TITLE: Same Game: Part XVIII – Double Team

(Part 1 of 2 parts)

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: Two against one isn’t fair … to the two.

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.

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.

* Author's note: Susan, don't jump when I know you can fly

Same Game XVIII – Double Team (part 1 of 2)

by Mik

Well, for the third night in a week, I’d managed to roll over and smack myself in the face with my cast, and I let out another howl of protest, jerked awake by the shock of plaster encountering cheek.

Almost in the same instant that conscious thought told me there should be pain following such an encounter, there was the conscious thought that I had to stop hollering. I would wake my partner.

Partner. Hell of a note, huh? It was just this week, staying in his house, listening to him bitch about my messy habits and lousy cooking that I really felt like a … oh, what do you call it? A couple? Yeah. Up to this point, our relationship had been pretty much defined by sex and some weird emotional addiction. Suddenly, I found myself in something just short of marriage. And here’s the REAL X-File … I kinda’ liked it.

I know, months ago, I had warned him against trying to domesticate me, trying to make me into a pipe and slippers clone. I’d pretty much told him if he had stars in his eyes about growing old together he could get rid of them double quick. Now … of course, my housekeeping and cooking, or lack thereof, was enough to give anyone second thoughts about living with me on a full time basis … but the appeal was starting to reveal itself to me.

It was nice to go to bed with him and read or watch television, or just generally relax, and not feel that my sole purpose for being in that bed was to light rockets and break sound barriers. Granted, rockets were rare, but shit … when I managed to get one lit … I think the whole Eastern Seaboard knew about it.

For years, my concept of a partner was that they came in small packages, with red hair, blue eyes and an incredulous frown. This was the Jumbo Economy Size. Less hair, brown eyes, incredible, albeit rare, smile. I was starting to think I didn’t want to go home.

At that moment, however, my thoughts were about waking my partner. Only to realize a moment later that my partner wasn’t there, not next to me, not within easy reach for a pat, a caress, a reassuring gesture. I sat up, and looked around the semi-dark room. It wasn’t dawn yet. Why was he up?

Mind spinning with a hundred scenarios, each more horrific than the last, I scrambled out of bed, checked the bathroom, the hall, the den, the stairwell. It wasn’t until I hit the bottom stair that I heard a soft, small murmur, his voice striving to be quiet. I came around the corner, into the living room, and found him, in his robe, on the sofa, phone in hand, making notes in his Day Timer, in that concise hand of his.

He looked up at me. "Did I wake you?" he mouthed.

I shook my head, padded over to the sofa and looked over his shoulder to see what he was writing. "What the hell’s in Mercedes, Texas?"

"Your partner," he answered softly, paused, measured his words and amended, "ex-partner." He listened a moment longer and said, aloud, "Thank you." He put the phone down. "Want to go to Texas with me?"

"What?" I repeated stupidly. It was a perfectly reasonable question. He hadn’t asked me to drink cat blood or dance Swan Lake in matching tutus (would that be twotwos?). He just wanted me to go to Texas with him.

He squinted up at me. "Hit yourself again?"

"Yeah. Why are you going to Texas?"

He reached up, tilted my chin to get a better look, stroked his thumb tenderly over my cheekbone. "You’re going to have a black eye this time, Mulder."

I brushed his hand away. "Why are you going to Texas?"

He frowned. "Scully’s in the hospital," he began.

I didn’t wait for the rest. I was gut punched, winded. I sank down to shaky knees. "H-how bad?" How can you be so calm, you bastard?

He was actually smiling at me. "It depends."

I swallowed. "On?" I asked, full of dread.

"How much ice cream she gets to eat. She was felled with tonsillitis and the attending thought she ought to have them out."

It took a moment to sink in. My first response was an idiotic grin of relief and then a snicker. And then an outright, helpless laugh. "Our good doctor has never had her TONSILS out?" I sagged against the sofa, laughing. "She will NEVER hear the end of this one."

I stopped laughing. "Wait a minute. If it’s just tonsils, why do you have to go to Texas?"

