TITLE: Sad Lovers and Giants 3/? - The Change
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: A blizzard. A power cut. Finding their way in darkness.
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 03/? – The Change

by Mik

I heard a door slam shut somewhere behind me. "I have to go," I muttered into the receiver and folded the phone against my chest as I crept to the connecting door. I don't know why I was so jumpy. I had been extensively trained for handling all manner of incidents in the field, so I should be able to take care of myself in a hotel room with only my boss next door. But this had not exactly been a routine field assignment, even for me. After what had happened last night, there was no way to prepare for what could be coming next.

All I could say was that this field assignment had been full of exceptions.

I certainly didn't expect to find out that my own personal man among men played for the other team. And I never, ever expected him to want to play with me. The only thing I could assume was that after I left the bar the night before, he had stayed and lubricated his libido to the point that even a Galapagos turtle might have some allure. And I, being the closest thing he had to a turtle of any nationality, was the lucky recipient of that slippery lust.

That was a great theory except he showed no signs of alcoholic impairment when he appeared at my door. He seemed to know what he was doing, why he was doing it, and in no frame of mind to brook resistance. I must say on my own behalf that, for a change, he did not encounter any from me.

I don't think he came looking for sex, though. Why would he? How could he? Except for some sort of clueless fumbling in the back of a friend's car in high school, and one really disastrous date with a chem lab assistant at Oxford, I'd kept my yearning for male flesh to myself. I doubt even Scully knew. And now he knew. Boy, did he know. And this morning, instead of killing me, he woke me with the Elixir of Life, and offered to brave the extreme possibilities of weather to bring me food. Ahhh, my great big Hunter/Gatherer.

Except...he wasn't back yet. And that door slammed in his room.

The door between our rooms was just open enough for me to take a cautious peek. I could see his bed, stripped of all the essentials, and a corner of the dresser opposite the bed. No sign of him, but there was a wet mark on the floor. And what might be muddy snow.

I pulled the door open an inch more. I could just take in the small round table in the corner. I could see orange, weatherproofed gloves, my black toque, and something large and red. I could not see Assistant Director Skinner. I backed up and groped around 'til I found my bag, and with some further groping, my gun. Dropping the blanket I'd been wearing like a cape against the iciness of the room, I moved back to the door, and nudged it wider. Now I had the whole room in view. The red plastic thing was one of those baskets one finds in markets and it had a paper bag and an assortment of unbagged items in it. Beer? Who would drink beer in this weather?

I moved toward the table, gun still in hand, and poked around the purchases. Geesh, the man thought of everything. Even those portable heat packs hunters take with them so they don't freeze to death while the ducks sit on the other side of the pond making fun of their calls and decoys. From the look of things, Skinner had come in, dumped his haul and left again. But -

The door pushed open. He looked at me. I looked back. We both looked at my gun. Sheepishly, I pushed the safety into place and tucked it into the waistband of my sweats. "This is quite a haul. How long are you expecting us to stay here?" I asked, gesturing toward the basket.

He shrugged out of his coat before answering, shaking it thoroughly so that melted snow could fly and almost refreeze on the way down. "Not a moment longer than necessary," he answered grimly. He paused to scowl at something I couldn't see. Then he shook himself out of whatever was freezing his feelings and turned to look at the table. "Find something in there you can live with?" He draped the coat over the back of the chair. "If not, there's a rumor going around that there will be food from the kitchen in a couple of hours. I have no idea what or exactly when." He reached in and scooped out packages. "We will be advised."

I had one of my feelings for phenomena. He had regrets. Ohhhhhkay, Mulder, time to exit, stage left. "Well, that's ... uh...great." I poked into the basket. "Sunflower seeds. Great. Thanks." I wondered if I might be safer pulling my weapon and backing out of the room, but I squared my shoulders and marched toward the connecting door. I didn't know if I should shut it or let it be. I decided he was the boss, so he could decide.

Tossing the bag of seeds on the bed, I returned my gun to its case and put my bag away. I have, in my life, felt lower, but it was a tough call to say when. Stuck in a blizzard, no porn, no books, no case, and the mantle of guilt spread thickly and evenly over both of us. Why should I feel guilty, damn it? He started it.

