TITLE: Secret Remedy
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
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: Guaranteed to cure what ails ya.

ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Nnnnnnnnnope.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner 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. But when I become king...

Author's notes: My beta got hold of this and fixed everything.

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.

Secret Remedy

by Mik

...feeling like my body's been crumpled up by some giant cosmic hand and tossed carelessly toward a universal trash bin ... and missed. All I want to do is curl up in the dark and shiver to death. I'm too sick to work but what's the point of going home? There's no one there. At least here, Scully will go for my coffee, and she always seems to have Kleenex handy, and can remember where the aspirins are. But I can't count on her to hold me tight when I start shaking with chills, or just ache. I wish I'd -

"Mulder? Are you coming?"

Mulder pushed his computer screen to one side guiltily. He'd spent the morning indulging in self pity and he knew it. But in a night of bone wracking coughs, teeth chipping chills, jackhammer headaches and a malaise deeper than the arctic crust, he received the epiphany that there was nothing worse than being sick when you lived alone. "It's the only good reason to marry," he muttered, kicking his chair back in preparation to rise.

"What's that? What about marrying?" Scully wasn't asking eagerly, more in astonishment. Her partner seemed to hold very dim views on the institution. Of course, in Scully's opinion, it was to be expected. After all, his one attempt at matrimony had been ill advised; the woman he'd chosen as his alleged life mate was so low a specimen of womanly virtues, it was a wonder he hadn't gone gay for the experience. Therefore, any further mention of marriage was astonishing. She wasn't, however, astonished enough to pursue the question. She reached for her oversized carryall and shouldered it. "Let's go...they're holding that body for us."

"At least some body's being held," Mulder added, under his breath, just before another series of coughs forced their way out of his body with the same propulsion as a bullet from a gun.

Scully paused at the corner of his desk and put the back of her wrist to his brow and then to his neck. "You are a little warm, Mulder. When did you take aspirins last?"

Mulder shook his head faintly, half in answer, half to move himself from the vicinity of her hand. "Let's go. Mustn't let the corpse wait on our account."

Scully turned again. "What is with you, Mulder?"

"About five million germs, at last count." He rubbed at his nose with his sleeve.

Scully made an impatient sound and plucked tissues from the box on her desk. "Make it six million. Really, Mulder, you ought to go home."

"What for?" Mulder blew his nose loudly. "So I can die alone, in the dark? No, thank you." He crumpled the tissue, tossed it at his trash bin, and missed.

Scully's eyes followed the tissue. "You'd rather die with an audience? Perhaps I should call HBO, see about getting you a pay-per-view special."

Mulder ignored her implicit instruction to pick up his trash. Instead he reached for his jacket. "Nothing so grandiose. Just a simple, intimate death scene. You see, I have it all planned. I'm going to fall in my tracks, and slip the bounds of life with you cradling me, brushing my hair back from my eyes and whispering tenderly, 'Don't go, Mulder, don't go.'"

Scully's eyes narrowed as she reached for the door. "If this is any indication of how you are when you're sick enough to die, I'll just shoot you, and everyone will call it mercy killing."

"No wonder you're a pathologist, Dr. Scully," he retorted, holding back just enough that she could squeeze by him to get through the door first. "You have a lousy bedside manner."

"Yes, and I love you -" Scully broke the words off like icicles from a tree. "G - good morning, Sir."

Assistant Director W.S. Skinner stood in the corridor just outside their office, in all his Assistant Director glory; stiff, white shirt with each sleeve rolled precisely twice up his forearm, foulard print tie, spotless glasses resting on a faintly wrinkled nose, a manila folder in his hands. "Agents," he said. His voice always sounded as if he needed to clear his throat, and Mulder struggled not to cough in response.

"We're just on our way to observe that autopsy at the base, Sir," Scully informed him, inching slightly further into the corridor so that Mulder could follow.

That appeared to be immaterial to Skinner. "I have an assignment for you when you return." He gestured slightly with the folder. "I'll leave the particulars here for you to review. We can discuss it in the morning." His brows drew down into a deeper frown than usual. "You look like hell, Agent Mulder."

"He's sick, Sir," Scully put in with a sort of eager apple-for-teacher tone. "I told him he shouldn't be here but he won't listen to me."

"Sick? How sick?" Skinner stopped looking at Mulder, and looked at Scully.

"I have a cold," Mulder explained, reaching for the folder.

"He has the flu," Scully countered. "He has fever."

Skinner, without moving a muscle, kept the folder from his reach. "Maybe you shouldn't be here, Agent Mulder."

"I shouldn't," Mulder agreed, shooting daggers at Scully with a look. "I should be at an autopsy."

"I wouldn't say you were that sick, Mulder," Scully drawled.

"Observing," Mulder snapped. "Observing."

