he was a probationer or a rookie agent, instead of a high-ranking,
experienced officer. The politics in the Bureau was worse than anything
Doggett had encountered in the Corps or in the NYPD, and he'd had enough of
seeing Skinner disregarded, sidelined, ignored and undervalued. He made a
point of acknowledging the man's rank and experience in his meetings with
Skinner and to others. The other man's authority was earned and well
deserved.

Doggett had been all the more surprised that morning when his senior Agent
had more or less handed over the investigation to him, allowing him to
direct the questioning of Mistress Xanthe and her staff. He'd noticed
Skinner's unease during the "scene" of course, and hoped he hadn't
misinterpreted it. He'd maintained a patient silence that afternoon as
Skinner read his report and praised his work, not failing to pick up the
strain still in the man's voice and posture. He was sure now that he knew
the reason for that tension and it was that understanding and concern that
brought him up to Skinner's office level now.

Just as he turned the corner from the bank of elevators, he saw the AD come
striding out of his office, heading for the stairwell. The hail on his lips
died as he saw the other man's distracted state and instead he set off in
pursuit, keeping a discreet distance.

Skinner was walking fast, long legs eating up the flights of stairs down to
the parking level, big hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, no
coat, no briefcase. Before he slammed into his car and pulled away, Doggett
got a glimpse of a tight jaw. Following in his own car, he was relieved to
see that Skinner's driving was not erratic - that was Skinner all over, he
thought, no matter what stress he was under: control, control, control.

As he'd expected, the drive led them back to the Good Boys Club. Skinner
parked and leapt out of his car, then seemed to lose his purpose. Staring up
at the tall building with its shaded windows and unmarked door, the big man
seemed fraught with indecision. Doggett could see his jaw working, then his
head swinging away from the place that both drew him and frightened him.
Finally, he watched with a curious pride and affection as the other man
gathered his considerable courage and climbed the steps to the heavy door.
Quietly, he got out of his own car and walked up behind Skinner, just as the
door was opened by a uniformed manservant.

"Gentlemen?" said the man, politely, and Skinner, suddenly realising he was
not alone, whirled round, his face a picture of guilt. Seeing Doggett, he
flung a wild glance back at the street, as if expecting to see a full Bureau
investigation team descending on them. He worked dry lips:

"Whaa...?" Doggett put a calming hand on Skinner's shoulder:

"Just me, Walter." He thought it was the first time he'd called Skinner by
his first name. It felt like a kind of Rubicon to him  a deliberate setting
aside of their work roles for something very different.  "Now come on, don't
keep the man waiting."  Just a hint of an order. Walter's jaw sagged even
further, his eyes narrowing in puzzlement. Doggett could feel the battle of
need and nerves going on inside the AD as an almost palpable vibration.
Seeing Skinner lost for words, he stepped around him and took over: after
all, that was why he'd come.

"I wonder if we could see Mistress Xanthe? We met with her earlier today,
though we are here now in relation to another matter." No need to flash
badges or make demands. He looked the manservant steadily in the eyes,
hoping to dispel anything threatening about their unannounced visit, yet at
the same time convey the importance of their mission. Yes, that was what it
was - a mission to rescue Walter Skinner.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Xanthe was in her dressing room, choosing a costume for the evening when the
quiet knock came on her door. At her word, James her butler entered. She let
him wait while she continued her leisurely scan of the enormous closet,
fingering silks and velvets, looking for that perfect look for tonight.
Drawing out a purple silk robe for closer inspection, she spoke over her
shoulder:

"What is it James? Did I hear the bell? Unexpected guests, I think, yes?"

"Yes, Mistress. Two gentlemen asking to see you. They are the... law
enforcement officers... who were here this morning, Mistress." The ever so
slight emphasis on "enforcement" did not go unnoticed by the lady of the
house, nor did the appreciative gleam in James' eye. She wagged a finger at
him,

"You greedy boy, James! Now which of the gentlemen is it who lights your
fire, I wonder? Never mind, they're not for you tonight. And not entirely
unexpected either. Show them into the Red Room, I'll be there shortly. And
send my apologies to Jack and Gunther in the Blue Room, they'll have to play
on their own tonight."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


No, the purple silk is not right for tonight after all... too casual, too
feminine. Ah, this is more like it! I draw the dark costume out of the
closet. It's been a while since I wore this, but it has happy memories.
Tonight is going to be very important for the two men downstairs and every
detail must be as right as I can make it. The fine dark fabric is almost
severe, but the bias cut of the floor-length skirt is romantic and together
with the black leather bodice gives a look of a Regency riding habit, very
dashing and evocative. With its long sleeves and high collar it's too warm
for active play, but perfect for instructing. More importantly for me, it's
wonderfully comfortable. The close lacing of the bodice holds me firmly
without the need for corset or boning, and the silk lining of the skirt
swishes pleasingly round my legs as I move... It's so important for all the
players to be attuned to their senses, including me. There - perfect. My new
pupils await me.

