TITLE: Sad Lovers and Giants 01/? - Sleep is for Everyone
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: Yeah, Skinner...remember him?
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is right after 3.
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 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...

Author's notes: Sad Lovers and Giants, the two things hardest to conceal.

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.

Sad Lovers and Giants 01/? – Sleep is for Everyone

by Mik

I can't say I particularly appreciated the pathetic, almost desperate sounds that wall heater was making in an effort to warm my hotel room. But I will say I missed it when it finally surrendered and fell silent. I tried lying still, hoping I'd created an envelope of body heat around me under the thin coverlet and even thinner blanket. I tried not to listen to the sounds of wind whipping snow around outside my window or the scratching of tree branches on the glass. None of it could change the fact that the temperature in that room was dropping rapidly.

I turned my head toward the alarm clock on the bedside table, to gauge how long I had before I froze to death, but it was gone. Well, the red LED lights that made up the digits were gone. Reluctantly, I pulled one hand free and groped for the light. Click, click...nothing. I rolled back and stared at the blackness above me, thinking words one didn't use in polite company. Power cut. In a blizzard. Brilliant. Bloody, fucking brilliant.

I drew a deep breath, threw the bedclothes back, and dashed in the general direction of my suitcase. I only tripped once or twice, but I did find it, get it open, find my pocket maglight, and every pair of socks I owned. I was wriggling into a second pair of sweatpants when I heard a knock on the door connecting the room next door. My heart did an extra hard thump. I'd managed to wake the sleeping giant.

Mag clenched in my lips, trying to stand, walk and pull up sweat pants over sweat pants, I stumbled for the door, found the lock and released it. He was filling up the doorframe, in Bureau issue running pants and warm up jacket, his bedclothes folded over one arm. I blinked into his beam of light while he blinked into mine. My sluggish brain started to scramble for a way to break the ice forming in our breath as we stood there and blinked at one another. "Um...are we gonna' make a fort?" I suggested, looking at the blankets in his arms. "I'll go ask Mommy if we can have the ironing board."

He moved. He didn't have to touch me, his intent to enter my room was enough to have me backpedaling. He didn't look happy. I wasn't sure what I'd done to incur that lack of happiness, but I was actually trying to figure out how I'd caused the blizzard and or power cut. He looked around the room and dropped the blankets on the side of my bed. "Power's out," he said, and began to spread my bedclothes back into place. "Doesn't look like it will be restored before morning."

"No generator?" I asked around the maglight still in my mouth.

"Yes, there is, but it's being reserved for essentials. I've already talked to the hotel personnel." He snapped his blanket over mine in a single, managerial snap. It didn't dare not fall exactly over mine.

"Essentials." I pulled the torch from my mouth at last. "I suppose heat isn't considered an essential?"

"The generator isn't powerful enough to heat this entire hotel, so they're reserving its power for needs it can meet. It's called appropriate allocation of resources, Agent." He smoothed the edge of the coverlet and turned around, disappearing into his room for a moment.

"And so you're sacrificing your blankets so I'll be warrrrr..." I let the words go when he reappeared, with a pillow in hand, "...mmmmmum...." I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"We're going to have to resort to extreme measures to survive, Agent." He paused at the bedside and looked down. "Left or right?"

I don't know why the idea of him climbing into my bed unnerved me. Oh, sure I do. Putting the normal homophobic sexual concerns aside, there was the fact that he was my boss, and one doesn't like the idea of one's boss invading the most private part of the non-working life, i.e., the bed. And besides, of all the bosses I'd ever had, he was the bossiest. It was unthinkable to think of him doing anything human...like sleeping. And to sleep there. Next to me. "Ek-extreme measures, sir?" Oh, fine...a stammer and a squeak.

"Sharing resources. Four blankets are warmer than two." He slid in under the blankets and settled himself against the pillow. "And body heat will help." He pulled the edge of the blankets up to his chin. "Get in, Agent. Or do you plan to stand there and shiver the rest of the night?"

