TITLE: Sad Lovers and Giants 09/? - Christmas on Easter Island
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: 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: 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 09/? – Christmas on Easter Island

by Mik

That familiar ache, that familiar, awful feeling of dread and doom. That's how I woke. That I knew at once. It took a moment for the rest of it to sink in. I was alone, in a strange place hopelessly wound into strange bedclothes, but most important was that bewildering, dispiriting understanding that I was alone.

It took a while for me to sort out and prioritize these facts. As I remembered it, Skinner, after nearly two weeks of maddening and foreboding silence, sent word to meet him at the prearranged trysting place...thus implying a tryst was imminent. I did arrive for said tryst. The proof was me, bundled awkwardly into the blankets. We'd had minimal conversation. I did remember that we sort of lunged at each other like dogs in heat. But details seemed to abandon me at that point. And those details were vital, because they could explain how I came to be in that motel room alone.

Of course, I knew what happened without having the precise events committed to memory. I must have had another nightmare. It was the only explanation that satisfied the horribly empty dread within me and the horrible empty bed I was in.

Skinner must have been convinced I was a lunatic, I decided and kicked and struggled my way out of the bed.

I couldn't help wonder about one piece of the puzzle, though. Did we or didn't we? The big 'did'. I had no memory of it occurring, which was a damned shame because I had been looking forward to that. Oh, to be certain there was a little apprehension, after all, since Skinner was neither adequately experienced nor inadequately endowed. But despite a little virginal anxiety, I wanted that, wanted him.

There was some evidence to support the conclusion that, experienced or not, we had managed it. There was an empty condom wrapper and a jar of Vaseline on the bedside table, and I did feel a little achy and bruised in my hips and thighs. So, brilliant detective that I am, I detected that we had managed to consummate our relationship in the 'traditional' way. I just wished I could remember it.

I started gathering my clothes together, feeling alone and embarrassed. I could be pretty confident there would be no repeat performances. It had taken him two weeks and a pretty decent blowjob to get up the nerve to give me this chance. But after having to deal with yet another encounter with Mulder and the Night Visitors, it was unlikely he'd waste anymore breath on me outside work.

I tried to concentrate on what it was about him that could trigger these events. God knows I have them often enough, even without him around, but to have two such episodes so close together and with him in my bed both times was significant. And there was something else. I don't ever recall losing memories of the events prior to sleeping and falling into that state.

"Ah, but that's just suggestive," I told myself, pulling my shirt over my head. "The last time we talked, he asked me about having lost time. He put the idea in my head. The memories will come back, if I don't force them."

That should have lifted my spirits, but there was still the inescapable fact that I was in a motel room, said trysting place, alone. Whatever happened was enough to make him book without benefit of a formal farewell. As I was gathering the rest of my things together, however, I found a note, which read: M, I'm sorry. I have been called away for an emergency. I don't think I will be able to make it back. As I write this, you appear to be unwell. If you need anything, I am sure Agent Sc Ms. Scully can provide more immediate assistance than I. I will be contacting you as soon as prudent. S.

I read it three times before I crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. "Walter Skinner, you're a real poet," I drawled. "I like the part where you cross out 'Agent' and call her 'Ms.'. I'll bet she'd love that." I collected my backpack, after deciding to leave the sundries and foodstuffs behind, and prepared to walk out. But with my hand on the door, I turned back impulsively and retrieved the note, smoothing it out and slipping it into my bag. It might not be Shelley, but it was the closest I'd ever get to a love note from Skinner.

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Scully was on the phone when I entered the office on Monday morning. She turned and gave me a sharp look and said, "He just walked in, Sir. Thank you, Sir." She dropped the receiver into place and turned around in her chair to stare at me. "Mulder? Are you all right?" She made it into two distinct questions with the same exact meaning.

I patted myself down in search of unauthorized blood loss or extraneous holes. Finding none, I said, "Yes, I think so. Why?"

