Little Things (part 1 of 15)

by Mik

Walter S. Skinner fumbled for his glasses and turned, raising himself to look at the dark-haired man at his side. Years seemed to fall off Mulder when he was asleep. Watching him sigh slightly through parted lips twisted the ex-Marine's heart unexpectedly. He never expected to be here. It wasn't supposed to be like this…

It started out to be a matter of control.

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

A.D. Skinner had had the D.D. on his ass all morning about the expense both in budget and manpower that his wayward special agent caused in his latest escapade. Yet, when he called Agents Scully and Mulder on the carpet about it, Mulder was first coldly superior and then, the madder Skinner got, amused. He didn't laugh, he didn't even overtly smile, but there was a dance of humor in his hazel eyes, and his lower lip was twisted up as if he was trying to keep a chuckle in. When he turned and caught his partner's blue eyes, she did let a fraction of a giggle escape, and then covered her mouth with her hand and went stern again. "Dismissed," Skinner said. "Mulder …"

Mulder, unfolding his long, angular frame from the chair, looked over his shoulder, his overbite settling down on his lower lip. "Yes, sir?" he said, and his voice actually cracked in his effort not to laugh out loud.

One of these days … Skinner thought, hotly. One of these days I'll wipe that smile off your face. "We're not done here," he said, tightly. Spoiled, willful brat, he added silently. One of these days, I'm going to take great pleasure in spanking your ass.

When the door closed, Skinner relaxed against the edge of his desk. He was at his wit's end. He had tried threats, censures, even installing the staid, by-the-book Dr. Scully as his watch dog, and nothing seemed to slow much less stop the impulsive, erratic and downright spooky Fox Mulder. He was paranoid, irrational and brilliant. He was dangerous. He had enemies, and the enemies were at the gate. For his own sake, and more importantly, for Dana Scully's sake, he had to be brought under control.

There were two places where Mulder was vulnerable; Agent Scully and his sister, but it wasn't in Skinner to allow Agent Scully to suffer anymore, and he just wasn't cruel enough to push buttons about a man's sister. However, there were days when it would be infinitely satisfying to knock Mulder on his butt.

He wasn't looking for it, but got his chance the next day. Mulder had gone up to the roof where the Hoover Building had a gym, a pool and basketball courts and was shooting hoops, alone. Skinner had come up to the roof to get some forms signed, and walked along the glassed corridor, his attention caught by the intense grunt as Mulder went 'up the ladder' and released the ball, letting it fly before coming down, his knees bending under the impact, his dark hair rising and falling, within the confines of a white sweatband. Against his will, Skinner considered Mulder outside his neutral, well-cut Armani suits. He was in white shorts, a purple tee shirt hanging loosely to his hips, his feet encased in what seemed like oversized white high tops. The shoes squeaked on the wooden floor, as he moved forward to retrieve the ball that had sailed through the hoop. Skinner made a face. Mulder fired that basketball the way he fired his gun -- effortlessly, accurately and often, needlessly.

As if sensing someone's disapproval, Mulder turned, and saw the outline of his boss beyond the glass. His long fingers fired the ball toward the window so hard that Skinner flinched slightly. Mulder came up to the glass, snatching the ball on the rebound. "Wanna' play?" he taunted.

Skinner started to shake his head and saw the challenge in his subordinate's eyes. He might be a few years older and a few pounds heavier but he could whip that pup all over the court. "I'll be out in a minute," he promised and turned toward the locker room.

He changed into his Bureau-issue sweat pants and left his white tee shirt on. He removed his glasses and stepped out onto the court.

Mulder had been pacing lazily, bouncing the ball back and forth between his hands. Hearing Skinner come onto the court, he spun and flicked the ball toward him again. "Come on, Walter," he teased. "Show me what the Assistant Director's made of."

Mulder found out almost immediately, when Skinner drove right down the center, bumping Mulder's chin with his elbow as Mulder tried to block his shot at the top of the key.

"Foul, Walter, foul," Mulder retorted, rubbing his chin.