That was no good as an argument. I had to accept some of the blame. I picked up the blanket I'd dumped on the floor and attempted to fold it. It became giant origami, and resembled something more like a swan with a broken neck, than a blanket. I dumped it on the bed, wadded it up with his bedcover, and carried both back to the connecting door. "Do you want..."

There were candles everywhere. Some of them were the sort of stubby white utilitarian candles that were designed for just this sort of situation. Some were the sort meant for Catholic churches and roadside shrines. And some were the kind Scully had in her bathroom to keep the place smelling like an orange grove. But they filled the room with a suggestion of warmth and intimacy.

He was lighting the last of them as I appeared, and he killed the flame of the lighter and looked at me. "I brought some magazines and word games."

"Oh...great." I looked down at the mass of blankets in my arms. "I brought your blankets. I didn't know if you...I..." I thought of a word that my mother hated me to use, and thus I had used to excess in my teens. I did not repeat it aloud. "I left my seeds in the other room." I dumped the blankets on his bed and went back to my room.

When I returned he had put out some magazines on the table and made a little citadel of candles in the middle, to cast more light. He was eating a sandwich made of bagel and something brown and squishy, and was cutting apple slices. He looked up and nodded toward a chair for me. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Are you trying to be funny?" I blurted. How could I be comfortable? It was about twenty degrees Fahrenheit in that room, I was going to attempt to read by candlelight, and I'd had sex with my boss the night before. I was never going to be comfortable again.

He looked up at me and shook his head. "No," he answered evenly. He took a bite of apple and opened a newspaper.

I decided to quit while I was only five or six furlongs behind. I drew out a chair, flipped open a magazine, and pulled open my bag of seeds.

We sat in relative silence for a long time. The only sounds were the wind outside, the rustle of pages, the rattle of the bag each time I reached in, and the thudding of my heart. What was going on in his mind? Could he really make a confession like that? Could he make a confession like that and then act on that? Could he make a confession like that, act on that, and then act like that? I couldn't. I would need to have it all talked out, understand what was going on, define parameters, come to agreements and work out details. I guess that's why I'll never be an assistant director of anything. I haven't got the brass for it.

"Stuck on a word?"

I looked up. He was frowning at me over the edge of his newspaper. "Huh?"

"You've been staring at that puzzle for thirty minutes and haven't answered a single clue," he explained.

"Well, you haven't turned a page on that newspaper in at least twenty," I countered defensively.

He folded the paper with great deliberateness, and it did not resemble any sort of swan when he was through.

Sensing that he was about to launch into a speech, I broke in quickly with mocking admiration. "I'll bet you are a genius with road maps."

He gave me that impatient little scowl I was familiar with. "Mulder."

That was the tone that said look at me and listen or die. I looked. "Yes, Sir?"

"We have to talk."

I swallowed, hard. Here it comes. "Oh, no, we don't really have to, do we? We're both grown-ups. We both know -"

There was a knock at his door. I stuttered into silence and he rose and went. There were murmurings from the hallway. He returned to the table. "Let's go."

"Go?" I gaped at him. "Where is there to go? We're in the middle of -"

"They have food for us." He was extinguishing candles with his fingertips. "Let's go take advantage of it. We might not be so lucky tomorrow."

I can't say that food held any interest to me at that point whatsoever, but conceding that the situation might change over the next few hours, I rose and began blowing out candles with him. "Yes, Sir." I caught a glimpse of myself in the shadows of the mirror over his bureau. "I should probably change ..."

He sent an assessing eye over me. "Are you warm enough?"

I looked down at my two pairs of sweats and my University of Virginia sweatshirt. "Reasonably so."

"Then you're fine." He tucked his keycard into the pocket of his own sweats. "Let's go."

"Do you think we'll still be here tomorrow?" I asked, as we stepped into the hall.

"If you'd been outside with me, you wouldn't be asking that question," he answered with that unconscious loftiness of a man who knows more than you do just because he does. "Even if the blizzard stopped this minute, it would still take at least forty-eight hours to dig us out."