"I..." Well, when you put it like that...

I moved around to the far side of the bed, which considering that half the bed was full of Walter Skinner, wasn't that far anymore. I sat down and gingerly slipped in under the blankets, stretching out rigidly, beside him.

He rolled over sharply, and arranged everything up tight around my neck. "Try not to thrash around too much, please," he said firmly as he resumed his position. "I'm a very light sleeper."

If there could be anything less conducive to a good night's sleep than having two hundred pounds of surliness tell you to lay still, I haven't discovered it. The wind howling outside didn't help. The wind just sounded cold. And thinking about the cold made me think about the fact that I was in bed with someone who might kill me if I woke him from the depths of his memories of war.

He was right about the warmth, however. The extra blankets made it almost bearable. I could actually feel my feet and fingers. I will not concede that his body emanated any additional heat. I think I would have been just fine without him there. But at the same time, there was a comforting sense of not being alone in hardship. I wouldn't go so far as to call it esprit de corps but it just helped not to be alone.

He seemed to find sleep fairly quickly. I envied that but I didn't quite comprehend it. I always rushed headlong away from my own memories, making sleep and me nodding acquaintances at best. If I had seen and done the things he'd seen and done, there was no way I'd ever get near a pillow.

When I realized that my thoughts were teetering on the edge of admiration for the man next to me, I started a scramble for another topic. The wind sent debris crashing against the window outside as if to suggest I focus on how I'd come to such a state where I would be admiring W. S. Skinner.

Even that wasn't much mental meat to gnaw upon. A conference in Buffalo, a beer with a couple of the local badges, alcoholic mutterings about an unsolved case, missing a flight because I was tracking down leads, and then an Assistant Director appearing, disgruntled, cold, determined, and did I mention disgruntled? C'mon ... how was I supposed to know someone would actually send an Assistant Director to collar a wayward agent? Okay, okay. I can't even feign innocence there. I will own a certain ... reputation within the walls of the Bureau. And it has been long held that particular Assistant Director was the only one capable of collaring this particular wayward agent. Hell, I ought to be flattered. But one look at his face when he stepped in from the storm and sent a meaningful glare across the hotel bar, and I knew I'd probably never be flattered by anything, ever again. His expression even gave the bartender sphincter lock.

He didn't yell at me. Oh, no. That would have been too easy. He brushed snow from the mountains that were his shoulders, and came across the bar to me. "Agent," he said in that death on dry toast voice, "you missed your plane."

"Yes, but we did agree to write," I said before I could stop myself.

He must have made some gesture to the bartender, because a glass appeared next to him, with two fingers of brownness in it, but his eyes never left mine. "You were expected back in Washington twelve hours ago."

I put my beer down, and tried to adopt an appropriately regretful tone. "Well, Sir, as I explained on the phone, I felt the discovery of certain evidence in a cold case here warranted -"

"Have you been deputized by the Buffalo P.D.?" he asked me mildly, reaching for his glass unerringly.

"No, Sir. But I am a sworn officer of the law, and crime is crime -"

"And jurisdictions are jurisdictions, Agent. I do not like getting complaints from the local agencies that you've overstepped your bounds again. It's not as if you don't have a full caseload in D.C." He paused to sip. "If you're feeling underutilized there, I'm sure I can -"

"No, thank you, Sir." I reached for my wallet, and started to put money down. "Point taken."

He waved away my money. "Very good. We have a flight at ten am tomorrow. Good night, Agent."

I glanced at my watch. It was only eight o'clock and I was being sent to bed. He was still looking disgruntled so I decided not to fuss. "Good night, Sir." I left the bar, and stood in the lobby for a moment, considering options. Too cold to swim, too dark to run, there was no pay per view porn...I had two choices; go to bed early, or run away to the circus. I opted for bed. After all, there was always a circus waiting for me in Washington, D.C.