Skinner caught the ball and snapped it into Mulder's gut. "Show me what you've got, Mulder," he dared.

Mulder bounced the ball a little, moving back to the half court, waggling his chin back and forth as if it actually hurt. He watched Skinner for a moment, faked right and went left, coming around the bottom of the key and up under the net.

He was fast and he almost made it, but Skinner slapped the ball down, and in the process slapped Mulder's cheek. He saw fury flame up in Mulder's eyes, and then a little smile. "Ooh, A. D. Skinner, you like to play rough." He retrieved the ball from under the net and without warning, went charging back toward the net, veering off at the last minute to plant his shoulder in Skinner's windpipe. Then, he arched up with unexpected grace and released the ball to find its mark.

When he came down, Skinner caught him by the shoulder and twisted him around, locking an elbow against his throat, until he heard his breath catch and Mulder choked.

For a moment, Mulder stood still, then he caught Skinner's arm with both hands, dug in eight fingernails and dragged, drawing blood as Skinner released him.

Skinner looked at the eight thin trails on his arms. "It looks like Special Agent Mulder fights like a girl," he drawled, coming toward him as if he would slap the ball from Mulder's hands.

"Only when you fight like a lunatic," Mulder snarled, evading him. "Come on, Walter. We were just here to shoot a few hoops, remember?"

Skinner looked at him. His throat was reddened from the pressure exerted there, but there was a heightened color in his eyes and cheeks as well. Had he been momentarily frightened? Skinner decided to push the matter. He charged Mulder as he dribbled the ball aimlessly, reaching for him with both hands, and pushing.

"What's your problem, Walter?" Mulder demanded, deliberately mocking him with his first name. "Didn't you get enough of my ass yesterday?" He pushed back, releasing the ball and letting it roll away.

In an instant, Skinner had him face down on the highly polished wood, his knees digging into Mulder's upturned hands, his haunches forcing the air out of him, as he put his weight down against Mulder's squirming hips. He caught a flash of genuine terror in Mulder's eyes and he exulted in it. Then he realized how inappropriate this position would appear to anyone who happened to walk by the basketball court. He pushed himself up, and just for a moment, caught himself considering the long, lean body beneath him. He was disgusted with the thought that flashed through his mind. He stood up. "Get up, Mulder."

Mulder rolled onto his back, tentatively. The speculative stare his boss was giving him unnerved him, and that discomfort was evident in his face.

Skinner reached down for his hand and even though Mulder tried to evade him, hauled the agent to his feet. The touch of Mulder's fingers, long and cool, seemed to be electric, and Skinner pulled away too soon, causing Mulder to sway. Skinner didn't help him stay upright, and for a moment they both thought Mulder was going down again. Skinner turned away, angry at himself for letting the situation get out of hand, angry at himself because he enjoyed it. He picked up the basketball and shot it back to Mulder. Mulder's occasionally catlike reflexes allowed him to catch it, even as he continued to stare at Skinner.

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

Skinner took another drink of the whiskey and began to type. He didn't particularly care for surfing the net, but this was one place he could go looking for the information he wanted anonymously. He had decided on the perfect way to break Mulder, but he had to know exactly how to do it.

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

He hadn't seen Mulder in a few days, and armed with his new and slightly frightening knowledge, he was eager to put his plan into action. He thought about calling Agent Scully in, and asking her if her partner had been abducted, but he decided it would be in poor taste. Then he wondered if Mulder had already gotten the message Skinner intended to give him, and he was a little surprised to admit that he was disappointed. Skinner was really looking forward to breaking him.

Skinner never thought of himself as sadistic. He never thought of domination as a form of play, but he was becoming obsessed with the idea of dominating Mulder, wiping that smirk away, seeing that flash of terror in his eyes again. He finally went down to the basement office that Mulder and Scully shared late that Friday evening. Scully was putting things in her carryall. She looked up, surprised and polite. "Assistant Director Skinner," she murmured, smiling. "What brings you down here?"

