TITLE: Same Game: Part XIII – Free Throw

NAME: Mik

E-MAIL: mikdok@hotmail.com

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: The Zen of ironed shorts and Star Trek.

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully 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.

This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps", and querida Susan, for her brilliant execution of all things beta.

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.

Same Game XIII – Free Throw (part 1 of 2)

by Mik

Here I am. Home, such as it is. Four days in Buffalo, New York. Law enforcement convention. I’m not sure why I was sent, unless it was as simple as I was Scully’s partner and she was a guest speaker. It could have been something more convoluted like my A.D. wanted me out from underfoot. Very mysterious that the directive was on my desk on Monday morning after I walked out on him Friday night. I dunno … it’s an X-File.

So, I played nice Fibbie in Buffalo all week while the uniforms and the shields watched me warily. Scully didn’t say much, either. That’s no surprise. She hasn’t had much to say to me since she found out Skinner and I were doing the two man tango. She wasn’t rude, she wasn’t glacially polite, she just wasn’t anything. I missed her counsel, her conversation, hell, I just missed her.

The high point of the entire experience, if it could be called that, was running into General Hardy and watching Scully recoil as if something slimy had brushed against her. But the All-American Soldier Boy didn’t seem too interested in her anymore. He was actually courting me. Maybe it was time to consider a change. I knew I couldn’t continue to work at the Bureau, not after this. I promised to give him a call when I got back to D.C.

And now here was another weekend alone. Last weekend I let my rage burn up the days and my disappointment drown out the nights. A week post, I was only tired of the whole subject. Why did it ever have to be about anything more than sex? I knew what I was about when I tried to keep it on a physical level. Any bookmaker in the world would have made a relationship involving Fox William Mulder to be a dead cert -- emphasis on dead.

All right then, why did I let love into it? Because, damn it. I wanted more than ‘just sex’. ‘Just sex’ came in so many easy, tawdry forms that I knew ‘just sex’ word for word, both forward and rewind. And it wasn’t the curiosity or novelty of ‘just sex’ with a man, either. There were ways, places where I could have experimented anonymously. When it comes down to the final analysis, I wanted him, because I knew the person he was. I admired him. I … respected him.

And therein lies the rub. I don’t doubt he loved me. Walter S. Skinner could not have taken the steps, the risks … me without love. Here’s a little known fact; the bulldog is a romantic. But his love wasn’t enough for me.

I’m fairly certain my parents loved me -- or as close to love as their little cloned hearts could get -- but they never could manage respect. I never dated a woman who could look me in the eye, keeping a totally straight face, and say she respected me. No one has. I suppose I’m not the sort to engender that kind of response. Scully probably doesn’t even respect me, and if she did, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t anymore.

But, acknowledging all that, would I go back, just for love? No. He told me I couldn’t, but more, I told myself I couldn’t. This was a once in a lifetime relationship. So what if he didn’t respect me? I was happy in my ignorance. Now that I’ve been given the vision of wisdom, I can’t give it back.

And I’m alone.

Right.

But alone.

_______

Saturday, early morning. Still dark. I was awake. And hating it. I got spoiled in his bed, and now my futon is too hard. It hurts my hip and shoulders. I suppose I could be flowery and say it’s too empty, too, and hurts my heart. But I’m not the flowery sort.

Too much effort to get up and run. So I laid there, twisting, grunting, inwardly whining, trying to find a comfortable position. Nothing doing. I threw my pillow across the room with a heartfelt "Shit!" and flopped on my back to stare at the ceiling. Headlights in the street below my window momentarily illuminated the water stains above me and suddenly I realized that I could see Skinner’s profile over my head. Almost haunting me.

I sat up, turned on a light and gave it study. No. Just my imagination. I turned off the light and tried to settle back and close my eyes again. That was worse. Now that I’d let him put a foot inside my thoughts he was muscling his way in and taking over. I could almost feel the way his eyes would burn my flesh when he looked at me. Without his glasses, his eyes had a fiery quality, especially when he was aroused.

With a groan, I rolled onto my side, trying not to think of him aroused. The image of him; naked, that incredible bulk of a body; toned and bronzed and muscled … and his cock … well, shit, I wasn’t going to get anymore sleep after that. But, I’ll be damned if I was going to jerk off to his memory. I struggled to get up and knelt in front of my television cabinet, prowling through well-used, all too familiar videos. I considered and discarded case after case. Okay, so I knew every canned whimper, groan and ‘oh, baby, you’re so good’ by heart. It was better than thinking about sex with him. I pulled one out at random and put it in the VCR.