I wasn't lying when I told James they weren't unexpected. I'm well
accustomed to recognising men who might be suited to our world here at the
Good Boys Club. The very specific services we offer here appeal to many men
who would run a mile from a more conventional homosexual encounter, but
equally, sometimes taking charge of or handing over control to another man
is a way to re-examine their sexuality and find a peace that the rest of
their lives can't give them. The Assistant Director now, there's a man who
badly needs to learn to let go. I knew it as soon as I saw him. His body
language is all about passion restrained. Clearly he feels deeply but I
imagine in his work he has to be constantly controlled, circumspect. And if
he has no-one outside of work to open up to...

The other is harder to analyse... He's done some commanding in his time, and
has the focus and ability to be very good at it, but in the context of work,
he defers to the Assistant Director. Genuinely, willingly. And he cares
about his boss, I saw that very clearly. He paid attention as much to him as
to the players, this morning. He's thought about reaching out to the AD, but
hasn't done it yet. Maybe here, maybe tonight in my Red Room...

The Red Room is my own favourite - the first playroom I designed and fitted
out. It's not as large as some of the salons, but the rich colour on the
walls gives it an intimacy and warmth good for focussing the emotions of
ingenues. I've decided that's what these two are. Not totally ignorant of
these things, but both untried. My part tonight will be to guide them
together, show them how to find release: the one who needs to let go and the
one who longs to help him do that. There are only a few toys in the Red
Room - none of the more complex playthings because it's vital not to scare
novices, who always think they can take more than they can at first. I will
have James bring us refreshment and plenty of fresh linens, I think we may
need the whole night this time.

Before I open the door to the Red Room, I pause to centre myself and focus
on what awaits me. Now I enter. The older, bigger man is standing nervously
next to the day bed, looking as if he wants to bolt. His companion is very
close to him, wants to reach out, I think, but thinks it might spook his
friend. Two pairs of remarkable eyes flick in my direction as I enter. Cool
blue and warm brown, both reassured by my relatively modest appearance. I
saw the reaction that red latex body suit provoked this morning. No doubt
they were expecting Miss Whiplash tonight, poor boys! All right, let's
begin.

[continued in part 2]


MISTRESS XANTHE AND THE GOOD BOYS CLUB
By Sergeeva (sergeeva@walteris.vbeautiful.co.uk)

[Part 02/02 - see part 1 for headers etc.]


"John and Walter, if I'm not mistaken? Good. You're very welcome here." John
steps forward, pushing Walter with him. Both men thrust out a hand to me.
Two very different handshakes. John's firm and brief, Walter's huge paw
gripping a little too hard until he realises and hastily slackens that iron
grip, aware of his strength. Walter looks distressed, consumed with
diffidence and uncertainty. John has to nudge his arm before he lets go of
my hand apologetically and my smile eases the tension a little and brings a
tiny lifting of his lips in response. He looks sidelong at John, who smiles
also. Oh they're so near, these two, so very near...

I won't make them tell me why they're here, we all know why. Instead, I
start talking in a light conversational tone.

"Do you know what this is called the *Good* Boys Club? You saw the sort of
thing that we do here - to many people it would look like punishment, even
torture. Who would willingly submit to that, who would deserve it, surely
only very bad boys?" John still has that faint smile on his lips and
Walter's mouth is open, he's hanging on my every word. "That's what most
people never understand... there are no punishments here, only rewards,
gifts, shared pleasures. And only very *good* boys deserve such things:
attention, patience, understanding, love."

John's moved even closer to Walter now, watching him closely, nodding in
agreement.

"Good boys try hard all the time. They work hard, they think of others, they
take responsibility."

Walter eyes are crinkling up, they look hot with unshed tears. John's arm
snakes around Walter's waist, not quite hugging, not exactly holding him up,
just letting him feel someone is there. I think these two men know each
other quite well, but only on a professional level. There is mutual respect
and mutual attraction, though they may hardly be aware of that yet
themselves. John has already worked out what Walter needs, I think, but
Walter has no idea that his innermost longings have been recognised.