She pointed her pen toward the phone on her desk. "That was Assistant Director Skinner. He seemed to be laboring under the belief that you might be ill."

Well, at least he was still concerned. "Huh." I kept my face impassive. "Wonder whose tea leaves he mixed up with mine?" I dropped my things on my desk and hit the switch on my computer.

She was still watching me, as I went through my morning routine. "Are you going to call him back?"

I looked up from my mail. "Was I supposed to?"

Her look was peculiar. "No, but, Mulder, he did call."

I returned to the stack of mail. "Yes, and I heard you tell him I had arrived." I tossed a folder on my to-do stack. "My presence here, at my place of work, might be to some, an indication that I am in reasonable health."

"To some," she muttered.

I tossed a couple of messages in the trash. "I'm fine."

"Mulder?" That same question.

"Ye-es?" I answered, not having to feign irritation. Why the hell didn't he call me to inquire about my health? Especially if it was a legitimate emergency that called him away. What the hell happened Friday night that he would think I was ill?

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

I was glad my back was to her. I know guilt flashed over my face for a moment. "What makes you think that?" Ooh, wrong answer, Mulder. A negative interjection was called for here.

"Hmm," she said. "Well, that answer, for one thing."

I carefully composed my expression and my voice and turned around. "No, Scully, nothing's wrong. Unless you count my ass still being in Skinner's sling over that mess in Buffalo. Oh, and by the way, thanks a lot for the brilliant job you did covering for me."

She didn't even have the grace to look ashamed. "He asked me a direct question," she explained. "I couldn't lie to a direct question."

"You can't? Didn't you take Lies and Obfuscation 101 at Quantico?" I pulled a pen from my shirt pocket and clicked it decisively. "Let me get you enrolled in a make up course right away."

She made a little Scully frown. "You must have gotten full marks for obfuscation," she drawled.

"As it happens," I told her, tucking the pen back into place, "I did."

The frown deepened. "What's wrong, Mulder?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, except Skinner's on my case like a cheap label."

Her voice went up a notch. "He said he was afraid you were unwell. That doesn't sound like -"

"Well, what else is he going to say to you?" I broke in with a jeer. "Hello, I don't trust Agent Mulder any farther than I can throw this building so will you please let me know the minute he gets his ass to work?"

She swiveled back to her desk. "Oh, Mulder, really."

"Yes, really," I retorted. "Anything else? No? Good. Let's get to work. What's on the agenda?"

She pulled up the calendar on her computer. "Full Departmental meeting at ten."

I said the only thing I could say, under the circumstances. "Shit." But I said it very quietly.

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We encountered one another in the hall just outside the conference room door. He gave me a terse nod, without the slightest hint of animation or emotion. I would have liked to believe that he was just being discreet, given that Scully was at my side. I would have liked to, but I didn't. He said, "Agents," crisply and held back to let us pass. We both nodded and mumbled, "Sir," but it took every ounce of will in me not to turn back and look at him, to ask him, "Why?"

Scully and I took our usual places at one end of the long narrow conference table and he took his at the other. I remained still in my chair, staring at a blank notepad, because with Scully sitting opposite me, I couldn't dare make eye contact with him. I knew I'd give myself away. Still, I listened keenly for every murmur, cough, rustle of paper or creaking chair that might be his.

It was kind of sad and pathetic how much I wanted something of him, even a sound. I'd spent the weekend trying not to think about him and so, of course, I couldn't think about anything but him. Up to as recently as three weeks before this particular meeting, I could easily pass entire days and nights without his name even making a cameo appearance in my thoughts, but now -

Scully's foot tapped my ankle.

I scowled at her and she scowled back, tipping her pen ever so slightly toward the opposite end of the table.

I turned my head in that direction. Skinner and his D.D., an irritating monkey butt named Jameson, were both looking at me in expectation. I felt my mouth go dry and not from embarrassment. Skinner's expression was irritation and something else; shame? Fear? Concern? Disgust?