It was cued up to a sex scene. I never waste my time believing there is a plot. I just go to the dip and dive, and fast forward over all the laughable acting and cheesy production values. Almost immediately I was treated to silicone-enhanced, world weary bodies squirming and breathing hard while managing to maintain an expression that seemed to say, ‘Gee, did I remember to turn off the iron?’

Since I had developed something of an erection, I began to stroke myself, still kneeling in front of the television. Before long, I realized I was more aware of the fact that a curtain rod in the background of the love scene was drooping lower than the male partner, and that I had somehow managed to get a callous on my thumb than I was of any sort of pleasurable sensation.

I gave up.

I turned off the VCR, got up, stumbled into the kitchen for a bottle of water, and emptied it in three desperate gulps. Came out, fed the fish and wandered, as much as possible, around my living room. Skinner’s got a great condo. So much room to roll around in.

I grabbed my jacket, my keys and my shoes and left.

______

I don’t know why I thought coming into the office would be a good idea. All that did was remind me of him, all of him, every moment with him, right up ‘til the moment I realized he didn’t respect me.

I sat there, doggedly plowing over my expense report, drinking lukewarm Coke when I saw her silhouette appear in the frosted glass of the door. Shit. I think neither of us really wanted to be in this office with the other one. I began to scrape my file together. Even being home and restless was better than this.

She came through the door and paused, keys still in hand. She looked at me. "On a Saturday, Mulder?"

"Buffalo expense report," I said, trying to smile.

"On a Saturday?" Her brows were in danger of becoming one with her hairline.

I shrugged. "It’s due on Monday."

"Mulder, you’ve never turned in an expense report on time in your entire career."

I put my calculator back in my desk. "I’m turning over a new leaf."

A funny look came over her face. She looked faintly ill and at the same time, deeply saddened. "Have you talked to him?" she asked in that quiet voice she has that seems so innocuous but is so full of meaning.

"Him?" I was staring at my keys, suddenly unable to remember which one locked my desk. "Him who?"

"No, no." She came to the edge of my desk. "Don’t pull that with me."

I looked up at her. "Yes. I have."

"And?"

"And nothing." I found the key and locked my drawers. "Does Security know you’re down here? I’ll have them swing by and check you periodically if you --"

"Mulder …" She let her words trail away.

I made myself look at her. "It was a mistake, Scully. And it’s over."

"The hell it is," she blurted out.

It was my turn to raise brows. "How many Hail Marys will that cost you, Dana Katherine?"

"You still love him." It wasn’t a question. It was a fact with irrefutable proof.

I felt myself blush. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You still love him," she repeated.

I looked at my watch, impatiently. "If you have a point, get to it. I’m going to be late for --"

"Mulder, you know me." The Scully scalpel voice. "You know I don’t approve of this relationship on multiple levels."

I felt the discomfort burning me all over. "Scully …." I began, and knew I had no place to go. "We don’t need to have this conversation. It’s over."

"We do need to have this conversation," she insisted. She was starting to color a little, too. "Regardless of my moral beliefs or my professional ones, the fact remains that you do love him. And he loves you. And I … and I …" She let her little pink tongue dart over her lips. "…and I love you. You are my dearest, closest friend." It all came out in a rush. "I want you to be happy. I think he made you happy."

There was a fucking lump in my throat. Damn it, an episode of Friends just snuck up on me. "Scully," I began, when I was sure my voice wouldn’t crack and totally humiliate me. "It doesn’t matter how I feel about him. He doesn’t respect me. I can’t live with that."

"Doesn’t respect you?" she repeated, dumbfounded. "Mulder, he adores you."

"That’s my point, Scully," I said, impatiently. I fumbled around for my jacket. "He adores me, like a puppy. I don’t want to be someone’s pampered little pet. I want to be an equal partner. I will never be equal to him."

Scully stuck out a hand. "Welcome to the club, Mulder."

I brushed her away. "Oh, thank you very much." I shrugged on my jacket and inched past her toward the door.

"Mulder, do you respect me?"

I skidded to a stop, just short of a brick wall. "What? Yes, of course. What kind of stupid question is that?"

She cocked her head slightly, and considered me thoughtfully. "Stupid question?" she repeated.

"Okay," I conceded. "Poor choice of words."