He frowned slightly. "She has some information she considers too delicate to fax and it needs to be in my hands right away. Given the fact that she’s an adult, her recovery time might be a bit longer than a child’s and she doesn’t want anything to delay this information being acted upon."

A chill rippled over my spine. What was Scully doing collecting such delicate information … and without a partner? "What kind of information?"

His frown deepened. "It’s Bureau business, Mulder, and you don’t --"

"Don’t give me that shit," I snapped. "I work for the Pentagon now." I touched my chest with my casted hand. "I’m sacred, for God’s sake."

"We’ll discuss it on the way." He stood, hitching his robe together. "Come on. Throw on some jeans and come with me. It will do her good to see you."

***************************************

The flight out was weird. The cabin was practically empty. Skinner seemed determined to fill the pressurized air with inane chatter, something out of character for him. In fact, he seemed almost driven to keep me from asking a single question about Scully, her condition or the nature of the information she was collecting. I was in a cold sweat by the time the damned plane touched down. We landed in Weslaco and had to hire a car to drive to Mercedes, a tiny town near the Mexican border.

I sat, fidgeting, in the passenger seat as we barreled down the two lane blacktop in the unexpected heat of a late October morning. I just knew Skinner wasn’t telling me the truth about Scully. I was in a state of panic as we pulled up in front of a small, one story white building. "What’s this?" I demanded, turning to Skinner.

He consulted his Day Timer and then peered out at the building. "The Mercedes Medical Center, I think."

"You’re kidding, right?" We had to get Scully home. She wasn’t going to let some backwater butcher touch her here. "I’ve seen bigger outhouses."

"Don’t brag, Mulder." Skinner pushed his door open. "Come on, let’s go."

Some of my anxiety dissolved when we stepped inside. It was clean. It was cool. There was a very competent looking young woman at the desk who didn’t even blink when Skinner flashed his badge. "Miss Scully? She’s in room 104." She pointed around a corner.

Scully was in her own clothes, sitting in a chair by a window when we came in. It didn’t even really look like a hospital room. There were fresh flowers in a jar on the table, and the bed looked better than some I’d slept on in hotels over the years.

The best part, to me, was the way those bright blue eyes got even brighter as she saw us. "Partner!" she whispered.

"Hey, G-Woman." I came to her side and kissed her cheek. She did seem a little warm. "What’s all this about you needing your tonsils yanked?"

"Don’t start on me, Mulder," she warned in that voiceless voice. "How’s your arm?" She looked me over again. "You finally had enough of him, huh, sir?"

Skinner raised a brow at her.

She reached up and turned my face toward him. "The shiner, sir."

"Oh, that …" He smiled faintly and moved around the room. "I’ve been tying him up and beating him nightly. I don’t know …" He shrugged. "He seems to like it."

Scully giggled softly. "Don’t make me laugh," she implored. "Hurts."

"So … when do you go under the knife?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

"This afternoon," she answered. "They had me scheduled for this morning but I wanted to see Assistant Director Skinner first."

"Don’t talk," Skinner said firmly. "Save your voice. Just tell me where to find what I’m looking for."

She held out a key. "I’ve booked a room for you, sir."

"Thank you, Agent." He tugged at my sleeve. "Let her get some rest. We’ll see you later." He actually bent and kissed her other cheek.

Scully and I exchanged astounded stares.

He moved toward the door. "Let’s go, Mulder."

She caught my sleeve. "How did you get the black eye?"

I jerked a nod back in his direction. "He told you."

"Mul-der!"

I grinned at her and followed him out.

***************************************

The hotel was another surprise. A Southwest version of a Ramada. Very nice, clean and cool. Our room faced the pool. Skinner took the key Scully had given him and went to her room, and came back with a folder tucked under his arm. When I tried to get around him to get a look, he shooed me off with an expression that warned death was imminent. I decided to go sit in the shallow end of the pool and contemplate life.

This was a day for surprises all around. About two o’clock, Skinner came out, in jeans and a white shirt and brought me a beer, hunkering down at the edge of the terra cotta tiles. "Want to go for a drive?" he asked quietly.

