TITLE: After All

NAME: Mik

E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: SRA

RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.

SUMMARY: After all this time, after all they've been through...do they still love each other, after all?

ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20^th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's Notes: Well, Janet, you were right…there weren't supposed to be two, just one, but since there were two, there must be three. Prego.

If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

After All

by Mik

He's nervous. I rarely see him nervous. No matter what happens, no matter how serious the situation, no matter how black the charge, he's managed to stride through life with an imperious, impervious calm. And now he seems undone, sitting in 'his' chair, fingering an almost sedate tie, crossing and uncrossing his legs, his eyes darting from me to his shoes, to what was once 'her' chair, and back to me.

His skittering gaze and manic hands are like fingernails on the chalkboard of my soul. My complacent contentment, hard won, was shattered two days ago by an email announcing her imminent arrival, her request for an appointment with us both. It has been one year to the day since she walked out of his life and left room for me, but my tenancy in his heart wasn't immediate. It took a lot of work and compromise to move in. I sit here, watching him fidget and struggle to maintain my own composure, as I imagine my eviction notice arriving in the form of a five foot two redhead in a no-nonsense suit.

It's been a slow, occasionally painful process, this contact negotiation. Over the last several months, we've grown closer on several levels. He actually talks to me now, instead of making wisecracks or 'yes, sir'ing me. We've had some extremely heated conversations and some remarkably tender ones.

The first month or so was devoted almost exclusively to him testing me, trying to find the boundary of my feelings, the conditions to my love. He was actually incapable of accepting that what I offered was genuine, that I was really here to stay.

Once he began to believe I was for real, then one by one, his barriers came down. I had to let him grieve his losses; his sister, father, mother, and finally Scully. That was the most painful part for me. He openly wept for her. He flagellated himself repeatedly for sins real and imagined committed against her. He seemed to have no concept of how his display of love and grief wounded me, made me doubt he'd ever let go of her, or take hold of me.

When he finally let me into his head and then his heart, we began that stumbling, bumbling dance to work me into his personal space. Physical affection was evidently as alien to him as many of his pursuits, and ours was limited for many months to pats, hugs and the rare kiss. He tolerated me in his bed, though he insisted his restlessness was relative to his preference to sleeping on the couch. When, after months of maddeningly chaste proximity, I asked him outright if he was at all open to physical intimacy, he seemed stunned by my request. "You mean…sex?" he asked blankly. I was pretty certain then that our relationship was nothing more than a security blanket for a man terrified of being completely alone.

The he surprised me one night by turning to me long after the lights went out, with a hot kiss and a hungry embrace. It wasn't fireworks from the start. It was awkward and clumsy. He was shy, unschooled but determined. I was on fire but trying to keep the flames within for fear of scaring him. Our first couplings were little more than glorified masturbation, but they were, nonetheless, intense and I reveled in the sweet aftermath, when he was most open and almost innocent; shuddering, tearful, scrambling into a tight embrace and clinging. In these few precious moments, I was free to caress, soothe, possess.

Despite a certain lack of fulfillment, a certain gnawing of doubt that whispered I would lose him the day his wounds healed and he was healthy enough to stand alone again, my feelings for him deepened and solidified in those months. My years of watching him with shuttered passion had built a monument of longing, somehow turning him into something akin to a god, a panacea for my loveless, empty heart. But now, in his awareness, his embrace, his bed, I could see he was no god and certainly no cure-all. But he was real and warm and solid and the monument crumbled and love grew up strong amid that rubble.

And after all of that, we are now sitting in my office waiting for her to waltz back in and smile her wry, knowing, tolerant smile and it might well be over.

"It was a year ago," he murmurs softly, drumming his fingers on the shoe that perches against his knee.

I fix an even smile on my face and nod. No need to tell him I know exactly what day it is. No need to tell him that until that message arrived I had planned something special and foolishly romantic for this evening, this anniversary of that first kiss. "You're right," I agree.

"Funny she'd pick today to come back." He lowers his foot to the ground and both feet begin to bounce in that frenetic little dance he so often does when feeling confined.

"Yes," I say, barely keeping the bitterness from my voice. I don't need to be psychic to know what will happen. All I have so carefully nurtured between us will be worthless once he meets those crystal blue eyes. It's not like me to retreat, but this is a foe I know better than to engage. She will advance bearing the weapons of eight years of intimacy, and the knowledge of every inch of him, psyche and soul.

That bouncing little motion unnerves me. That isn't nervousness on his part, it's impatience. He's eager for her to be here, to begin it all again, to reclaim everything he denounced months ago. The little half smile he offers me when our eyes meet is one of uncertainty, perhaps even regret.

The buzzer on my desk sounds and my mouth goes dry. I want to come across my desk and clutch him to me, kiss him one last time, hold him for one more moment before she sweeps in with her smile and sweeps out with his heart; the shattered one I so painstakingly put back together over this last year. "Dr. Scully is here, Sir."