 "Something on your mind, Agent?"

I opened my eyes. No, I didn't dream it. The voice that cut through my thoughts was real and close. "No, Sir," I murmured. What is it, now? I complained silently. Am I breathing too loud?

"Then why aren't you asleep?" he prompted. There was a shadow of irritation in his voice.

I stared upward into the blackness. "Sleep is not for everyone, Sir."

He was quiet a moment. "Are you too cold to sleep?" he asked.

"No, Sir, I'm fine. I'm sorry if I -"

"Is my presence making you uncomfortable?" he persisted.

That was almost not true. "No, Sir." I shifted carefully, avoiding any contact with him. "I'm sorry. I just don't sleep well. I'll try not to -"

I felt him turn onto his side. "Tell me about this case."

I turned my head. He was so close I could almost make out his features, even in the complete darkness. "It..." It was so tempting. "Just a missing persons case, Sir."

"There is no such thing as 'just' a missing persons case, Mulder." He did something with the bedclothes, making a snug seal around us. "Especially for you. Tell me about it."

I drew a deep breath and launched into a swift and skeletal recounting of facts. "Seventeen year old boy. Three years ago. Seemingly snatched out of the family's rural home in the middle of the night. Doors and windows locked from the inside. No sign of struggle. No missing possessions, no suicide note, although the younger sister reportedly stated to police that her brother had been despondent for a few weeks prior to his disappearance. Some neighbors and travelers on the nearest main road reported a bright light on the hilltop behind the house that night. No ransom demands, no sightings. No body to date."

"And the bright light?"

"Nothing at the site suggested a source," I said carefully.

"Abduction?"

"Nothing to support it or rule it out."

"All that's known for sure is that he just disappeared."

"Yes, Sir."

"Sounds like a dream come true for a lot of seventeen year old boys," he said thoughtfully.

I nodded into the darkness. When I was seventeen there was nothing I wanted more than to simply vanish out of my life and be someone new.

"What new evidence did you find?"

"Nothing, really," I confessed. "There was one other person who went missing that same night, on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. A thirty five year old appliance salesman. But there was ultimately nothing to connect the two, except my own sense of phenomena."

"No?"

"No." I sighed. "The wife came home from the diner where she waitressed to find the house trashed, a small splatter of his blood on the back door, their car missing. Seven months later his car was found upside down in a muddy riverbed. There was more blood inside the vehicle. No body was ever found. His life insurance did pay off, eventually, after ruling out suicide."

"But you felt there was a connection." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, but I can't tell you why. It just...just said something to me."

"What possible connection could there be between the two?"

I looked back at him. I could feel those dark brown eyes burning into me, the way they did sometimes when he was actually listening to something I said. "The boy had worked two summers for a cousin who lived eleven miles from the salesman."

"And? What did that suggest to you?"

My skin was getting hot. I didn't know what he'd assume by following my thought processes. "That they had met, or had a common acquaintance," I hedged.

He was quiet for a moment. "Do you think they ran off together?"

I couldn't answer. How the hell could I? He was in my bed, for Heaven's sake. What if I inadvertently worded it in a suggestive manner? The whole situation was highly explosive.

"I don't suppose it would hurt to find out if, when the life insurance company paid off his claim, the wife kept it all."

"It's reaching, Sir," I admitted.

"Only to someone who has never had opportunity to appreciate your sense of phenomena," he answered. "The way I work it out, Mr. Salesman was deeply closeted, met an underage boy who put the stars back in his eyes. So, he worked out a deal with the longsuffering wife, where she'd be free of him, spared the ignominy of losing her husband to another man, and get a sizeable chunk of cash, and he'd get the underage boy without legal repercussions, not to mention a little pocket money from his life insurance policy."

"Yes, Sir," I agreed with just a hint of awe. "That's pretty much how the phenomena went."