Something stirred in me … something about the tone of his voice … something warm, inviting, reassuring. I took a sip of my beer and sat up, unwrapping my arm from the towel that protected the cast and climbed out of the pool. "Where are we going?"

"Wait on events, Mulder," he said quietly.

"I hate it when you do that," I murmured.

I could swear those broad shoulders shifted in a chuckle.

We drove about thirty miles outside of town. He was silent the whole way. My mind was spinning all kinds of wonderful and horrifying possibilities, from UFO landing sites to a really cool place to make out. But, we found neither. He stopped in front of a wooden fence and climbed out of the car to stare off into the distance. Then he came back to the car and gestured for me to roll down my window.

I did it, reluctantly. It was damned hot out there. Hadn’t anyone mentioned to the Tex-Mex border that it was mid-autumn?

"Want to see where I was born?" he asked quietly.

Well, that did something to the pumper. I felt my heart tighten and then swell. "Yeah," I said, at a loss for anything pithy, "I would."

He came back to the car and slid under the wheel.

It never occurred to me that he had been born. I mean, I just never thought about him as a baby, as a child, as having family, best friends, secrets, hobbies, hopes and dreams. I sent my eyes over the horizon. Who would have thought such a man would come out of this desert?

He turned up a dirt road, and followed it for a long time. Gradually, trees appeared, other greenery, and I realized we were following the path of some local stream. At last he rolled to a stop under a stand of trees I couldn’t identify, and pointed.

It was a small house. From my vantage point it looked to be stone and adobe. Low and sprawling in design. Wooden doors. It also looked abandoned.

I looked at him. There was something … soft, thoughtful about his expression. "Here?"

He nodded. "We lived here until I was about nine, and then we moved up to Arlington."

I wanted to ask him about a hundred questions then, but he pushed the door open and climbed out. "Watch out for snakes," he warned, before shutting the door.

Well, I didn’t particularly want to get out then, but I did. I wanted to see it up close, touch it, remember it. It was a humble place and it must have been hard for him to share it with me. It humbled me.

We didn’t go in. But he took me around the back, and showed me the crumbling remains of a crude hut that he and his father had built. It was a sort of playhouse/clubhouse, he said. He didn’t elucidate so I had a feeling that it was really more of a hideout than anything else. I saw the tree where his swing once hung. I saw the tractor he once rode, now rusted and left behind like an unpleasant memory. I saw where chicken coops once stood. I saw the post digger he used to help his father build fences. I could almost envision him, bathed in sweat, struggling alongside his father, toiling the land, and talking, laughing, working together. Shit. I felt a lump in my throat and went back to the car.

He came back a while later, and we drove back to Mercedes.

We reached town just as the sun was setting. I was checking my watch for about the hundredth time, wondering how Scully was, when he pointed. "We can call the hospital from a pay phone, Mulder. Let’s get a beer and cool off."

I glanced up the street. We were three blocks from the motel. But a beer did sound good. "Sure."

It was dark and cool inside the bar. It was almost empty. We slid up on stools and ordered a couple of drafts and he went to the back to call the hospital.

A moment later, he came back, looking anxious. "Mulder. I think you’d better go take this," he said.

Panic. I KNEW I shouldn’t have let her have surgery here. I should have gotten her out in a hail of bullets, if need be. Shitshitshitshitshit.

He followed me, his hand on my shoulder. "Just take it easy, Son," he said quietly.

I pushed through the doors to the back where the phones and restrooms and jukebox and televisions were and suddenly heard, "Happy Birthday, Mulder!"

I skittered to a stop and felt Skinner’s arm come around my waist. Scully, Sean, the Gunmen and a man and woman I didn’t know were standing around a table, with a cake and some gifts, laughing and pointing at me.

Birthday. Damn it, I KNEW I forgot something. "What the hell is this?" I demanded.

"This," Scully said, in a very healthy voice, "is a surprise party."

"We knew we’d never pull it off in DC," Sean said with a laugh.