Skinner had his hands in the pockets of his slacks, to keep his fingers from trailing along stacks of pictures and books and artifacts and evidence. "I … uh … I was expecting some field reports from you two." His gaze slid to the chaotic desk, the pile of sunflower husks, the empty chair. "Where's your partner?"

Scully looked toward the chair under the poster that said 'I want to believe'. "He came in early, so he left early," she said, with satisfaction. Mulder was in one of his moody moods and when he was like that, she preferred him to leave early.

"I suppose he had a date?" Skinner glanced at her. He had heard a lot of rumors about the two of them. He had seen them together. There was so much … feeling between them. Was there something else between them?

She ignored the invitation to explain. "I think he just went down to the Pentagon for a couple of beers," she said, wryly. The Pentagon was a bar not far from the Hoover Building that a lot of the agents favored on Friday nights.

Skinner nodded, glancing at his watch. "I'll see you on Monday. Have a nice weekend, Agent Scully."

"Thank you, Sir," she said and continued to put things in her carryall.

Skinner decided to drive. It would make things easier to get him into a car than to try and direct his footsteps back to the Bureau. He found a parking place across the street from the bar and went inside. There was laughter and loud music and a basketball game on the big screen television. Mulder was there, in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened at his throat, a bottled beer in front of him, his feet hooked in the rungs of the stool, his stare fixed on the screen. Skinner sidled up beside him, pleased to see that the beer had not died alone. It would also help if Mulder was just a little drunk.

He looked up at the screen. "Five dollars says Maryland blows it in the fourth," he said.

Mulder looked up at him, about to tell him he was crazy, recognized him with a jerk, and then reached for his beer. "Slumming, Walter?" he drawled. "Or are you here for another piece of my ass?"

Skinner almost smiled to himself. There was actually already a little tremor of fear in his attempted humor. "No. Actually, I came to apologize." He caught the bartender's eye and held up two fingers. "I was out of line."

"You sure were," Mulder said with feeling. He ignored the beer set before him.

Skinner didn't know where to go from there. He somehow envisioned a couple of drinks, an apology and they'd be on their way. Mulder didn't look like he was going anywhere. He looked up at the screen thoughtfully. "This is going to be a rout. I've got better beer and a satellite dish at home."

Mulder turned just enough to make eye contact. "Are you trying to pick me up? Sir?"

"No, damn it," Skinner said, his jaw already starting to lock the way it did every time he talked to Mulder. "I'm trying to apologize."

Mulder went back to the game. "Roses," he said.

"What?"

Mulder shrugged, his eyes still on the screen. "When my dad screwed up, he brought my mother roses. That's how he apologized."

Skinner sighed. "Are you trying to say you want roses, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder batted his lashes, which seemed almost unnaturally long and dark for a man.

"You're certifiable, you know that, don't you, Agent Mulder?" But Skinner couldn't help smiling to himself.

Mulder nodded and winced as Maryland scored again. "That's what I'm told."

"Do you really want to watch Maryland slaughter Virginia when you could be watching the Knicks and Lakers?" Skinner challenged.

"Lakers?" Mulder straightened. "Knicks?" He licked his lips slightly, as if someone was offering a fix. He started to slide from his stool and went to his hip pocket.

Skinner was there first. "I've got it." He dropped money on the bar. "Let's go."

Mulder didn't ask how Skinner found him. He didn't even think that Skinner had been looking for him. He just grabbed his jacket from the other stool and followed him out to the sidewalk. Cold air rushed at him and caught him slightly off guard. Skinner made a face at him and directed him toward his Lexus.

"Wow," Mulder said, sliding his hand over the metallic cream roof. "You sure must have friends in the motor pool. How come I always get a low-end Ford with a bad radio?"

"Because you have a tendency to hit things, or be hit by things," Skinner answered, using his remote to unlock the doors. He waited until Mulder had gotten in and let the automatic seat belt slide into place before he started the car. They drove in silence for a long time. Mulder was settled back against the plush headrest, eyes half closed. Skinner was shooting little glances at him, as if trying to convince himself that he was there, and that he was willingly going home with his boss. When they reached the underground parking of Skinner's upscale condominium, he hesitated. Here was his last chance. Once he took Mulder upstairs, there would be no going back.

