Mr

TITLE: Mr. Skinner Takes a Chance

NAME: Mik

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.

SUMMARY: All nature is but art, unknown to thee; all chance but direction which thou canst see … Pope (Number Three in the Mr. Skinner Series.)

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.

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 20th 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. But, when I become king …

Once again the Great Beta Mistress strengthens the ties between beta and author.

If you like this, there's more at http://homepages.go.com/~frogdoggie/3wstop.html

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

Mr. Skinner Takes a Chance

by Mik

Friday night. The Shafford. Pretentious name for a pretentious bar where all the pretentious mid-levels go before they hit the trains for home, wife and kiddies. So what am I doing here?

Why am I sitting at the bar, an untouched Scotch between my hands, staring into space? I don’t need to fortify myself before taking the paycheck home to the other half. I have no other half.

I have no other half.

In the mirror I can see myself, and I resent what I see. Neon beer signs reflecting off my glasses and my dome. Typical mid-level. Okay, I may not be as paunchy as most, or quite as bald as some, but the fact remains, I’m just a mid-level paper-pusher. And I am alone.

Sometimes I miss her so much I want to … well, I’m not sure what I want to do. I think I would cry, but I can’t. Somewhere, along a muddy road in a steamy jungle, I lost my tears. But, I do still turn at night, reaching for her. How many times did she turn for me, and I wasn’t there for her? Even when I was in the same damn bed.

I’m tired of sleeping alone.

The barmaid sends a curious glance at my glass. I shake my head at her, sharply. The smile I almost got is stillborn. She turns away.

Of course I’m alone. I don’t know the proper procedure for not being alone. I don’t even know how to flirt anymore. Well, no. I don’t think I ever did. With Sharon, I was a big, dumb jock, and she was a smart girl with dreams. What she ever saw in me … I guess back then, she saw me as a mound of clay, and she was going to sculpt me into something wondrous. I didn’t turn out wondrous. I turned out to be a big mound of clay.

I sip Scotch tentatively. The taste is warm and smoky and faintly unsatisfying. I’m not sure why.

No, that is a lie.

I know what I want to taste, and it doesn’t come in a bottle. I want to taste the warmth of someone else’s lips. I’m tired of coming home to an empty house, reaching for a ghost in an empty bed.

I’ve been introduced to all sorts of women since the ‘suitable mourning period’ passed. Everyone trying to fix me up, help me out, tie me down. Divorcees, widows, career women looking to settle down at last. All with an assessing gleam in their eye. I don’t want that. I want …

I empty my glass on a gulp. What I think I want I couldn’t possibly want. Not that. Not him. Still … I think of his eyes this morning in the Park; the concern, the warmth, the openness there.

I think of the way my imagination flamed at the thought of having him, holding him, possessing him, even for a few stolen hours under a tree.

The barmaid comes back. This time I nod. She takes my glass away and returns with another one, full, and she almost smiles again.

Mulder, I think, sighing inwardly. What is it about you?

You’re so damned earnest. And very naive in some ways despite all your cynical speeches and poses. That sincere desire to drink from the well of truth is as strong and as palpable as the musk of a moose in mating season. And well … just as arousing. I guess that makes me a moose.

I take a sip, consider the room around me again. All these men, sitting here, hiding from something that I yearn for. Yearn? No, that’s not too strong a word. It’s something deep and visceral. I want something--someone in my life. I want someone strong and compelling and … someone with hazel eyes and a stubborn wave of brown hair, and a full mouth.

And a cock. Well … I’m not all that sure about that … no. That’s a lie. I want that particular one.

I can almost see it. It would be long and lean, like him. Slow to entice to activity, because all of his hormones, all of his blood, his breath, his bones are focused on that Truth. But, I think I could help him find a little truth in me.

What could I say to him? How could I ask him if he would consider me? What if he isn’t interested in this truth? ‘Agent Mulder, I’ve decided I want to improve interdepartmental relations, and I’ve decided to start by having relations with you.’ I don’t think so. ‘Fox, are you for or against homosexuality, and if you’re for it, how would you like to be against me?’ I REALLY don’t think so. ‘Mulder, in two minutes I’m going to walk across this room and kiss you. If you object, you can leave now. If you’re still here in two minutes …’

I sigh and take another sip. I think about the look in his eyes when I brushed him off this morning. I think of the genuine care and concern when he almost shyly offered me his home phone number, in case I wanted to talk.

Why would he do that? I have his damned number. Why would he think I’d want to talk to him after hours about a personal matter … unless he wanted to listen to me after hours about a personal matter.

I dip my hand into my jacket pocket. Yes, that slip of paper is still there. It almost burns my fingertips.

But what if he said no? What if he laughed? What if he reported me? I’d be hurt, humiliated and quite possibly without a job.

And I’d still be alone.

But what if he said yes? What if he was still there when his two minutes were up? What if he crossed the room first, took me in HIS arms? What if he kissed ME?

Is there a moose in this room?

Resolutely, I empty my glass, and signal for my check. I send my eyes around the room again. There. That’s what I need. I reach into my pocket, and drop money on the counter. Fingers curling around a piece of paper, I walk slowly to the back of the bar.

I pick up the receiver. I swallow.

I hear the dial tone. I hear my heart pounding.

I enter the number. I’m out of my mind.

I drop the required change in the slot. Stop. Turn back. Don’t do this.

I hear it ring. I’ve got to know.

"This is Mulder." No. Don’t.

"Agent Mulder, I was wondering if that offer to talk was still open?"

THE END