He rolled back onto his back. "We'll see about a court order to look at the wife's finances when we get back to DC. Think you can sleep now, Agent?"

I almost laughed. He made me feel as if Daddy had checked under the bed for monsters, and now it was safe to close my eyes. "I'll do my best," I promised.

The wind was the only sound in the blackness for one of those unquantifiable periods that are longer than a heartbeat and not quite eternity. Then he spoke. "When I was seventeen, I wished for someone to take me away from where I was. No one came. So..." I could hear him rustling bedclothes, "... I went to war. At least then I was fighting an outside enemy, not one within."

I stayed still. I didn't even breathe. My sense of phenomena was in overdrive. Did he just tell me what I think he just told me? "Did you..." How could I put it? "Did you ever conquer that enemy within?"

"Conquer? No." He actually chuckled. "Just evaded him for thirty years."

'Him'. A significant remark. A telling one. He was telling me. I flicked a nervous tongue over my lower lip. Then I sighed, let the rigor drain from me. Surrendered. "When I was seventeen, I didn't understand it. I knew it was there, but I didn't know how or why." I was feeling cold again. And empty. "It didn't seem fair. Why that on top of everything else that had happened to me?"

His face turned to me again. I could feel his eyes again. Feel his breath rush over my cheek and neck. "Do you understand now?"

I swallowed and blinked back unexpected emotion. "No." After a moment, I got my voice under control and added, "I gave up trying years ago."

"Agent Scully -"

I shook my head. "No."

"Your wife -"

"No!" I realized I'd shouted and I stopped. "Excuse me. No, Sir. And that's all I want to say about that." I didn't want to discuss one of the most humiliating mistakes I'd ever made.

I felt him draw in all the oxygen in the room, with a single breath. He released it slowly. "So here we are. A common problem and neither of us has addressed it."

A simple flick of a switch and I went from cold back to hot. I could feel my heart race and my breath slow. I didn't ... I couldn't possibly ... not him. I tried to swallow but my mouth was nothing but sand.

"Do you suppose, Agent Mulder," he paused, shifting toward me, "that's why you have such trouble sleeping?"

I wanted to be flip, to make it all go away with a joke, perform my legendary verbal sleight of hand, but nothing came. I felt as helpless and dumb as a schoolboy with his first crush. "I don't know, Sssssssir."

There are reasons why some men are born to lead, to direct, to command. And Walter Skinner was one of those men. He leaned toward me. His hand brushed my cheek. He gauged my reaction, which was nothing more than a shiver, and then he pulled me into an embrace. And he kissed me.

Four simple words. A phrase that was about to change my entire life.

The room didn't fill with rockets' red glare, and no one broke into a chorus from Handel's Messiah, but I was melted down to my essence and reformed by that kiss. Conventional wisdom - in this case gay porn - said that gay men wanted sex, not romance, and that kissing should be the raw, raunchy spit swap that touched nothing more than tongues and lips. This was not conventional. This was insinuating, demanding, seeking, and at the same soothing and caressing. I couldn't do anything but kiss back.

Encouraged by my lack of protest, he shifted, moving his body over mine. There were several layers of clothing between us, but there was still something unspeakable and amazing about his body against me. He fixed his mouth under my chin and I was doing more than shivering.

It was over quickly, that first coupling. But when you set a blowtorch to dry grass you can't expect a lingering flame. There was nothing lingering about it. We kissed hard and rutted against one another 'til we were both gasping and moaning and bathed in our own sweat and cum.

Then he laughed. He wrapped those machine gun arms of his around me, and with his brow against my shoulder, let loose a long, heartfelt, joyful laugh. I didn't laugh with him. Not because I didn't share the intensity of the moment, or feel the relief and pleasure of release, I was too busy floating ... feeling free and warm and drowsy.

I was vaguely aware of him getting out of the bed and bringing towels, but I ignored them. I curled up, sighed, and slept.

End 01