Mulder looked at him sleepily. "What's the matter, Walter? Afraid the neighbors might see you bringing a man home?"

The mocking tone of his voice steeled Skinner's resolve. He knew Mulder was a little tipsy. He'd had three beers, and he had a notoriously low tolerance for alcohol. His behavior at a certain wedding reception a few years ago after sampling spiked punch was legendary. While, if Mulder had been a woman, what he was planning would be unthinkable, Skinner wanted Mulder a little tractable. "The game starts in fifteen minutes," he said, gruffly.

Mulder moved.

Skinner was pleased that he had picked the right bait. He knew a few things about his agent. Mulder was extremely intelligent, but like most super-intellects, he had a very fragile psyche. He had a couple of extreme phobias; fire and insects. He had borne a great deal of trauma; abandonment, failure and loss of loved ones. For a moment, Skinner felt he'd been through enough, but then he heard Mulder calling him Walter again, and decided he was going to pay for his insubordination.

Upstairs, he dropped his keys on the table in the hallway, and shrugged out of his topcoat, watching Mulder take in the floor plan and furnishing with his eidetic memory. After hanging his coat, he reached out for Mulder's, making him flinch as he eased it from his shoulders. "Have a seat," he instructed, taking charge again. "I'll get you a beer."

Mulder started to shake his head, but then he saw the big screen television and stereo surround system and he stood in the middle of the cavernous living room, hands on lean hips, nodding. "Someday I'm going to be an Assistant Director," he muttered.

"No, you're not," Skinner said, bringing him a beer. "You'd never survive the paperwork."

Mulder took the beer, but did not open it.

Skinner picked up the remote. "Sit down," he said, indicating the sofa.

Mulder went to the chair opposite the sofa, and sat, resting forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees, the beer supported in his fingertips between his legs.

"Are you hungry?" Skinner offered, finding the station and handing the remote to Mulder. "I've got some steaks --"

Mulder was shaking his head again. The remote was large and complex and Mulder was momentarily distracted, trying to figure it out. It made sense that Mulder would love gadgetry.

It irritated Skinner that Mulder couldn't keep to the script. "Mulder, do you ever eat?" he demanded. "When I read your expense reports, I see gas, and damage to hotel rooms, broken water mains and destroyed patrol cars, but I never see food." He paused. "Scully's got food on her expense forms."

"Yeah, she puts the food on hers, I put the patrol cars on mine," Mulder said, trying to watch television around Skinner's legs.

"I want you to eat something tonight." Skinner stopped. He knew he sounded like a mother hen. "You've been drinking. I don't want you throwing up on my white carpet."

Mulder shrugged. "You don't have to feed me, Sir," he said, his eyes lighting up as the Knicks darted out onto the floor of the Garden.

"Well, I'm hungry," Skinner snapped. "I can't eat if you don't. You're my guest."

Mulder's eyes widened. "Well, then, whatever you want." His attention went back to the screen.

A little while later, Skinner put a tray in his lap, easing the untouched beer from his fingers. Mulder was totally dedicated to the game, unaware that there was a green salad, couscous with pine nuts and broiled chicken breast in front of him. During a commercial he looked down and looked up again, perplexed. "What's this?"

Skinner, who was attacking his salad ferociously, told him.

Mulder looked mildly frightened, as if he had been asked to eat human flesh. The game returned, he eased the tray onto the table beside him, and slid to the floor and sat, knees upraised, resting his shoulders against the seat of the chair. The tray ceased to exist in Mulder's universe.

Eventually Skinner surrendered. He wasn't going to get food in his agent's mouth unless he spoonfed him and he wasn't ready to … inspiration hit him, and he got up, picked up the tray, went back to the kitchen and came back, dropping a green and white bag in Mulder's lap. It was another little piece of bait he had picked up at the grocery when he decided on his plan of action.