"Good boys look after everyone else. They grow up fast, they learn to be
sensible and they put their own needs aside. They never complain, they don't
admit when they need something, they won't let others in, they have to be
strong all the time..."

John's other arm wraps around Walter from behind. Now the big man is held
tight. John's steady blue gaze locks with mine over Walter's shoulder and
Walter's eyes slowly close.

"But good boys don't have to do that alone, Walter. Good boys need good
friends they can trust." John is saying something next to Walter's ear, too
low for me to hear. "Because sometimes it's hard, isn't it - to carry it
all? Sometimes you'd just love to have someone else take a turn. Sometimes
you long to let go, don't you, Walter?" I can see John's arms tightening and
realise that Walter is shaking. Something deep is unravelling inside him
now, thank goodness John is holding on, his solid strength holding firm.

"Good boys are the most worthy of love, of attention and here is where good
boys can find that. Here someone else can be in charge, make the decisions,
do the looking after." Walter's mouth opens in a heartfelt cry but no sound
emerges. John holds him as the big shoulders heave silently. Now John is
hesitant, wanting to do more, worried that Walter is going to break into
pieces. I stand close to them, one hand on John's back the other on his
hands where they hold tight to Walter's suit coat. I change the tone of my
voice. Before I was talking to Walter, trying to reach into his poor
confused head, now I'm talking to John.

"That's right, John, just keep holding him. He feels you there, he trusts
you. Let's get him to the bed, shall we, sit him down." Together, we walk
Walter to the bed and John pushes him gently down onto it, sitting beside
him, arms still holding tight. I kneel in front where I can see both their
faces. John looks pale, his lean, chiselled face softened with worry and
tenderness. Walter is gasping, sobs that he can't give voice to, eyes still
closed to the truths that he isn't quite ready to meet yet.

"Take his coat off, and his tie, make him comfortable." Reluctantly, John
loosens his grasp on Walter and, as carefully as a father with a sick child,
starts to undress Walter. Like a child Walter allows it. His eyes open when
he feels John's fingers at the knot of his tie and he looks at me in
confusion. I lift the big hands from his lap and shake them to get his
attention. His eyes focus as if from far off, then fix on me intently.

"No, Walter, it's John who is taking care of you now. I'm just here to
guide. John knows what you need. You trust John." Those big beautiful eyes
search my face then shift across to the man beside us. John stills his
fingers and looks back at Walter. I have to hold my breath, there's so much
happening in this moment between them. Then Walter nods, and John pulls him
in close and hugs him hard. "Talk to him, John, show him you understand." I
free Walter's hand and drop down to start taking off their shoes and socks.
I'm here to facilitate and I'll do anything from taking over when a whip-arm
tires to towelling off sweaty bodies, whatever it takes to preserve the
place they're in, the spell they're under.

"I know you're strong, Walter. No one's stronger. You've given all that
strength to the job, everythin', almost your whole life. Will you give
somethin' to me now? Will you give me what's inside you: the anger and pain
and guilt? Let it out and let me in? Will you?"

He's slighter than Walter but John is making himself big and broad and solid
as he speaks, gripping Walter's arms, looking intently into the other man's
eyes, an equal not a Master. It's very beautiful - they could be two
gladiators saying their farewells before battle, all very manly and noble -
but I'm not sure it's what Walter truly needs.

"You need to take charge, John. *Take* the anger and pain, don't ask for it.
Walter hasn't the energy to volunteer anything on his own, he needs you to
reach in and unlock it for him. Try moving him, handling him, give him some
directions."

John just nods, his eyes staying with Walter. Then firmly he pushes the big
man down flat on his back on the bed and starts stroking his face.

"It's no good lockin' it all up inside there, Walter. I can still see it. I
can see how it weighs you down. Well I'm takin' it now, you don't have a
choice." His hand moves from Walter's face to his chest, landing firmly to
emphasise each word, almost slaps. It seems to be working - Walter looks a
little shocked but less desperate. "You're gonna give it up to me, cos
you're *mine* now, all of you is mine." Walter's shirt is unbuttoned now and
John's hand kneads possessively at the glorious muscles. "Stay still now,
I'll tell you when you can move."

I knew I was right - this boy is a born Master, firm and caring. John's
steady words keep coming and his hand works open Walter's belt and pants.
"Okay, now roll." He shoves Walter over onto his belly and strips the shirt
off his back. "Good boy... such a good boy, Walter, ...doin' so well..."
Leaning close, he smoothes down the broad tanned back, hesitating when he
realises Walter still has his pants on. I catch his eye and step up to make
myself useful, pulling the open pants down and off. My appreciative eye
meets John's over long strong legs and white briefs snugly stretched over
the firmest, curviest bottom I've ever seen.