The man and woman came forward, out of the shadows, and I recognized them, even if I had never met them. I knew those brown eyes. I knew that determined chin. I knew that bald head. I turned and looked up at Skinner. He was watching me. "Sk-Skinner?" I stammered.

"Fox." He put his hand on my shoulder again. "I want you to meet my parents.

***************************************

It was a hell of a party. I didn’t realize that the Gunmen had been on to me for a while, but they took it well. Frohike even confessed to me that he could understand the attraction to ‘the big guy’. Skinner’s folks were a hundred and eighty degrees opposite my own parents, and welcomed me into their son’s life with such warmth and genuine affection that I envied him growing up with these people.

Sean ribbed me good-naturedly about getting off my ass and reporting for duty. I got some very nice gifts. I got good and drunk. Skinner gave me a key-ring. With a key to his place. Official, I guess. I drank a little more.

We decided, even though it was only three blocks to the motel, that we should walk. Neither of us was in any condition to negotiate a rented car down a straight street a few hundred feet.

We were both staggering a little. I had a case of the giggles, I admit it. I was well and truly out, and the sky hadn’t fallen. The man I loved loved me and told everyone so, including his parents. I hadn’t been struck by lightning. My best friends saw him kiss me. The world didn’t end.

Kiss me.

He looked down at me. "What?"

"Did I say that out loud?" I looked up at him and snickered.

"Yeah." He snickered right back, glanced around and muscled me in between two buildings. Trapping me between his body and a brick wall, he kissed me, thoroughly, making me want to get back to that hotel room real bad.

"Faggots."

We both turned. Two cowboys were standing on the sidewalk staring at us. I felt a measure of panic.

Skinner straightened up to his full six feet four, and came out of the shadows, his arm around my shoulder. "You got a problem with that, buddy?" he asked in a low, deadly voice.

One of them spit on the ground, narrowly missing Skinner’s shoe. I felt him tense up, ready for a fight. I tugged at his arm. "Let the ignorant bastards go," I hissed. "Let them go."

I guess between the two of us, the two of them decided they didn’t want a fight and they turned and walked away, but not without looking back at us darkly a couple of times.

"Bastards," Skinner said between his teeth.

"Let them go," I urged again. "They don’t matter." I squeezed his arm, trying to get his attention, trying to bring back a fraction of the mood we had just been creating. "Let’s go back to our room. Come on. I want you to blow out my birthday candle."

He relaxed then, and chuckled softly. "And then the birthday spanking, right?"

XXX

I could feel my knees digging into the concrete beneath the carpet. I could feel the ropes digging into my wrists. I could feel a trickle of sweat down my neck, slipping under my collar. I usually hate that feeling, but it didn’t seem to disturb me all that much. Perhaps because it was a reassurance that I was alive. My life and death had been very much in doubt the past hour. Two armed men were waiting when I came back to the hotel room after taking Mulder to meet briefly with Sean. Two men waiting with fists and gun butts, and sneering words.

I had been in this predicament before. I knew there were decisions I had made, policies I had approved in my position as A.D. that people inside and outside the organization objected to, sometimes violently. I could deal with that. Had done so. This was different. Their issue, it seemed was not Bureau related, but bedroom related. The one thing I focused on, the one thing I prayed for, was that Mulder would be his usual unreliable self, and not come walking in the door, walking into a trap.

I couldn’t believe this was happening, not in my hometown. A couple of ‘good ol’ boys’ had seen us together, decided there was something ‘sick’ about it, made the obvious leap of conclusion and set about to ‘cure’ me. I knew what their plans were, they had made them clear. Mulder was going to submit, or forfeit my life. Their caveman thinking was if I saw someone else touch him, I wouldn’t want him anymore. What they didn’t understand was that I would die rather than let anyone else touch him, and if I did see someone touch him, I’d kill the person who did.

The only thing I could find hope in, and it was a small thing, was that they wore masks, protecting their identity. They didn’t mean to kill us. They only wanted to make us wish we were dead.