Mulder flinched at the sensation and dropped his gaze. Then he grinned. He actually smiled! Skinner was caught unprepared for that crooked expression of pleasure. It twisted something in his perfectly arranged plans. Carefully, Mulder opened the bag, poured a handful of sunflower seeds into his palm and raised a few to his lips.

Skinner felt an alien tingle at the back of his neck. He had never really noticed how sensual Mulder's face was; the fullness of his lower lip, the heavy-lidded eyes, the straight jaw and chin with a hint of a cleft, that mop of dark brown hair that rolled in waves around his eyes one day, and stood straight up the next. He was a little embarrassed to notice it now. But he also had an irrational desire to kiss that mouth, despite the distracted dissecting, chewing and evacuating of sunflower seeds. He was reaching up to pull the husks from his lip and Skinner rushed to get an ashtray under his hand before the bits of saliva-soaked shell ended up on the carpet.

This went on for an hour. Skinner watched the game. Then he got up and cleaned up after dinner. He got some paperwork from his briefcase and brought it back to the sofa. He tried to focus on something besides the task at hand, but he couldn't help stealing glances at Mulder, transfixed in front of the Knicks, silently cheering when they scored, and the sunflower seed shells piling up on the coffee table beside the empty beer bottle. He tried, during commercials, to get bits of conversation out of Mulder, but Mulder was uncooperative, answering monosyllabically. Finally, Skinner couldn't take it anymore. He lunged for the remote and plunged the room into silence.

Mulder blinked and looked toward him. "Sir?"

"I asked you a question," Skinner said pointedly. When Mulder didn't respond, he prompted, "Fox? Where did it come from?"

Mulder was annoyed. It was a tight game. He hated any interest anyone took in his name. "I don't know. Maybe my parents had stock in television. I don't know." He rubbed his eyes. "Maybe I should go."

"I think you should stay." Skinner stood up. Now it begins. "You know, you're an interesting case, Mulder. I can never figure out what it is that makes you tick. Have you ever thought of profiling yourself?"

Mulder smiled at the pile of sunflower seeds on the table, in and around the ashtray. "Major oral fixation?" he suggested. "Persecution complex, inferiority complex --"

"You?" Skinner scoffed. "Since when?"

"Oh, not professionally," Mulder assured him, easing upward to sit in the chair again. "I know I'm good."

"Except for paperwork." Skinner almost laughed. "What about personally?"

Caught unaware by the interest, Mulder's chin jutted up, obstinately. "Why do you want to know?"

Skinner answered with a shrug. "I just never understood someone who has so much going for him, who fucks up as easily as you do."

Mulder was embarrassed to hear Skinner use that word. He responded with a shrug of his own.

"You never married."

"That's a statement," Mulder said. He drew a deep breath. "Are you asking me why? I thought about it once, but I thought about it too much, and talked myself out of it."

"No kids."

Mulder shook his head again and a little shadow of sadness came and went in his face.

"And your mom …"

Mulder drew a deep breath. "I don't know why you're doing this," he said on a sigh. "I was never close to either of my parents, not after my sister was abducted. They both blamed me. They left me in charge. I should have …" His voice quavered slightly. "I should have been able to save her." He raised his eyes and, although they were bright, they were dry and defiant. "Anything else?"

"Agent Scully."

A flush came over his face. "Don't, as they say, go there."

Skinner was willing to let it go for the moment, glad that he had found the right button. "You could go so far in the Bureau, Mulder. You've got an amazing mind, an amazing drive, but you're insane. Just plain crazy and everyone knows it."

"Why in the world would I want to go far in an organization that routinely justifies murder, mayhem and deadly paperwork?" Mulder retorted. He started to stand.

Skinner caught him by the hair at the nape of his neck and jerked him back into the chair. "Sit there," he commanded.

Mulder's sleepy eyes were wide with shock. His head was tilted back, his mouth was twisted slightly with pain, and his hands were gripping the arms of the chair. "Let me go, Sir," he said, through clenched teeth.