"You're nearly there now, I think, John. I'll bring you what you need."

While I'm fetching the soft leather flogger, John quickly peels out of his
own shirt, revealing a tight compact body in a white undershirt. He
stretches out alongside Walter on the bed, hooking one leg over Walter's,
one arm across his back. It brings their faces close together.

"Now baby, you're gonna let it all out," John whispers. "I'll show you how
to feel the hurt and the anger, really feel it, but this time you're not
hangin' on to it, I'm takin' it away. Understand?" His forehead is against
Walter's. "I'm gonna whip this sweet ass of yours and you can scream and
holler all you want and then that heavy weight will be gone." His hand
pushes Walter's briefs down off his hips and I help them the rest of the way
then put the flogger into his hand. He never breaks eye contact with Walter.

The whipping isn't going to be that serious. It's a psychological act as
much as a physical one, this first time. I selected a particular implement
with that in mind. The lash has 18 long leather strips but they're butter
soft hide. Wielded with real force they could stripe and sting, but Walter
doesn't need that. He's so deep in submission now he'll believe it's hurting
even if it's not, just because John has told him so. The point is to give
him a sensation to rage at, a rhythm to scream against, a safe scenario
within which to release his anguish. It's almost symbolic this first
yielding. I've been impressed with how skilfully John has handled this so
far. Now I have to trust him to treat Walter right.

He starts with slow circles over Walter's back, just trailing the ends of
the lash across the skin. He spends a long time over and around the enticing
buttocks, using his fingers to touch and pinch lightly, as well as the
flogger. I guess John Doggett is as taken with that lovely backside as I am.
I foresee some delightful evenings of serious cathartic spanking.

"Feel that, Walter? It doesn't sting yet, but it will... the leather will
bite but it's okay to yell. I *want* you to yell." In the position he's in
he couldn't do more than caress with the flogger, but his words are what
matter and Walter's breathing speeds up, until he gasps with every flick of
the leather tails. John sits up now and slides off the bed to kneel
alongside. Now he lets the lash fall with a little more force,
criss-crossing Walter's back and buttocks in a steady rhythm.

"Think of all those times you went the extra mile and no one said thank you.
Think of every time they made you justify your decisions or pulled you
before some board of conduct." Now he puts a snap of the wrist into each
stroke, giving an edge to the lashes, making the sleek skin heat up and
redden. Walter's gasps have a deeper note now, a wordless groan.

"How many years did you fight your own bosses to protect Mulder and Scully?
How many sneers did you suffer when you supported their findin's?" John
stands up, stands over Walter's prostrate body and the strokes are coming
thick and fast now, still not damaging but inescapable, relentless. A yell
breaks forth, torn from the soul of this strong man, from layers of pain
laid down over years and years.

"How often have you been passed over because you fought for them? There was
hurt after hurt and it's way past time to shout about it now. You did your
job, you never gave way, you were so strong..."

It's those past wounds that Walter's feeling now, the beat of the lash
merely a way to focus, something physical to draw out what's been churning
inside Walter's head.

"It hurt every time, didn't it, but you never showed how much. I know there
was never time for the hurtin', for the healin', there was always another
battle to be fought, but now I'm in charge and I'm gonna *make* time for it.
You're gonna give it all up to me and then we can start the healin'."

Walter is sobbing now - not wet, teary sobs but raw shouts of outrage that
he lifts his head to cry out. Maybe there will be actual tears, maybe not.
There will be loving, for sure. My part is almost over.

"It's okay to feel sorry for yourself, Walter. I will never think less of
you for that. It takes a very strong man, a very good boy, to face the hurt
and let it go. Are you ready to let it go? I love you Walter - let me take
the hurt away."

That's the coup de grace. A howl comes from Walter and he curls up on the
bed as if in real physical agony. At once, John drops the flogger and climbs
on the bed with him, gently prying open arms and legs until he can cuddle
Walter close against his chest. He lifts up the smooth head and Walter's
face looks as if he's gone six rounds with a heavyweight - red and raw and
puffy - so he was crying. John brushes the back of his fingers down the
blotchy cheek, leans in, and as easily as that they're kissing, and John is
murmuring over and over "I love you, it's okay, I love you, you're safe now,
it's okay, I love you, I love you..."

I slip quietly out of the room. They can find their own way from here on.


THE END

Feedback is always appreciated and answered at:
sergeeva@walteris.vbeautiful.co.uk