I heard the key in the lock, and felt something within me fail. I wanted to shout a warning, but I couldn’t force the sound past the tape over my mouth. I could feel the metal of the gun brushing against my temple and I tensed, waiting for that moment when my life would end. It would end the minute they put a hand on him. I knew he’d submit. I had seen him do it. I had made him do it. The honor and loyalty of that man would put him on his knees for my life. I had to protect him, somehow.

The door opened. He was focused on something in his hands, smirking in bewilderment, then he sensed something was wrong and raised his eyes. His hand went to his hip, immediately, twelve years of habit. The Sig wasn’t there anymore.

"I wouldn’t try anything if I were you, boy," the one in the black ski mask said.

His eyes went to me, wild in horror and shock. Yet, he asked, "Are you all right?" in a voice so calm and quiet the fear couldn’t possibly exist.

"Shut up!" the one in the red ski mask commanded.

He turned his eyes in that direction, and I could see the calm in them to match his voice. "You can’t count on my cooperation if he’s been hurt."

"Oh, you’ll cooperate, boy," Black Mask was purring. I felt my stomach twist. He was going to enjoy this too much.

Mulder looked at him, blinked slowly. "Am I?" Just for a moment, I felt a little tingle of hope. I’d seen him do this. I’d seen him completely dismember the mental capacity of a psychopath. He never lost his composure, never gave them the leverage they needed. But, this … could he get out of this?

"If you want to keep your Sugar Daddy alive, you will."

"Ah." Mulder nodded, shifted his stance, looking as if he was relaxing. "So that’s what this is about." He flicked a glance toward Red Mask. "A little jealous?"

Red Mask reached back and smacked Mulder with his gun hand. Mulder stumbled backwards slightly, and blood began to trickle from his nose. I felt my muscles and bones struggle to get up, even though my brain knew I could not. They hit him. They hurt him. "Feel better?" he asked, sweetly.

"You mother fuckin’ little faggot," Red Mask rasped, lunging for him.

Mulder seemed to be waiting for the blow and sidestepped him just at the right moment. "You’re mixing your metaphors," he advised. Oh, Mulder, you’re going to get us both killed, I thought, closing my eyes. But I was proud of him. He wasn’t going to go down easily.

Red Mask came up again, gun drawn, aimed, none too steadily on Mulder’s chest. "I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch. Don’t think I won’t."

Mulder crossed his arms. "Just let him answer my question." His voice was so calm, his request so reasonable.

"Damn it, I’m gonna’ --"

Black Mask hissed. He bumped the barrel of the gun against my head. "Nod. Tell him you’re not hurt."

Mulder shook his head. "No, I want to hear him say it."

Mulder, what are you doing? I asked with my eyes.

"You’re in no position to tell me what you want," Black Mask said.

Mulder only shrugged.

Black Mask reached down and ripped the tape from my mouth. It made my eyes sting, but I didn’t cry out, which was what he wanted. "Now, answer him."

"I’m fine," I said flatly.

"You’re sure? He didn’t bump your head, knock you around?" Mulder insisted.

"Enough of this terms of endearment crap," Black Mask said. "Here’s the way it’s gonna’ happen. You’re going to be a good boy and show us the real meaning of Semper Fi, just like Daddy taught you."

I saw Mulder’s face tighten, saw him swallow, but it was something only I would have seen.

Red Mask put a hand on Mulder’s shoulder. "Otherwise, we blow Daddy’s head off."

Mulder looked back at me. I was silently imploring him to fight, to run, to refuse. He wouldn’t. His face was stone. White stone. He looked back at Red Mask, ghost of a grin on his face. "This is flattering."

"You think I want you, boy?"

Mulder’s eyes dipped down, gauged the bulge in Red Mask’s jeans. "I’d say you’ve been fantasizing about it for a long time."

"You little puke. I like women."

Mulder shrugged again. "Then you need a lesson in biology. I’m not a woman."

"You get in bed with a man, don’t that make you a woman?"

Mulder’s lips pulled back, showing teeth. "You want to get in bed with me, what does that make you?"

