Mr. Skinner Takes a Lover

TITLE: Mr. Skinner Takes a Lover

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 mankind loves a lover … Emerson (Number Four 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 …

Thanks to the beta-tiger for making all my lower-cases into upper-cases.

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 Lover

by Mik

I don’t know what I’m doing standing outside this door.

That’s not precisely true. I do know I’m gritting my teeth, sweating and inwardly trembling. But I don’t know what business I have standing outside this door. I don’t want to knock. I gave my hand a direct order not to knock, but it did so, anyway. Utterly faithless, that hand. I want to turn away quickly, get out of the hall before he answers, but my feet refuse to move. It’s a mutiny.

I hear his steps. I hear the bolt slide back from the lock. I hear the knob turn in its chamber. Over all of that I hear a roaring in my ears. I can’t be doing this, and yet, here I am, working up a false expression of calm as the door swings open, and he stares at me.

He’s working on a false expression of calm and all. But he is trying to fight down fear and dread and painful curiosity. What do you know? Agent Mulder and I have finally achieved parity. "Sir?" he says, quietly. "Are you all right?"

I nod. "I just wanted to have a little discussion--that is … I wanted to ask you …" I stop, reminded of days in high school, coming off a football field, and there was a cool blond in dark glasses and hiphugger jeans and I wanted so badly to ask her for a date. Big dumb jock that I was, I asked her if she had any matches. As if either of us smoked! "Agent Mulder, may I come in?"

The anxiety is back in his eyes. He backs up a step or two, lets me over the sill and gestures faintly toward his all purpose, all existence room. As I take a seat in the only chair in the room, he passes me, and slumps down on that greenish leathery thing. I’ve heard he sleeps on it.

I take a look at him, only just noticing he has changed from the brown suit he was wearing earlier to a pair of baggy grey sweats and a tee shirt that reveals a lot of his lanky frame. His hair is slightly askew, and I notice there is a bunched up pillow at one end of the sofa. "Mulder? Did I wake you?"

He jerks up, sitting very straight. Then sags a little. "Musta’ dozed off."

"But it’s only …" I check my watch. When the hell did it get to be ten o’clock? I start to rise. "I’m sorry. I’ll come another--"

He stands, too. "No, no, sir. It’s all right. I’ll make us some coffee."

I hold him off. "No, that’s all right. I’ll be brief." I wait ‘til we both are seated again. He looks glorious rumpled like that.

"Sir?" His brow is wrinkled up like a worried pup.

"Yes." I bring my eyes to the table between us, littered with file folders, suspiciously named newsletters and a few Polaroids. Mulder never stops working.

"You said you had something personal you needed to discuss," he prompts.

I continue to stare at the table. I wanted to do this. I NEEDED to do this. But, can I do this? "Yes," I repeat. I cannot look at him. But I can feel him. Sense him. Smell him. For a moment, I can imagine him, sprawled over this mess of his mania on the table. I see his eyes imploring me to finish what I started, finish him. I can see the short, sharp pants of breath, the rigid, quivering cock. I can even see myself buried to balls in a place so tight, so hot I think for a moment I’ve mistaken a geyser for Mulder’s ass.

"I’ll make coffee." He moves before I can stop him. Reluctantly, I rise and follow him.

Mulder in the kitchen. An anomaly in motion. Puttering around, spooning coffee into a filter, rinsing the carafe. Pushing the button that starts the brewing process isn’t enough to calm him. He starts looking for cups in his embarrassingly bare cupboards. He pulls milk from an equally bare refrigerator, sniffs tentatively, and puts the carton in the sink. "I hope you drink it black," he mutters.

For a moment, I have an urge. An irrational, unforgivable, inexplicable urge. I want not to fuck him, but to hold him, feed him, cuddle him. But, then he bends over to get a small box of the pink stuff from a cupboard, and I have to physically restrain myself to keep from slamming him against the counter and dragging his sweats down over his ass.

He straightens, puts the box next to the cups and as he does so, catches the end of my hungry stare. He turns, leans back against the counter and drums his fingers against the sides, revealing agitation. "It will be a few minutes, sir," he informs me. "If you want to go sit down, I can bring it to you."

