Your Home is My Home

by Claire Dobbin


Your Home is My Home
or
'A restraining order isn't going to be of much use' by
Claire Dobbin

To his great disappointment, Alex opened the well oiled lock silently and in seconds. He felt cheated by the ease of it. It left him feeling unchallenged and unappreciated. The little line above his nose creased in annoyance. On the three previous occasions during the past month when he'd broken into the apartment, Assistant Director Skinner had had the decency to change and upgrade the front door lock within hours of arriving home. Alex had rightly considered the installation of each increasingly expensive and complex mechanism to be a testimony to his skill. This was ... humiliating!

He turned the handle and pressed his hand against the door. It swung open invitingly and made him instantly suspicious. If he hadn't seen Walter and his overnight bag leave Crystal City with his own eyes, he might have abandoned the little caper there and then.

But where was the fun in that?

Anyhow, this was the fourth and final departmental team building seminar Walter would be expected to oversee this year, and that meant it was Alex's last pre-booked and confirmed chance to play house in Walter's castle until the next phase of enforced Bureau social interaction rolled round in the new fiscal year. So, whatever the danger, or whatever trap Walter may have laid for him he couldn't resist the lure of entering into the private inner sanctum of the man who had become his obsession.

He stepped into the living room, switched on the lights and pushed the door closed behind him. Immediately, something came plummeting from the ceiling and he did a backward roll into the corner and drew his gun, all in one lithe movement. He targeted the small, yellow object as it fluttered around on its string at just about his standing eye level for a few seconds then did a quick check round for any other bobby traps or trip wires. He could see nothing out of place and cautiously he stood up and walked back to where the 'Post-it' had come to rest. His eyes tracked the path its string took, running through a closed hook screwed into the ceiling, back to where it was attached with a thumb tack to the front door - thus creating the 'up and down' movement when said door was opened and closed.

He squinted at the well proportioned handwriting flowing across its surface.

'Take off your boots. I had to have the rug cleaned after the last time.'

Instinctively, he glanced down at his Doc Martens and the formerly pristine rug.

"Oops ... " he murmured, re-holstering his gun.

Well, better late than never, he thought as he bent down to unlace and toe off his offending footwear. He felt only slightly guilty, It was hardly his fault that a typical day in the life of a Consortium agent took him to places that specialized in sticky, green goo as the floor covering of choice. He snorted contemptuously - cream rugs and the highly polished corridors of power may be the prerogative of well heeled Bureau agents, but they were not for him. Nonetheless, he found an out-of-date magazine on the coffee table to set his Doc Martens on before they could do any more damage.

Glancing at the warning 'Post-it' again he took off his jacket and threw it onto the couch. Clearly Walter had adopted a new approach to his unauthorized sleep-overs. The comfortable temperature of the apartment was confirmation of that. Previously, he'd had to over-ride the time clock on the thermostat and wait for the heat to build up before he got comfortable. Tonight, the apartment was smug and welcoming.

As usual, he headed straight for the bedroom because it was where the 'Walter scent' was at its most defined. Entering the room he flicked on the lamp and breathed in a deep, indulgent breath through his nose. The second the intense concentration of pheromones hit his olfactory system, his toes curled in his socks and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Something else began to stand up as well, and he looked down at the bed to check on the cause. Yep, it was as he thought, the bed linen had not been changed. Instead of the usual freshly-laundered Marine-standard, wrinkle-free, perfectly-made bed, there was a slept-in Marine-standard, wrinkle-free perfectly-made bed ...

... with a 'Post-it' note attached to the pillow.

He took a nose dive onto the wide expanse of pale blue and white striped cotton and luxuriated in the 'essence of Walter' before crawling up to read the new missive.

'When you're done - change the sheets.'

That made him pout and he pulled the offensive piece of yellow paper roughly off the pillow case and scrunched it up into a ball. It went soaring into space as he headed for the dressing room, stripping off as he went.