"Do you consider me your equal?"

I nodded. "Absolutely."

Uh oh. She zeroed in on me, strafing me with questions. "Then why do you ditch me? Why do you take off half-cocked without telling me what’s going on? Why do you drag me all over the countryside on your whim? Why do you always play big tough guy protecting poor little female? Why do YOU always kick the door down? Why didn’t you get me a desk?"

"I got you a desk," I protested. "Why are we back on the desk?"

She dismissed that with a flick of a finger. "Mulder, listen to me. You do a lot of things to me that could be misinterpreted as demeaning or disrespectful, but I’m sure that wasn’t your intent."

Damn it, now she was making sense. I shook my head. "But, this is different," I said, falling back on a twelve year old’s logic.

"Oh, of course it is." She put her purse down on the corner of the desk and opened it, purposefully avoiding my expression while I collapsed and rebuilt my defenses.

"So, what am I supposed to do?" I asked, sardonically. "Get a tattoo?"

She put both hands up in a gesture that was half surrender and half finality. "Fine. Whatever."

I came across the room and dropped a conciliatory kiss to the top of her head. "Thank you for the advice, Abby. I’ll see you Monday." I got back to the door, paused and looked back at her, forcing a grin. "And Scully? The next door is yours, I promise."

_____

Sunday afternoon. I’m exhausted, I’m angry, I’m … tidy. I couldn’t sleep Saturday night, wrestling between my convictions and Scully’s romantic notions. So … I cleaned. I’d like to think I’m fastidious by nature and at least pick up after myself. I’d like to think that, but I can’t. I am, as my mother used to say, a clutter bug. If there wasn’t a dress code at the Bureau and a damn good dry cleaner to help me meet it, I’d live in sweats and a coffee-stained tee shirt for the rest of my life, picking through stacks of files, newspapers and empty pizza boxes.

All right, maybe I’m exaggerating, but it’s true that entire expeditions have been lost in my closets. I think I found their burial site. In my restlessness Saturday, I cleaned my closets. All of them. I alphabetized my porn. I put all my newsletters from the Lone Gunmen in chronological order. I paired my socks. I IRONED my shorts.

Standing in the middle of my living room, surveying all I had achieved I was reminded, again, of Skinner’s spotless condo and the fact that I had never seen toothpaste smears or beard hairs in his bathroom sink. I had never seen a wet towel on his bathroom floor, a dirty cup in his sink, a paper out of place, a picture hang crooked. What I had seen was Skinner, glorious Skinner. Skinner in the shower, Skinner in the kitchen, Skinner on the sofa, making a pillow for me out of one of his rock-hard thighs.

Oh, man, that first day after that first night together. Chinese food, MSG and sodium be damned, ice cream right out of the carton, cartoons, war movies, a sports blooper video, silly word games, a little wrestling, a backrub and a nap curled up next to him. Nirvana and I didn’t even know it.

Time to run again.

I ran just a bit too hard, a bit too far and I was zinging and stinging and just a little out of control. The water from the shower was turned up too high and too hot and was pelting me almost mercilessly. I stood under it, one hand on the wall for support, the other against my chest, where my heart was still pounding. Feelings were welling up in me until I could barely breathe. It wasn’t about ‘just sex’, although I was so hard at that point I could probably drill a hole in the tile of my shower stall. What it was about was that I missed him. I missed everything about him; the sex, the affection, the bemused expressions, the warmth, the security, the trust.

Finally, I surrendered. I gave myself permission to at least achieve physical release, but I couldn’t. I now wanted more than I could ever have with him. The knowledge of what I gave up for the sake of what I needed knocked me to my knees, and I knelt there, letting the water turn tepid and then cold, caught somewhere between coming and crying.

XXX

Another night alone. Last Friday night he was here, telling me I was just like that bastard who raised him. Last Friday night I was so overwhelmed by the rapid succession of events that his words truly meant little more than nursery rhymes to me. All I know is that when I looked up, he was gone.

I knew it was over. I accepted it. I made the rule, he understood it and accepted it. He left. I closed the door behind him. I didn’t sleep all weekend.

By Sunday afternoon I knew I would not be able to see him, encounter him in a hallway, hear his voice, hear his name without betraying myself. I needed time to heal. I created a bogus assignment, volunteered our Hero Of the Day, Agent Scully, to speak at a symposium up in New York State, and decreed that, as her partner, Mulder had to go, too.