Oh, Mulder, don’t, I thought, sighing inwardly. Still, you had to admire the balls on that guy.

Red Mask answered by bringing the gun butt down on the back of Mulder’s head. With a stunned "Unh," Mulder went down on his knees. "That’s right, you little faggot," Red Mask crooned, kneeling behind Mulder, stroking his hair with his gun hand. "Right where you belong." He looked up and grinned at me. "You watchin’, Sugar Daddy?" He was pulling Mulder’s arms behind his back. "Ever shared your sweet little faggot with anyone before?" He brought his gun hand up and stroked Mulder’s cheek.

Mulder jerked away from his touch. "Do you know how many laws you’re breaking right now?" he asked, in that maddeningly calm voice.

"You’re the one breakin’ the laws, faggot."

Mulder shrugged against his hold. "Comparatively, sodomy is a minor issue, even here in Texas. Whereas, what you’re doing …" He shook his head and tsked them, sounding like my mother. "Breaking and entering, kidnapping, unlawful restraint, rape, battery --"

"Shut up." He slammed his fist against Mulder’s cheek again, right on top of the place Mulder had been battering himself nightly with his cast. Blood splattered from his nose across his white shirt, the carpet.

Mulder was a little woozy now, I could see him struggle to stay upright, and then finally stagger forward, catching himself with his palms, before he went face first into the floor. Now he was on his hands and knees, exactly where they wanted him. Red Mask caught his hair and pulled him back up, making him wince. I was so mad I would have broken every bone in their bodies, if I could have gotten free. "And what did you mention rape for, faggot?" he demanded. "It ain’t gonna be rape. You’re going to ask us, real sweet, to do you."

One of Mulder’s eyes was starting to swell shut, but he still managed to cock a brow at his tormentor. "Am I?"

"That’s right." I’d forgotten about Red Mask, standing beside me. "If you don’t, we shoot Sugar Daddy."

Mulder shrugged, and managed to say through stiffening lips, "You’ll do that anyway."

"We say we won’t." Red Mask’s voice was getting agitated.

"Come on, faggot." Black Mask was running his hand over Mulder’s chest. "Ask me nice. I’ll make you like it. I’ll make you forget Sugar Daddy, real fast." He was rubbing his groin against Mulder’s ass.

I had never felt more helpless, more impotent than I did, watching the disgust and fear playing on Mulder’s face. He met my eyes, one of his blackened, his nose bloodied, his lip cut and swollen. For a moment, he looked defeated and then, incredibly, he started to smile. He shifted his head slightly, looked at the man molesting him. "Kiss me."

Black Mask stiffened in disbelief. "What the fuck?"

Mulder lowered his lashes, almost flirtatiously. "You want me? Kiss me."

"You are one sick man."

"You’re the one getting your rocks off on my ass," Mulder returned easily. "You want me to ask nice? Kiss me."

Red Mask barked, "You don’t give the orders here, faggot."

"You know what a faggot is?" Mulder said.

My gaze jerked upward. I knew that tone of voice. That was the beginning of one of his free vend speeches. Had he lost his mind?

"What?"

Mulder shifted on his knees, so that he could look at the man who had stopped grinding his groin against him. "A faggot is a flaming coal, something or someone who is hot for something else." He smiled again. "If one were to look at this situation objectively, then you’re the faggot, not me."

For a moment the fury in Black Mask’s face was evident, despite his mask. He grabbed Mulder’s hair, shoved the barrel of the gun up under his jaw. "I’m gonna’ fuck you so hard you beg for mercy and then I’m going to blow your brains out."

I started to struggle against the ropes, but Red Mask twisted and kicked me in the gut. I was too mad, too scared to feel it. I just doubled over, letting all the air out of my body.

Mulder tore away from Black Mask’s grip. "Walt," he cried. Black Mask pushed him forward again, landed on top of him and started scrambling for Mulder’s belt. It was clear he wasn’t going to wait for Mulder to ask nice. Mulder managed to lift his head and search my eyes. "Be careful," he gasped, squirming under the other man’s weight. "Don’t bump your head."