"No, I don’t mind waiting." I try to make myself comfortable against the doorframe. I am not comfortable. I feel like a fool. But, I also feel as if I can’t not know. "I wanted to talk to you on a personal level … that is, about something personal. I know you’re a psychologist, and I was wondering if you could give me an opinion on something. Your … clinical opinion."

He grins at me. "About to tell me something that’s happening to a ‘friend’ of yours?"

I have to smile, feeling just a bit sheepish. "No," I confess. "It’s me. It’s happening to me."

The grin vanishes. "I’m listening," he says, softly.

"Last night something rather unusual happened to me. And I haven’t been … all day I’ve been … I can’t seem to stop thinking about it."

He shrugs. "That’s not uncommon. We all fixate about unusual experiences. Look at me. I’ve been fixated on the same--"

"It wasn’t a thing," I blurt out. "It was a person. I had thoughts about a person."

He opens his mouth and I can just see the smart-alec reply bubbling out of him. But he catches himself, pauses and looks at me, quite serious. "You had what you considered inappropriate thoughts about someone?" he asks, gently.

I nod, shame welling over me. I have to go. I start to back up, but his hand is on my arm again. Don’t touch me, Mulder. I might not ever let go.

"Is it Scully?" he asks, with such patience and kindness I want to smack him, hard.

I shake my head. "Why would you think it was Scully?" I demand, brusquely.

"Because you got up and walked out … on … us …" His eyes grow round. "Sir? Is it me?"

I turn away from him, knowing, feeling my flesh burning right off of me.

He sags back against the counter, looking bemused. "I’ll be damned," he murmurs. "I haven’t lost my touch."

I jerk around. "What?"

He shrugs. "I haven’t been propositioned since I left college. I thought I’d lost my looks or something."

You? I think incredulously. You will make an alluring cadaver. "Are you saying you’re a homosexual?"

He shakes his head, pursing that lower lip. "Not really. Bi, maybe. Haven’t been with another man since I left England, but I did have something of a reputation there. They called me ‘Yank, the tank’."

"The tank," I repeat doubtfully.

His eyes trail down. "Well, I was considered well-endowed. Maybe it was just college."

This I HAVE to see. "So, why no men since college?"

It is his turn to stare, incredulous. "I was recruited right out of college to go to work for the U.S. Government. When you work for the Federal Bureau of Intolerance, you just try not to have inappropriate behavior. Well …" he laughs, self-deprecatingly. "You try." His gaze comes back, pinning me in place. "I take it you’ve never …?"

I shake my head. "I don’t know where it came from."

He moves toward me and slaps me on the shoulder. "I don’t have time to do my Freud imitation, or I’d tell you." His fingers squeeze me. "I’m flattered. Really. I always thought the only interest you had in my ass was how far you could drop-kick it across the mall."

Now I am truly confused and frightened. What do I say? How do I ask? Is he trying to let me down gently?

He leans forward, and kisses me, very softly. "Now, you’ve told me. Do you want to sleep on it a couple of days?"

I focus on him.

"Or do you want to explore this dark side of your psyche tonight?"

His kiss. It was warm and soft and hinted of so much more. I’m mesmerized. "You’re the doctor," I mutter.

He laughs. That laugh I see so very seldom. His head tips back, his eyes close, his mouth curves up and this … sound emerges from the depths of him. "Who would have known you had a sense of humor, sir?"

"Walt," I say, stupidly.

He stops laughing, which proves it was stupid. "I’m sorry?"

"Walt. Don’t call me ‘sir’. It feels strange here."

"Okay." He swallows. I can watch the movement of his throat and I want him to be swallowing me. "I’m a little out of practice and you’re a virgin, so I don’t think we ought to be rushing into this headlong--or maybe that’s how we should be rushing into it." His eyes go over me, and I see assessment in them, and it not only doesn’t bother me, it enflames me. I resist an urge to straighten into full attention. "Are you sure this is what you want to do? I mean, now that you’ve told me, maybe it won’t be an obsession anymore. You’re not bound by what you said. I’ll consider it doctor-client privilege and we’ll never mention it--"

I grab the back of his neck and pull him against me, and kiss him. Yes, that’s what I’ve been yearning for.

He laughs, softly, against my mouth. "That’s what I was hoping you’d decide … Walt."

-THE END-