I can barely make my voice work. "Send her in."

We both stand as she enters. She is hardly the same woman I bid good luck one year ago today. Her once pale skin has acquired a healthy golden glow, her once tailored suits have given way to a soft, flowing skirt and set of pastel sweaters. Her sharp cap of auburn hair has become a wave of curls around her face, over her shoulders. Her bright, serious eyes are sparkling and warm, and her smile, that smile that was once so wry is soft, shy, happy.

Yet the more things change, as they say, the more they stay the same. He is staring down at her, dumb. She offers me a hand and a nod, and a husky, " Assistant Director Skinner, Sir." Her smile widens slightly, as if to invite me into the sheer joy of her existence.

She turns the eyes, the hair, the smile, the joy to him. "Mulder." She nearly giggles his name.

He swallows hard. I can see his throat working desperately to bring words up. "Scully." He smiles wanly and, eschewing her proffered hand, draws her into a tight embrace and I begin the process of dying inside. "You look..." He pulls her away and looks down over her. "Wow."

She laughs again. "And you look the same. Except for the tie." She looks him over and nods. "The tie." She steps back from his arms and looks around. "Nothing ever changes here. Or does it?"

"How's California, Scully?" he says, showing her 'her' chair.

"Oh, the same as it's always been." She sits, smoothes down her skirt, crosses her legs and tucks her hands into her lap. "Warm and wonderful. Disneyland and smog." She smiles again. She's absolutely glowing in her confidence. She flicks him little glances and smiles even as she inventories the office, him, me. "Mulder, where DID you get that tie?"

He glances down at it, then a fragment of a glance for me. "Do you like the assignment?" he prompts. His voice is dangerously close to breaking. I ache for him.

"Oh, yes. But I'm going to be leaving it soon." Again a smile, this one sweet, sly. There is an aura of mysterious pleasure about her, something so out of her character that I wonder if she's one of those clones Mulder used to rant about.

We both start, swallow, stare. "Leaving?"

She nods. "I was wondering…" She looks to me for a moment, and then directly at Mulder..."Did you ever find another..." She pauses delicately. This coy and coquettish Scully is a stranger to me, but she seems to have captivated Mulder; he is openly gaping at her. "...partner?"

He sends me a terrified look. "Are you coming back, Scully?"

She nods, slowly.

I am torn between two desires; to shoot her and to get up, grab Mulder and run as hard and as fast and as far as I can. I sit, stone in my chair.

Mulder seems to be overcome. He licks his lips, looks at his shoes, the window behind me, his hands, anywhere but her or me. "That...that's great news, Scully."

She leans forward, and puts a palm on my desk, as if in entreaty. "Would you mind too much, Sir, if I borrowed Mulder?"

"Only if you promise to give him back." I don't exactly snarl the words, but they are forced through clenched teeth.

We all laugh politely.

"Oh, I only want him for a few hours." She turns to him, and puts a hand on his sleeve. "Would you do me the great honor of standing up with me this afternoon?" Her smile widens into an expression of giddy rapture. "I'm getting married and I wanted my best friend to be my witness."

And suddenly, I hate her. How can she be so cruel? Does she have no idea what she's doing to him? The urge to pull out my service weapon is stronger than ever. I manage a wooden smile over my clenched teeth.

He looks down at her hand, and then at her face. "Married? Oh...my God...Scully...that's...that's..." His voice breaks. "Wonderful." He is suddenly out of his chair and sweeping her into his arms. "Oh, God, Scully, congratulations." He swings her around the office then sets her down, touching her now tear-streaked face. "When did this...how did...who? Who's the lucky guy?"

She's laughing and crying. He's laughing and crying. They're both trying to outtalk one another. Bits of information spilling and scattering over the carpet. He's in the Navy, just reassigned here, going overseas, getting married today before he leaves, small wedding at her mother's house, she's happy, they're in love, he's the best thing that's ever happened to her...

All I can do is sit behind my desk, hands flat on the desk top, reminding myself to breathe. He seems...relieved...and genuinely happy for her. Could it possibly be? Belatedly I rise, move to their Tearful of Babel. I offer her a hand. "Congratulations...Dana."

She untangles herself from his arms and kisses and tears. Lifts her face for a light kiss to my cheek. She whispers softly, "If you hurt him I'll kick your ass...Sir."

I straighten sharply, and stare at her, incredulous, knowing that color is rushing into my face. She makes that soft gurgling laughter again. She kisses him and slips from between us. "Good luck, both of you. I'll see you both at my mother's house at four? And Mulder...could you change your tie?"

He moves closer to me, his hand groping for mine, squeezing tight.

She's gone.

He's still here. After all.

- END -