Forty-eight more hours here...I didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

The restaurant had been opened up, and a few tables had been pushed together against one of the walls to make a buffet. There weren't many people in there ... maybe twenty-five, and most of them were wearing all or part of rumpled hotel uniforms. As Skinner and I waited in line, I took in what I could see in the dimly lit room. The curtains had been drawn back at the windows, but that didn't add any light to the situation, even though it was nearly noon. Snow was piled and packed high on the glass, and beyond that was a swirl of wind driven snow against black sky. I gave Skinner's back another look, feeling a little bit of awe for his ability to defy those conditions to bring back supplies. I wondered if he would have gone to such lengths if he'd been here on his own.

The food was more than I expected. Hot eggs and bacon and potatoes, cold fruit, pasta salad, pickles and olives, and cheesecake. There were also six big Thermoses of coffee. I shot Skinner a look. "They were holding out on us in the resource allocations."

"The stoves are probably gas and don't require an electric ignition like the heaters," he answered. "And the refrigeration units are probably going to warm up to the point that the food in them will be rendered inedible soon."

The few guests who hadn't gotten out the night before congregated at one of the larger tables and we decided to add to the party and join them. Like us, they were dressed for function more than presentation. I guess we all looked more like escapees from a work program than stranded businessmen, and one very harassed looking businesswoman.

Names were exchanged around the table, and I let Skinner do the introductions. I didn't like talking with my mouth full. People were impressed that we were with the Bureau, and there were the requisite Hoover-in-a-dress jokes. We laughed politely, and conversation shifted back to finding a way to blame the current Administration for the weather.

The harassed business female did occasionally flick a glance my way and smile. I noticed it because every time she did, Skinner seemed to stiffen next to me. I kept my smile to myself. He was jealous! Of course, he might have been jealous that she was favoring me with her all too rare smiles instead of him, but I'd like to think he was jealous because she was smiling at someone he was interested in.

She did have a nice smile for all that. My taste in women runs toward tiny redheads with dead aim logic. But that didn't preclude appreciating a friendly face in inhospitable circumstances. I returned her smile occasionally and that seemed to ease some of the harassment from her face. It was uncertain whether or not it eased whatever put the harassment there to begin with, and I wasn't all that interested in pursuing the matter. It was just nice to see one less scowl at the table.

Skinner seemed inclined to make all the necessary contributions to the conversation for us, which weren't many, so I concentrated on eating, smiling when it was called for, and getting up and bringing a Thermos to the table and filling coffee cups. As I was taught, I filled her cup first, even though it meant walking to the far side of the table to do so. She smiled her thanks at me, and I felt Skinner's glower raise the ambient temperature at least five degrees.

Despite his accusations later in the day, I was not trying to make him jealous. I was merely making eye contact with someone who didn't view me as a problem. And regardless what had happened in my bed the night before, I was and would always be some sort of problem for Walter Skinner.

Once I returned the Thermos to the buffet and came back to my chair, I was surprised when Skinner put a firm hand on my knee for a moment. It was not a gesture of affection.

I'm sure that in the darkness of the dining room no one could have seen the gesture, but my startled response might have been apparent to anyone paying attention, like the businesswoman. Her eyes went from my arched brows of surprise to his furrowed brow of displeasure and her own eyes narrowed in a mix of comprehension and disapproval. Well, so much for a friendly face.

Skinner didn't say a word as we went back to our rooms. One of the clerks who evidently had prior dealings with Skinner, based on his familiar attitude, followed us partway, cheerfully discussing alternately how lucky we were to be on the first floor where we were not inconvenienced by the lack of elevator or lighting in the stairwells, and that there was going to be another meal later in the day, but all bets were off for anything beyond that.

Since Skinner saw fit to contribute short nods and noncommittal grunts, I decided to keep to myself my observation that there were plenty of empty rooms around us, so it would be fairly simple to move other guests downstairs for the duration. I rather got the impression my observations were not welcomed by either of them. The kid parted ways with us in front of the gym, and we kept going.