Skinner did not smile tolerantly at their exchange. He did not scowl. He did not make remarks. He sighed. Softly. Softly but with a distinct tinge of impatience. It was effective, however, and both agents removed themselves immediately.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As he stood outside his apartment door, trying to make his trembling hand line up a key with a lock, he almost envied that corpse they'd left eviscerated on a table in an autopsy bay. The man had been shot, and set afire before the bullet's damage could kill him. "At least he died warm," Mulder mumbled as the key finally slid into place.

Stepping inside, he shook his head gingerly. It had begun to snow as they left the base, and he'd gotten a thorough dusting on his way from his parking space to the stairs. It had begun to melt and was dripping down the back of his collar. Dumping his keys on the table, he tugged a glove from one hand with his teeth, and then mopped the back of his neck with the glove. "At least it's warm in here," he added. He stilled. Too warm. He didn't remember leaving the heat on this morning. And there was light coming from his kitchen.

Glove still clenched in his hand, he stepped carefully across the entry to push the door open a crack. Something smelled good in there. He pushed the door a little more. Very good. He pushed it all the way open.

"Oh, there you are. I was about to call Agent Scully to see if you were on your way."

Mulder's hands went limp, and the glove and his briefcase slipped to the floor. Assistant Director W.S. Skinner was in his ubiquitous shirtsleeves and tie, with a tea towel tied around his middle, stirring something on Mulder's stove. "Wh – wha..." Mulder swallowed and started again. "What are you doing here?"

Skinner was neither smiling nor scowling. He was just stirring. "Making sure you don't die alone in the dark," he responded.

A different, more intense heat swept over him. "You read my online journal," Mulder accused.

Skinner was also not chagrined. "You wrote it on Bureau equipment, it was within my jurisdiction." He tipped his head toward the door. "Get out of those wet clothes. I put some fresh pajamas on the bed for you."

Mulder continued to stare. And began to blush. Just how much of his journal had Skinner read? He didn't ask that, of course. "How did you get in?"

"The same way everyone does," Skinner answered evenly. "Something to block the pin from the tumbler, and a little pressure on the door."

"Oh. I always wondered." Mulder rubbed at his neck again. "You missed your calling as a second story man."

Skinner pointed with the spoon in his hand. "Dry clothes. Now."

Mulder didn't know whether to be outraged or grateful. He decided to decide later, after he'd escaped from the kitchen. The decision was tabled indefinitely by the condition of his bedroom; his bed, usually used as a holding station for laundry, paperwork, books and whatever else he encountered on his path from living room to loo, had not only been cleared, but had been made up, turned down, and as advertised, had a pair of pajamas neatly folded at the foot.

As a picture, this was an amazing sight, but the individual details made it all the more remarkable. His bed hadn't had actual sheets on it in so long Mulder wasn't even sure where Skinner might have found the linens to make up the bed. And since he hadn't worn pajamas since achieving his majority, Mulder wasn't entirely convinced the ones left on the foot of the bed had ever belonged to him.

While Mulder stood there, dripping snow, coughing, sniffing, and in between, assessing the situation, Skinner came in behind him, balancing two bowls in his hands. "Do you need help?"

"No," Mulder said quickly. He waved his gloved hand over the bed. "Just admiring the effect. It looks so nice, it would be almost criminal to mess with it."

Skinner put the bowls on the bedside table. "Your lips are turning blue. I'm giving you three minutes to change, or I'll do the changing."

Mulder scrabbled for his tie as he kicked off his shoes. "You're meaner in real life," he complained. "And that's saying something."

"Just change." Skinner left the room.

He returned just as Mulder slid his arms into the pajama jacket. "Where did you get these? I didn't think I owned pajamas. Come to think of it, I didn't know I had sheets, either."

"I had to dig a little," Skinner agreed, pulling the blankets all the way down. "Climb in."

Mulder paused. "I don't remember this bed being so high."

"Need a boost?"

Mulder turned as much as his aching body allowed. "I can't tell if you're serious or not."

"Get in the bed."

Mulder felt both foolish and unexpectedly comforted that he actually had to climb up into the bed and Skinner's hand seemed to fall naturally against his back in support. "Thank you, Daddy," he jeered. Well, he tried to jeer but he started coughing and it came out rather plaintive instead.

Skinner fussed around him gruffly, arranging pillows and blankets. "How's that?" He didn't wait for an answer, reaching for one of the bowls. "This will help." Mulder started a protest about his sore throat, but Skinner stepped right over that. "Chicken soup, the universal cure-all. It will let your body tolerate medicine better." He held it firm until he was certain Mulder had a good grasp.

Mulder took a tentative spoonful. "This is good," he admitted grudgingly. He eyed the other bowl. "What's that?"

"Old Skinner Family secret remedy. Hot jello."