"Um...I..." Scully kicked me again and I glared at her. She was tapping a fingertip on her notepad. I looked down and she had scribbled Barnett. I sat up. "The Barnett case," I repeated and made my eyes go back to the head of the table and fix on Jameson. "The final report will be submitted this afternoon. Barnett was arraigned in Federal court on Thursday and remanded to Georgia Bureau custody." I risked a glance at Scully, and she nodded almost imperceptibly.

The meeting continued for everyone else, and I lapsed back into a sulk. There was no mention of any emergency that would justify Skinner being called away from his lover in the middle of the night. I had to conclude that there was either a family emergency, and to my knowledge he had no family close enough for that kind of emergency, or he was excuse-making to grease the way out.

When the meeting ended, I remained seated just a moment longer, watching Skinner through veiled eyes, to see if he even looked in my direction. But he was talking to another fairly odious A.D., Kersh, as he gathered his notebook and PDA together. They walked out, still deep in discussion, without casting the merest glance at me.

"Mulder, what is the matter?" Scully was leaning over the table. "I think A.D. Skinner's right, you are -"

"He's not," I snapped, standing up so forcefully my chair fell over. "About anything," I added, bending to right the chair. "I'm fine."

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But I wasn't fine. I was starting to obsess. What had happened? What had I done, really? So I had a bad dream. So what? Was I to be punished because I couldn't control where my mind went wandering while I slept? It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, and yet it was wholly understandable. If I were him instead of me, I wouldn't want to pursue an intimate relationship with me, either.

But damn it, I would think Skinner was the kind of man with balls enough to say so, to my face. It was this sneaking out in dark of night business that really bothered me. What had I said or done that was so horrible he couldn't bear to stay in the same room with me ... oh, my God! Did I threaten him? The last time he accused me of having a nightmare, we were both pretty well damaged, and I certainly couldn't account for it. Was it actually possible that I had conveyed some greater threat to him? Absolutely not. I know I'm not, by nature, a violent man. It was hard to conceive of becoming so when I fell asleep. Jekyll and Hyde didn't exist outside fiction.

"Mulder?"

Scully's voice grated on me, making me flinch. Drawing a deep breath, I turned in my chair. "Yes?"

"Are you sure -"

"Yessss." I had to take another breath. "Scully...please...let it alone, will you?"

She looked wounded in that way only Scully can. "Okay, Mulder," she said quietly. "I'm sorry if I intruded." I heard her chair creak as she turned away from my desk. "I was only concerned, that's -"

"Damn it, Scully, there isn't anything wrong except in your head, and the fact that you're making me crazy trying to convince me that there is something wrong." I jumped from my chair, and snatched my jacket from the back of it. "I've got an errand." I didn't mean to slam the office door, it just happened.

Even as I climbed stairs, I knew it was pointless to confront him at the office. But we had agreed that our homes were strictly off limits and I couldn't wait for him to go home, anyway. I wanted resolution that minute.

When I came out of the stairwell onto the fifth floor mezzanine, he was walking toward me. At least, for one heartstopping moment that's how it seemed. He was walking from the opposite end of the corridor, to his office, which was between us. But our eyes met as we walked toward each other, and they held. It almost seemed as if we were being pulled toward one another. Suddenly he reached the door to his anteroom and he broke the gaze and turned with a very deliberate motion. Everything about his body, his eyes, his timing said, 'I am going somewhere you cannot go.'

I ignored the message and turned into the outer office five steps behind him. He was in the doorway of his inner office, informing his secretary he was not to be disturbed, but I didn't let him finish. I marched up to his door. "Sir, about the -"

"I'm very busy right now, Agent," he said in a sharp voice and moved as if he was going to step inside and shut me out.

"With all due respect, Sir, this won't take that long." I was nose to nose with him, daring him to turn me away.

He sighed and gestured me in, leaving his door open an inch or two, an implicit warning that I should choose my topics and my words carefully. He moved around me and rested a hip at the edge of his desk and did not invite me to sit. Folding his arms over his chest, he said, "What's this about, Agent?"