Skinner moved so that he had straddled Mulder's legs against the chair, and only then did he release Mulder's hair. "I think I've figured out your problem with authority, Agent Mulder," he said, and he let his hand slide forward along Mulder's jaw. "To you, it's just Daddy, never giving you an even break."

Mulder went rigid and jerked away from Skinner's touch. "Don't," he said, hotly.

"Daddy didn't love you, is that it, Agent Mulder?"

Color came into his face and faded just as easily. For a moment, Skinner thought he had pushed him to the edge of tears. But he just spat out, "Fuck you."

"Maybe," Skinner agreed easily. With his other hand, he caught Mulder's tie and tugged, bringing him up out of the chair, and standing between Skinner's slightly splayed legs. Skinner rubbed against him obscenely. As Mulder struggled to free himself, Skinner caught him at the back of the neck and drew him closer. With a deep breath, Skinner took the next step. He kissed Mulder.

Mulder was absolutely rigid with fury and revulsion as Skinner's mouth moved over his, and Skinner's tongue insinuated itself into his mouth. But then, Skinner had a literal stroke of luck. He found a place behind Mulder's ear with his free hand that was so sensitive that Mulder couldn't resist the reaction, a slight sigh of release. Encouraged, Skinner moved his lips there and he felt Mulder weaken against him even has he pushed his hands against Skinner's chest. "Get your hands off me," he said, in a hot whisper.

"When I'm ready," Skinner promised. It was a shock to find the clean, unaugmented scent of Fox Mulder was very enticing and he sniffed Mulder's neck, his hair, his cheek.

Mulder regained his wits and pushed hard.

When Skinner staggered back, still holding Mulder's tie, he dragged Mulder forward, so sharply that Mulder's neck snapped down, and Mulder dropped to his knees.

For a moment, Skinner was afraid he had broken Mulder's neck. He released the tie, and started down himself as Mulder came up. Mulder's fist connected with the side of Skinner's jaw, and sent his glasses flying. Enraged, Skinner caught his upraised arm and yanked, pulling Mulder up and around, so that his back was against Skinner's chest, his arm twisted behind him. Deja vu.

Mulder scrambled for the Sig in the clip on his belt, but Skinner's hand was there first and pulled it out, caressing his jaw with the barrel. "Just do it," Mulder said, his eyes shutting tight. "Put me out of your misery."

Skinner was so stunned by Mulder's apparent willingness to have his brains splattered all over the white rug that he nearly released him. Typical Mulder ploy, he assured himself. He's just trying to psych me. "Maybe later," he promised and tucked the gun into his own waistband. "Go upstairs."

Mulder wouldn't move so Skinner twisted his arm a little more. With a muffled grunt, Mulder started for the stairs. "What are you trying to prove, Walter?" he jeered. "Just how sick you are?"

"Shut up, Mulder," Skinner commanded. "You're going to learn a little respect for authority, if I have to insert it in you rectally."

Mulder stiffened again, and his foot faltered on the step. "You're not serious," he breathed.

Skinner was close enough to see the stunned disbelief and absolute terror playing tag on Mulder's face.

"Skinner," Mulder said in a voice that was really saying 'listen to me!' "Sir."

"Upstairs." Skinner directed him toward the master bedroom.

Skinner's room, like everything else in his life was minimalist and spare. He had a king-size bed, a bedside table and a small television on a stand in the corner. Everything else was tucked behind the louvered doors of his walk-in closet. He released Mulder near the bed, with such force that Mulder went face down into the black and white duvet cover. He rolled over and scrambled for the edge, but Skinner blocked his path, forcing him to sit up on the edge of the bed. Then, meeting and holding Mulder's widened eyes, he reached down and very deliberately unzipped his slacks.

Mulder's throat constricted, his pupils dilated. He had to work his jaw a little to get words out as Skinner released his penis, already prepared for battle. Avoiding that all-seeing eye in his face, Mulder said, "I'd rather you just shot me. Sir." The last word was shot out in almost the same mocking manner the name Walter had been used earlier in the evening.