I looked up. Black Mask had his shirt pulled free and pushed up his back, he had managed to undo Mulder’s belt and was working his fly. Mulder’s hands were pushed to his sides, and he was trying to pull his knees up under him. His face was a definition of pain and disgust and desperation and then I saw what he was doing. I let myself go limp, almost in defeat. I waited.

Mulder’s left hand got to his ankle just as Black Mask started to jerk his slacks down. Mulder’s hand came up, the little black gun in his hand. Just as he pulled the trigger, I lifted my head, all my weight behind it, and banged against Red Mask’s gun hand, causing him to let go with a yowl. As he scrambled for it, Mulder was there, on his knees, his smoking gun in Red Mask’s face. "Huh uh," he said. He staggered to his feet, his pants falling around his knees, his shirt in tatters. He picked up Red Mask’s gun, kicked Black Mask’s gun out of reach. Black Mask was on his back, gasping and moaning, a red blossom blooming on his shoulder. Mulder pressed his gun against Red Mask’s temple. "Untie him."

"You mother fucker," Red Mask snarled. "He’s bleeding. You fuckin’ killed him."

"No, I didn’t," Mulder answered equitably. "Untie him. Your friend doesn’t get medical help until you untie him."

"You bastard. Help him."

Mulder tilted his head forward, sighing, let Red Mask hear another bullet slide into the chamber, before turning the gun back toward Black Mask, who squealed and tried to roll away. "Untie him or your friend gets another chance to bleed to death."

Red Mask crawled toward me, and began to work the knots behind my back. Once my hands were released I turned and sent a fist through Red Mask’s jaw. "Bastard," I said with feeling. I got to my feet and went to Mulder. "Are you all right?"

Mulder nodded. "I guess we’d better call the police," he said grimly. "I’m glad you got what I was trying to tell you."

I had to grin. I hadn’t consciously ‘gotten’ it. But something in me responded somehow to something in him. We were in sync. I felt giddy with relief -- no, it was a victory. I staggered to the phone, but at that moment, there was a banging at the door. Evidently, Mulder’s gunshot had aroused someone’s concern. The door burst open, and three uniformed police officers burst in, guns raised. "Freeze. Police!"

"I’m Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," I said, pointing to my wallet and badge, where I had dropped them on the table. From the corner of my eye, I could see Red Mask’s eyes go round with shock. "These two men attacked me as I came into my hotel room this evening. They tied me up, they attacked my associate, and threatened both of us. My associate was able to disarm them, but was forced to fire his weapon in the process."

The three policemen looked over the situation. My bona fides were irrevocable. There were two masked men on the floor. Mulder was clearly battered. There was rope and tape on the floor. It sure looked like I was telling the truth.

***************************************

"Are you all right, babe?" I asked softly.

He was lying beside me, still, barely breathing. He had been quiet all evening. Scully had tended to his wounds. The Gunmen were running checks on our attackers. We’d given our statements. My mother had rushed over to fuss over us. And now, finally, we were alone, in that narrow hotel bed. I wanted to hold him, comfort him, but I couldn’t. He had been hurt. I hadn’t been able to protect him. It wasn’t merely his body that had been battered. His manhood, his identity had been assaulted as well. I felt as helpless as I had, taped and tied and waiting for him to return.

I felt him sigh and shift slightly. "Fine," he murmured.

"Do you want to talk a --"

"No." He said it roughly. He sighed again. "No. Thanks. I’m okay."

"I’m sorry, Fox," I whispered, huskily. "I never would have brought you here if I had any idea --"

"It’s okay. It wasn’t HERE. It wasn’t this place. But … I wonder … is it always going to be like this?"

"No," I said emphatically. Then I paused. I couldn’t promise him that. "But, if it was … would you want to change things?"

He turned slightly, gingerly. I could feel him look up at me. "No."

"Do you mean that?"

He touched his lip, where he had taken five stitches. "This is temporary." He brushed my lips with gentle fingers. "This is forever."

-THE END-