Mulder made a face. "I hate jello."

"You'll eat this," Skinner insisted. "It will feel good on your throat and warm you from the inside."

"But -"

"We can call it an order."

Mulder swirled the spoon around in the bowl. "I could have predicted that."

"Then stop arguing and eat."

Mulder made another sort of face, but he felt too miserable to take on what was becoming an obviously losing battle. He took another bite of soup. Skinner remained perched on the side of the bed watching every movement as if he expected Mulder to fling the bowl across the room at the first opportunity. Mulder would have given anything to know what was going on behind those eyes that were more enigmatic than Scully's ever were. "I didn't know I had soup or jello, either," he said after a few more bites.

"You didn't," Skinner admitted. "I stopped at a market on the way. I didn't exactly expect you to keep a well stocked cupboard. I brought aspirins and cough syrup as well."

Mulder let the spoon drop into the bowl with a clatter. "Why? Why go to all that trouble for someone you don't even like?"

For the first time, a shadow of feeling passed over Skinner's face. "Now, who says I don't like you, Mulder?"

Mulder felt his face go from clammy to parched. "I...guess I just...I...well, do you?"

Skinner's only answer was to dig into his breast pocket and produce a small bottle of aspirins. "Here, let's get this into you."

Mulder was too embarrassed to resist anymore. He had no doubt now that Skinner had read his journal and had rightly inferred that the unnamed, unrequited love Mulder had described was himself. Either he was flattered or he was there to murder Mulder in his sleep.

He finished the soup and even took a few bites of jello, reluctantly agreeing that it did feel good on his throat. He wouldn't go so far as to admit he was feeling better, though. Illness aside, it had become one of the most awkward situations he'd ever been in. He wanted Skinner to leave, fall into a ditch, get struck on the head and forget he'd ever heard Mulder's name. At the same time, it was more comforting than he had imagined just having someone looking after him.

He couldn't remember exactly when the irritation for his by the book boss turned to a secret sort of fascination and from there to a crush to cause envy in any schoolboy. But he knew exactly when it turned from a crush to love. And it was unbearable that Skinner knew it as well.

Finally, Skinner took the unfinished jello from him and carried everything out of the room. A moment later he reappeared in the doorway. "I also brought tea. Want some?"

"No." Mulder shifted around in the bed. "I'm fine. Thank you." Please go away. I've changed my mind. I want to die alone in the dark.

Skinner came farther into the room. "You should probably try to sleep."

"Yeah." Mulder tugged one of the pillows from behind his back, wincing at the effort. "That's the plan. Gee, the only thing missing were the mints on the pillows."

"Tomorrow I'll leave cough drops."

Mulder wouldn't risk looking at him. He splayed his fingers out over the pillow and studied them. "Tomorrow?"

Skinner took the pillow from him and smoothed the blankets around him. "This reminds me of the last time I was very sick. I think I was twelve." He moved to the side of the bed. "My mother was away, doing something for the church." He smiled again. A genuine, affectionate smile. "My mother was very involved in her church. Always doing something for them." He pulled the blankets back, and began to ease Mulder over. "So, there I was, sick and miserable. Too sick to help my dad. I always helped him weekends and after school."

Skinner stepped out of his shoes, and sat down beside Mulder, cradling him in one strong arm, as he rearranged the blankets. "He came in from the fields to check on me, and I was alone, in the darkened room, cold and shivering and feeling forgotten and useless." He brought Mulder against him gently, encouraging him to get comfortable. "And he got in bed with me, just like this and held me tight."

Mulder's throat was closing up in a swell of warring emotions; fear and relief and dread and need. "Why?" he whispered.

"I don't know." He shifted a little more, making room for Mulder to rest against him. "Maybe because he knew how awful it felt to be alone, and he wanted me to know he cared."

Mulder couldn't fight the urge to clutch Skinner's shirt front and hang on. He burrowed his hot face against Skinner's cool shirt. "Thank you, Daddy," he whispered.

Skinner pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Go to sleep, Mulder. You'll feel better soon."

"I feel better now," Mulder admitted. Dear God, it was incredible not to be alone. This was just what he had needed and from the one person from whom he needed it most.

He felt Skinner chuckle under him. "Good."

"How long have you known?"

Skinner was quiet for a long time.

Too long. Mulder began to panic. Maybe he'd misunderstood everything. Maybe that wasn't a smile when he protested disliking him. Maybe that wasn't a kiss just now. Maybe he only -

"I didn't know until just now."

Oh, God. OhGodohGodohGod.

"But I'd hoped for a very long time."

Ohhhhhhhhh, God. Mulder lifted his head to look at Skinner. "I feel a lot better."

Skinner smiled. "Old Skinner Family secret remedy."

Mulder lowered his head again, shifted and settled. "Well, it certainly worked on this secret."

End