Skinner reached down and slid his hands through Mulder's soft hair, until Mulder tried to jerk away, his fingers tightened to hold him still. "I'm not going to force you, Agent Mulder," he said, in his flat, staccato manner of speaking. "I'll give you a choice. It's either this, or I reassign Agent Scully."

Mulder looked up, despite the hand that gripped his hair. "If you reassign her without cause, it will …"

"It will reflect badly in her jacket," Skinner agreed. "It will probably prevent her from getting future promotions."

"Bastard," Mulder hissed.

"Your choice, Mulder," Skinner said, easing his hand away. He could taste the victory now. He knew that any minute, Mulder would be trying to negotiate, to promise, to wheedle, to beg, and his humiliation would be complete. Oddly, Skinner was almost disappointed.

Mulder considered the choices before him. He sighed.

Skinner's eyes popped open. The last thing he expected was the sensation of Mulder's lips tentatively sliding over the tip of his glans. Instinctively, he bucked, too hard, too far, and he felt Mulder choke. He eased back and looked down. Mulder's skin was very pale, and his eyes were shut tight. His hands were fists at his sides. But he was letting Skinner slide his cock back and forth in his mouth. The sight nearly ended the game right there for Skinner. And even though he knew this was wrong, probably the most wrong he had ever been, there was no way he could stop now.

Mulder was by no means practiced at cocksucking. He often took it too deep and would choke and splutter. He had no real finesse when it came to his tongue. He let his teeth come too close to too many sensitive areas. But, he got the job done. Skinner, his hands on Mulder's shoulders, pumping furious, nearly cried out a warning, but he decided he might as well finish making Mulder miserable.

One spurt of semen down his throat was enough. Mulder struggled away, coughing, and lurched toward the bathroom to vomit.

Skinner struggled, too, just to remain standing, gasping in the wake of such powerful sensation. All thought of his desire to punish Mulder evaporated. He was embarrassed and ashamed, and in a way, touched. Mulder loved Scully so much that he would take this humiliation to spare her. Skinner's respect and affection for Agent Scully made this bit of Mulder's character almost endearing. Zipping himself up, he went to the bathroom.

Mulder didn't quite make it to the toilet. He was kneeling there, retching miserably, his pants stained by the mess on the floor. Skinner jerked himself back into the role of protector and caregiver, dipping a black washcloth under the tap and pressing it to the back of Mulder's neck. Mulder tried to get away from him but Skinner draped his arms around Mulder's quaking shoulders and held him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into Mulder's hair. "I am so sorry."

"Please," Mulder begged, raggedly. "Leave me alone, now."

"Come on." Skinner stood, bringing Mulder up with him. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Mulder went only because he had no way to maneuver out of Skinner's embrace in the bathroom. But, when they got out of the bathroom, Mulder twisted around and sent his fist right through Skinner's jaw. At least, that's what it felt like to both of them.

Skinner staggered but did not go down. His instinctive need to retaliate was drowning in his own mortification. "Feel better?" he asked, quietly.

"Bastard," Mulder repeated, shaking his fist out.

"Let me see." Skinner held out his hand, but Mulder wouldn't let him touch him. "You always do this, Mulder," he scolded, gently. "Look at your knuckles. You always make contact at the jaw line. That does more damage to your hand than my face. Do you think you broke anything?" He took Mulder's hand just as Mulder looked down at it. "Look at this. You've broken the skin. Get out of those pants and sit down. I'll bring you ice and a bathrobe."

"Fuck the bathrobe," Mulder spat.

Skinner made a stern Assistant Director face. "Get out of those pants, Mulder. They have to go to the cleaners."

Mulder's own personal fastidiousness made him acquiesce more than Skinner's tone. He was sitting barelegged and shivering on the edge of the bed when Skinner came back a few minutes later, a bowl of ice in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. He knelt before his agent and held up the bottle of beer. "This will help the taste in your mouth." Then he began to apply ice to the already swollen knuckles. "You've got to learn to aim away from the bones, Mulder," he explained. "Go for the nose, the mouth, below the eye. How many times have you broken these knuckles?"