So every night I worked late, telling myself I was catching up on all that went on in my absence. Every day I accepted the congratulations and condolences of all the traitors who only days before had been saying they knew I was dirty all along. Every day I listened for word of him, and every night I missed him. But, I knew it was the right thing to do. Still do. I can’t go back. Marines never retreat.

On this Friday night, I stayed in town late, working and having dinner, hoping to run into some acquaintance with whom I could stretch out the night. I did not, and reluctantly, I turned the key in my lock at nine-thirty. Too late to do anything else, too early, far too early to go to bed, especially alone.

Scotch in hand, I settled in front of the television, looking for a game replay on one of the sports channels. I was reminded of the first day we spent together in this place. It was a foolishly spent, utterly wasted day, and I wouldn’t take back a second of it. I wish I could remember every detail of it the way I could remember him asleep beside me in the middle of the movie. I don’t remember the movie, but I remember the even way he breathed, the way his fingers twitched occasionally, the peaceful expression on his face. They always say people look younger when they sleep. Mulder doesn’t. He just looks like Mulder, at rest.

Another thing I wish: I wish I had let him attempt waffles that morning. I think the memory of that might have sustained me the rest of my life.

But there were memories. Lots of good ones, and few bad ones stirred in for flavor. Dancing with him. Holding him against me, feeling his humming within my chest, feeling his fingertips brushing lightly over my shoulders and back. The animation in his eyes when he related experiences, the fire when he argued, the almost volcanic glow when aroused.

Oh, God, Mulder aroused. He had been emotionally (and probably physically) celibate for so long that when he finally let himself go every glance, touch, double entendre was a match to dry brush. He erupted. Anyone in his vicinity was incinerated by the sheer heat of him. After a few short months with him, I was nothing but a man-shaped pile of ash.

And now I was crumbling.

______

Saturday evening. Dinner remained, congealed on the plate, at no time appealing to me. Scotch supply was nearly depleted. My paperback had stayed open to the same page for an hour. I was so deeply sunk in my despair that I have no idea how long the buzzer clamored before I roused myself and pushed the speaker. "Skinner," I growled.

"Sir?"

Scully. Damn it, she’s the last person I needed to see. She would only remind me of him. Well, right then everything reminded me of him, why should she be any different? I jabbed at the button. "Come up."

She did. It’s always a shock to see her in jeans. I have, of course, but so rarely that it catches me by surprise. I am accustomed to her being Mulder’s feminine counterpart, suitably dressed, perfectly coifed, minimally but effectively made up. She looked like a teenager in her blue jeans, tee shirt, and naked face. "Agent," I said, forcing myself to remember who she was to me.

"Assistant Director Skinner," she responded politely and stepped inside as I gestured for her to come in.

"Would you like some coffee? A drink?"

"No, thank you, sir." She was hugging her bag to her body, self-consciously.

"Come in and sit down. What can I do for you?"

She took a seat, perching just at the edge. "At the risk of being insubordinate, you know what you can do for me."

I shook my head. "Agent Scully. You have made your disapproval on this matter quite clear. However, I don’t believe your feelings are at risk any --"

She rolled her eyes at me! "You two are so much alike."

"What are you talking about?"

"He said almost exactly the same thing to me today --"

Something waked in me. "You saw him? Today?" How is he? Is he eating? Is he sleeping? Is he one tenth as miserable as I am?

"Yes," she answered impatiently. "At the office. He was --"

"He was at the office on a Saturday?"

She nodded. "Doing his expense report --"

"Mulder was doing his expense report BEFORE it is due?"

She narrowed her eyes at me. "If I could finish a sentence, sir," she said, pointedly.

I settled back and indicated that she should continue.

"Sir, you need to talk to him," she stated baldly. "This must be resolved between you. It’s not good for either of you."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," I bristled. I didn’t need that brat to survive. Right. Just like I didn’t need air.

She gave me a look that made me feel she could see every vertebra in my spine right through my Marines sweatshirt. "Sir, I’m not blind. I could see that you had not touched your meal. My olfactory senses are exceptionally good, and I can tell you’ve been drinking. You’re unhappy without him. He’s unhappy without you."

I know I sounded pathetic, and hated it, but it still came out. "Do you think so?"

She almost smiled. "If I know Mulder, he hasn’t eaten or slept for several days. He’s probably run too hard, and banged his head against every wall of his apartment. He was extremely well-behaved during our trip to Buffalo, which means his mind and heart weren’t there with us."