I stood there, looking from the open door to his imposing body language, speechless. What could I say? What would he say? "I ..." I was choked wordless by his expressionless face and the way he looked pointedly at his watch. It was like trying to pour my heart out to one of those big stone faces on Easter Island and expecting them to care. I pulled myself up straight and cocked my head at him. "I was just concerned about your family emergency, Sir."

"Family em -" he cut off the word but it was enough. I knew. I turned away. He cut me off by jerking away from his desk and taking a step toward the door. He looked over my shoulder and said between clenched teeth near my ear, "Not here." When I opened my mouth to ask where, he added, "Not now." He reached for the door ahead of me and pulled it open. "Thank you for your concern, Agent."

I had no choice, I was being very effectively thrown out.

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I didn't go back to the office. I didn't know exactly where my head was, and I couldn't keep that fact from my face or from Scully. So I kept going downstairs, 'til I reached the underground parking.

I didn't really have a place to go. For a while I just sat in my car, seeing nothing but him looking over my shoulder, not even meeting my eyes. My chest hurt. It wasn't enough to feel foolish for believing him. I didn't care about that. I didn't know what I felt that hurt so much, but something did. Something horrible, like a tentacle wrapping around my lungs, squeezing me, stealing my breath from the inside.

I didn't know what I felt for him. But it was powerful and I didn't want to let it go. And I didn't know what was in me that was making him want to let me go. I believed even then that at one point he needed and wanted me just as much as I needed and wanted him. So what changed? What did I do wrong? I had to know.

I started my car and backed out of my space, surprised my vision was impaired by tears. Angrily, I brushed at them, while I negotiated the catacomb like parking structure. It was dark when I emerged at street level. Snow that looked muddy in daylight looked magically white and pristine in streetlight. I wish I had been in a mood to appreciate the transition.

I didn't go far...just an alleyway two blocks down. Skinner was going to have to pass me to get to the expressway. I backed in, and dimmed my headlamps, and waited.

From a psychological standpoint, it should have been comforting that, for once, Skinner wasn't the last one out of the building. Either he had a hot date - another family emergency - or our confrontation, as small as it was disturbed him and even his big office was too confining. He didn't seem to notice my car pulling out two cars behind him. He didn't seem to have any particular destination, either. He couldn't go home. He was afraid I would break our agreement and be waiting there.

After eschewing the turn off to the expressway, he drove aimlessly for another five or ten minutes. Finally he turned in at a bar that was a favorite Friday night hangout for Bureauites, but this was a Monday so it wasn't likely to be seeing much Federal action. I cruised the block, making sure he was pulling in, and not just looking for a tail, then doubled back and came in through the exit at the far end.

Not by design, we were parked face to face, several rows apart. He didn't see me. He was fussing with something in his passenger seat. Then he looked up and scanned the lot. He sat still for a moment, and then pushed the door open.

I climbed out of my car a second behind him, slammed the door and started moving toward him. I had the advantage of being closer to the building's entrance. He was going to have to go through me to get inside to whatever or whomever he wanted to get to.

He came to a stop so suddenly it was as if someone pulled a string and brought him up short.

I shrugged and tried to work my mouth into a smile. "Small world."

"What are you doing here, Agent? This isn't your usual haunt." His voice was light, casual, hail fellow well met, but I knew him too well to believe it.

"Nor yours," I countered, taking a step closer to him.

I'll give him credit. He didn't cringe or back up. He took it like a man. He let me get almost close enough to touch him before he said, in that same, back of the throat, gritting his teeth, cross me and die voice, "I'm sorry, Mulder. It ends here. It has to." Only then did his gaze falter, and even then only for a fraction. "It was a mistake. Let it go before either of us gets hurt."

And while I was standing there burning down into my shoes, he walked on, bumping my shoulder slightly as he passed me, and went inside, leaving a pile of ash for the winter winds of Washington DC to whip up and blow away, leaving no trace that he'd ever touched me.

End 09