He loved the next bit. Sliding into clothes that had recently been next to the skin and sinew and muscle of Walter Skinner had so many erotic connotations for him that he had given up trying to catalogue them all. It was one of those experiences that had to be lived, not analysed, to be enjoyed to the full. He wanted to live it and he knew what he wanted to be in the drawer before he opened it - the grey, well worn fleecy sweats with the Quantico lettering across the chest. Even after a wash cycle in detergent and fabric softener, they still retained the unique feel of Walter, as though all the years of wear had moulded them into his magnificent body shape.

The drawer opened silkily ...

... and an obtrusive scrap of yellow Day-Glo paper, bearing a message in red ink, greeted him.

'No, you may not borrow any of my clothes!'

With a cavalier disregard for the concept of private property, Alex unpeeled the 'Post-it' from the beloved grey cotton and stuck it onto the mirror above the dresser.

'Sure Walter, whatever you say ... " he muttered as he lifted out the sweats and pulled them on sensuously.

He glanced at his reflection and ran his hands down across his chest and abdomen until they rested on his groin. He held himself firmly - cupping the material around his cock and balls.

" ... guess that means I'll just have to take them with me this time ... "

Reluctantly he let go of the grey cotton and its precious contents and headed for the kitchen - and Walter's refrigerator. It was always a wonder to him. It was like the refrigerators that you saw on television shows - the ones that were chuck full of delicacies from all the major food groups, only with Walter there was a unhealthy bias towards 'meat and more'.

His mouth began watering as he swung open the big, chunky door.

"Shit!"

An unfamiliar gleam from the fridge's white plastic interior greeted him. Only the centre shelf held anything at all and it was a small plastic tray containing a pack of 'TaterTots', a tofu burger and a single Pop Tart. Beside them lay another 'Post-it' note. Somewhere deep in his psyche he was beginning to develop a loathing for the annoyingly useful squares of yellow paper. This one read :-

'Do you have any idea how many bullshit reports I had to read to pay for the Porterhouse steak and half pound of Swiss gruyere cheese you ate the last time?'

Alex grabbed the little bit of paper and tore it up into the smallest pieces he could manage before dropping them down the garbage disposal and turning it on with a grunt of satisfaction. When he was happy that they had been sufficiently pulverized he opened the fridge again and looking glumly at his 'dinner'. It was a major let-down, no way round it. Chalk up one to Walter - but food was food and with a sigh he emptied the whole selection onto a plate and zapped it in the microwave. He put the plate and a glass on a tray and headed towards the bathroom, making the customary stop at the drinks cabinet in the living room.

The Smirnoff Vodka bottle had no 'Post-it' attached, that honour was reserved for the bottle of smoky Glenfiddick whisky. He wavered. Vodka was his usual tipple, but the message - 'Don't even think about it!' - was like waving a red flag at a bull. His hand slid around the neck of the whisky bottle and he took it with him up to the tub to help make what passed for dinner more palatable - and to annoy Walter.

He enjoyed the whiskey ... he enjoyed the long soak in the Jacuzzi ... he enjoyed jerking off in the warm, sandalwood scented water ... hell, he even enjoyed his dinner ... but most of all he enjoyed ignoring the numerous 'Post-it' instructions and warnings littering the bathroom.

Sometime after one o'clock he drained the last of the whiskey and fell into a deep, dead-to-the-world sleep. It was well into the next afternoon when he woke to the sound of a door closing downstairs. A set of keys fell noisily into the ceramic bowl on the table beside the front door. An overnight bag was dropped wearily onto the floor.

Then there was a moment of quiet ... in his mind's eye he could see Walter staring at his grimy Doc Martens and the gungy footprints on the rug.

He sat up abruptly. The bed was a mess. The remains of dinner and a pile of soggy towels lay sprawled across the antiseptically clean bathroom floor. A pair of grey sweats hung off the end of the bed. A bottle of incredibly expensive, twenty year old whiskey stood empty on the bedside cabinet ...

... where, through the clear glass, he could see a 'Post-it' note that had stuck itself to the bottom of the bottle ...

He peeled it off and read the words of threat and promise - 'Your ass is toast'.

His good sense and will to live offered him the option of the fire escape and a pair of grey sweats, but his ass had other plans. He lay back down and pretended to be asleep.

From downstairs came a rumbling ... like the sound of a wild bull elephant about to run amok ...

... to Alex it was the sound of a dream come true ... finis
 

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