That was immaterial. "You said you saw him today. How did he … look?"

She seemed satisfied by my interest. "Fine. But he was distracted and defensive and just the fact that he came into the office to work on an expense report proves after one night home, his apartment has gotten too small for him."

I was jealous, momentarily, of how well she knew him. But my jealousy faded into concern. "Do you think he’ll be all right? Should you try to talk to him again?"

"No. You should."

I sighed to the carpet. "It’s pointless, Agent Scully. I tried talking to him. He won’t hear anything I have to say."

She shrugged dismissively. "Then you have to say it a little louder. He’s never cared what people thought of him. He’s never expected nor demanded anyone’s respect. He’s just done his work and gone forward, never looking back. But you’re different, sir."

She nearly lost me. I could remember a thousand jeering remarks made at Mulder’s expense, some even to his face, and he took them all with his focused disinterest and kept going. But he wasn’t disinterested in me. "Beg your pardon?"

"I said, you’re different. You matter to him, not just as … as a lover," she forced herself to say. "But, as a man, as his supervisor, and as a friend. You let him believe that you believed in him. And now …" She stopped. She swallowed tightly, and glanced away. "He doesn’t want to be your pet," she explained, staring at the blankness of my wall.

Pet. He used that word with me. Good God, could he think I saw him as a toy? Never. More like a life-preserver, tossed at me as I was going down for the third time.

Suddenly, she was up, clutching at her bag again, her face fiercely pink. "I’ve said too much. But I had to say something." She started to back away.

"I don’t know that there is anything I could say that would convince him otherwise, Agent Scully," I said, regretfully, rising to walk her to the door.

She tilted that pink face up at me, and with a frown that looked far more mature than the ponytail and freckles, said, "With all due respect, sir, you’re a bureaucrat. You’ll figure out something."

____

It was finding the sunflower seeds from Mulder’s secret stash in my bedside table the next day that changed my mind. Before I could fully formulate a speech I was in my car and driving back toward Alexandria.

I didn’t bother to knock. I let myself in the way everyone let themselves into his apartment, I jimmied his lock. I don’t know why he even bothers to lock the place anymore. "Mulder?"

He came around the corner a minute later, mouth open, eyes blazing. He was wet, and naked, and his eyes looked red-rimmed and weary. I knew Scully was right. He hadn’t eaten or slept in days. And he was naked.

I tore my eyes away and turned into his kitchen. It was … spotless. For a moment, I forgot where I was, and why.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he rasped behind me.

I didn’t dare turn around. At that moment, I would have nailed him against the refrigerator and issued statements later. "Get dressed," I said, gruffly. "I want to talk to you."

He stood there. I could feel the defiance pouring off him. "We’ve said what we had to say."

I turned, took him in, and pushed him against the wall instead. I held him at arm’s length, hands against his shoulders, struggling to control my natural inclinations. "I said, get dressed. I want to talk to you. Is that clear?"

"Talk? I don’t believe you’ve taught me that trick, yet, sir." He shoved back and moved away. "I do have sit and stay down pretty well. Oh, yeah, bend over and say ‘ah’. That one I’ve got knocked."

Every word was calculated to cut, and they did. I didn’t know whether I wanted to hit him or kiss him. I went to his refrigerator and opened it. Empty. Except for a nearly mummified red rose.

I turned around and reached for his phone. "I am going to order some food. Do you want Thai or pizza?"

"I don’t want --"

"Mulder, shut the fuck up."

He clamped his mouth shut.

"Now, go get dressed." I started dialing the number of the pizza place who gave him the refrigerator magnet.

"What do you think you’re doing? You’re the one who said --"

"I was wrong. Okay?" I barked an order to the hapless girl who answered the telephone and nearly banged the receiver into place. Impulsively, I reached for his shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. "Mulder, don’t you get it? I love you. I may not do everything right, but that doesn’t mean I don’t try." His wet body felt so good in my arms I wanted to touch him, caress him, explore him, but he was remaining rigid in my hold, so I eased him away. "Please. Get dressed. Let’s talk."

I don’t know what he was doing but he did not re-emerge until the pizza had arrived. When he came out, he was in jeans that rode low on his hips. Nothing else. I know I stared. I know it made him self-conscious. I could see him struggling not to cross his arms over his chest. I held out a slice of pizza that he took grudgingly.