Since I had left with Skinner, I had to return with him. My keycard was still in my room. So I stopped at his door with him and waited, fidgeting, while he passed the card through the reader a couple of times, grunted in exasperation and gave the door a shove. There was going to be a confrontation. It was inevitable. He had begun a speech before the dinner bell sounded and now, after that fit in the dining room (well, it was a fit for Walter Skinner), there was no getting out of it. We were going to have to...talk.

He let me in, still silent. Not knowing what else to do, I went back to his table and attempted to tidy the mess I always left when eating seeds. He remained silent. And still. That just made me fidget all the more. I picked up a trashcan by the dresser and swept the mess into it. I stacked the magazines. Still nothing from him. I drummed my fingers on the table. Waited a breath or two. "Well, okay, then ... I'll just be in my room ..." I started moving.

I was on my back, on his bed, before I even saw him moving. He was on top of me, his heavy breathing a sirocco against my cold skin. It was a familiar situation. Except this time I wasn't drugged or seeing monsters no one else could see. This time I was just on his bed, and he was on top of me.

Of course, he was angry. His hands were on my shoulders, pushing them almost painfully into the bed. "What kind of games are you playing, Mulder?" he rasped. "I don't like game players. I never have." He gave me a little shake for emphasis. "Got that?"

I was struggling for breath, but I didn't quite realize it yet. All I could do was sort of gasp, "No games. Got it."

Evidently, that was all he had to say. He looked down at me for a moment, and then rolled away.

I didn't move. For one thing, I was a bit winded, and for another, this had to be addressed, now. I pressed a hand to my chest, as if to stimulate breathing again. "No games," I repeated.

His voice softened, but was still deep and full of feeling. "Did you mean what you told me last night, or was that a game?"

I twisted my neck to look at him. "I meant it." Oh, God, that face. The last thing I'd ever expect, that my boss's face could twist something inside me, twist it hard. "I meant it last night and I mean it now." It was hard to get the words out, with the breathlessness and the twisting going on with several of my vital organs.

"That woman just now..."

It was jealousy. Unfortunately, I was too wrung out to be smug. "I was just being ... you know ..." with effort, I rolled to my side to look at him, "...discreet. She was attractive, and she was being politely friendly. Wouldn't it have been a little suspicious if I'd ignored her?"

Okay, it was a pretty lame effort, but it seemed to work for him. He reached out and cupped my chin. But if I was anticipating some profound or romantic statement from him, I was to be disappointed. His eyes went over me as if searching a road map. "Where are we going with this?"

"You're asking me?" I eased his hand away from me and sat up. "How the hell do I know? You hold all the cards."

"The cards?" he echoed, sounding both bewildered and irritated. "What cards could I possibly be holding?"

"The whole deck." I got up. I realized suddenly I'd turned control over to him ... him, the he who had too much control over my life already. I flicked a hand backward toward him. "You're the one who gets to decide if this goes back to Washington." I felt inexplicably hurt. Hell, it wasn't any big deal ... we'd exchanged bodily fluids, not vows. And yet, I could already anticipate his speech, explaining how he wouldn't even consider having a homosexual relationship in the halls of domestic security and masculine insecurity, and even though it was way things really had to be, it hurt. "Why should I expect to..." I paused to get my voice back under control, "... expect to have any say in this?"

"No, that's not true." I heard him get up but I didn't look at him. "I think you have a say in this decision, as well. In fact, maybe more so than I. You're the one out there in the field. Being gay out there is far more hazardous than being gay on the fifth floor."

"Well, no one needs to know." I could feel my shoulders slumping and I forced myself to sit up straight. I forced myself to laugh a little. "After all, it wasn't any big deal. It was just -"

"Mulder."

I stopped, licked my lips. Waited.

He moved around to face me. "To me it wasn't 'just' anything. It was the most exhilarating, freeing thing I've ever done. It was ..." he paused and a smile flashed over his features for just moment, but I saw it, "...a very big deal."

I swallowed. My mouth, my throat, my tongue, my entire being was dry. "Then what do you want to do?"

He didn't have an immediate response. But I liked that. It meant he was going to give me an honest and thoughtful answer. "Everything."

End 03