I began my speech. I still didn’t know what I was going to say. I just took a deep breath and prayed I was the bureaucrat Scully thought I was. "I never did thank you for all you did for me."

His eyes narrowed. It was his only response.

"This week, I’ve had the chance to look it over from all sides, and I understand what motivated you."

"Even if I did do it wrong," he muttered.

"I’m not saying that. I was wrong to feel that way. I can’t impart my values or beliefs on you. I have no right to try. I’m sorry."

He shook his head.

"What does that mean?"

"It means too little too late, Skinner. I need more than that."

"I know what you need. What you deserve. I do respect you, you know."

"Oh, yeah, you proved that today."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Breaking into my apartment, ordering me around, force-feeding me --"

"Oh, call the authorities, I wanted you to eat one meal this week."

"You see?"

"No, YOU see." I put my pizza down and leaned toward him. "Here are some irrefutable facts, Fox Mulder. I will always be your boss. We’ll never get around that one. But more important than that, I love you. Loving you gives me certain rights. One of them is to take care of you if you need caring for. Shut up. That isn’t treating you like a pet, that’s treating you like someone valuable, someone who means the world to me."

He looked as if he was going to begin another argument. Desperately, I tried to head him off. "This is no different than the way you take care of Scully. You know she’s fully capable of taking care of herself, but your natural inclination is to protect her, look after her, if you can. You mean no disrespect, and you certainly don’t see her as a pet."

He rolled his eyes at me! "You two are so much alike." He shifted in his chair. "She used the same argument on me yesterday."

Bless her little heart. "And?"

"And nothing. Of course I respect her. I think she’s a helluva woman."

"And I happen to think you’re a helluva man, Fox." I reached out to touch his knee. He didn’t flinch away. "I do love you. And that means if you’re sick, sad, hurt, I’m going to take care of you, and I’d expect no less from you if the reverse were true. I will always want to care for you, you can’t change that. You can either accept it or --" I cut myself off. "No, there is no ‘or’. You will accept it. You’re stuck with me, buddy boy."

"Bossy."

"Yeah, I am. It’s my nature." I was totally unapologetic. "And you’re exasperating, defiant and …and …" I gave up. "Brilliant, funny, compassionate, generous, selfless and pretty damned sexy without a shirt on."

He put the pizza down. "So that’s what this is about," he snarled.

"What are you talking about?"

"You’re horny so you thought you’d come over and make nice. Fuck that, Skinner. Go home and introduce yourself to Mr. Hand."

For a moment, I was stunned at the venom in his words. Then, I had to admit I would have probably had the same reaction if the situation had been turned around. "Mulder, you’re wrong. Yes, I want you. The fact that the first time I saw you all week you were naked didn’t help. But, listen to me and believe me. If I could never touch you again, I would still love you. If I had to take cold showers every night to sleep next to you, I would. I would hate that, but I love you more."

There was a long -- painfully long -- moment of silence, while he absorbed, weighed and tested my words. He reached for his pizza, and examined it, while he examined my motives. He finally smiled. Well, a corner of his mouth turned up around his pizza. Then it flattened out. "It was the right thing to do, Skinner. The Bureau needs you."

Relief and victory made me daring and stupid. "So help me, Mulder, you pull out that Star Trek Zen again, I will pop you on the nose with a rolled up newspaper." I held my breath. Would he see that remark for the joke that it was, or would he be offended?

He grinned. "Kinky." He took another bite of pizza. "But, if I’m a good puppy, will I be rewarded with a bone?"

"Sure." I shrugged. "Unless you would prefer to bury one."

His head tipped back, and he howled. "Okay, okay, I give. Rule Number Nine. No more puppy jokes."

I got up and kissed him, hungrily. "Let’s not do this again," I whispered against his mouth. "I really can’t live without you anymore."

He pulled back and frowned at me. "But, couldn’t we do it once a year? My apartment has never been so clean."

Once a year? That sounded like forever and ever. "I’ll hire a service for you."

His fingers ran up the crotch of my jeans unexpectedly. "Speaking of service …."

I whistled. "Here, boy."

He chuckled at me as he began to work my fly. "Rule Number Nine, Skinner, and I will make you pay. I will force you to watch Star Trek II ‘til you’re mumbling ‘the good of the many’ in your sleep." He paused and looked at me seriously. "It was the good of the many. And, in this case, of the few. You once told me I could believe in you. I did. I do."

-THE END-