Mulder shrugged morosely.

"Drink the beer. It will help." Skinner stood and ruffled Mulder's hair. Mulder was too demoralized to flinch away. He went to the bathroom, spent a few minutes cleaning up the mess Mulder had made, and came back, his black velour bathrobe in hand. "Why don't you take a shower, Son? You'll feel better."

Mulder's eyes were livid green. "Don't you call me Son. My dad would never have done anything like that."

"Your dad wouldn't have done a lot of things," Skinner snapped. He took the untouched beer from Mulder's grip and pulled him up. "Take a shower. You don't have to worry. I'm through. You're safe."

Skinner went downstairs, returned the beer to the refrigerator, and cleaned up the mess Mulder had made with the sunflower seeds while he berated himself for letting his need for control drive him to such unthinkable lengths. The most maddening and horrific thing about the whole episode was that he enjoyed it. He'd never even fantasized about such a thing, and yet half an hour before, he was shoving himself down his agent's throat and reveling in it. He never did achieve what he set out to get; a break in Mulder's spirit. Mulder was disgusted and demoralized but he was still spitting fire, still challenging every command. Skinner sighed. There was something very … enticing about that indomitable spirit.

He prepared soup and French bread and a little weak coffee, and brought it upstairs. Mulder hadn't eaten much earlier and what he had consumed had ended up on the bathroom floor. He needed to eat something or he'd really be sick. Mulder wasn't supposed to get sick; Mulder got shot, Mulder got injected with viruses and worms; Mulder got beaten up by bad guys, but Mulder never got sick.

Mulder was in the bathrobe, which was too big for him, his dark hair wet and spiky. He was standing in the doorway between the bathroom and the bedroom, shivering from the inside out. "What's that?" he demanded as Skinner set the tray on the edge of the bed.

"You need to eat something, Mulder." Skinner drew back the bedclothes on the big bed. "Come here and get warm."

Mulder shook his head. "You're the one who's certifiable."

"Come on, Mulder." He tried to make his tone soothing. "There's nothing I can do now, believe me. Just get in the bed and get warm. You can't go home. You have nothing to wear. I'll take your pants to the cleaners tomorrow morning. But, tonight, you're going to stay here. The condition you're in, I wouldn't trust you on your own."

Mulder gaped. "You wouldn't trust me?"

"I'm going to sleep on the couch," Skinner offered.

Mulder's lip twisted up in that irritating and superior way he had. "I've had more experience on the sofa."

"Well, not tonight. In my house, the guest always gets the best bed." Skinner took a step toward Mulder. "Get in bed and eat."

Mulder hugged the bathrobe around him. "I'm not hungry," he said sullenly.

Skinner tried cajoling. "Fox --"

"Don't." Mulder's teeth were clenched and his eyes were shooting fire. "Don't call me that."

"All right, Agent Mulder," Skinner said, placating. "Come and eat something."

"No."

Skinner barely contained his sigh. "Look, you can't leave until I get your pants back. You can hardly stand. You've had a very traumatic --"

"Don't take that patronizing tone with me, A.D. Skinner," Mulder snarled. "Don't start treating me like a rape victim."

Skinner's eyes widened and his face started to flush guiltily. "Isn't that what you are?" he asked quietly.

Mulder's response surprised him. "No. I took that -- that thing in my mouth -- it wasn't forced. I was sexually harassed, not raped."

Skinner pursed his lips and nodded. "Do you want to file charges?" he offered.

Mulder considered it. "No. I just want to go home."

Skinner sagged a little in relief. He was getting off easy. Far easier than he deserved. "Look, eat something. Sleep. First thing in the morning, I'll take your pants to the cleaners and pick up your car. When you walk out of here, you never have to talk to me again."

"And Scully?"

That tiny note of trepidation in Mulder's voice broke Skinner's heart. "She's safe," he promised. "You're both safe." Mulder was watching him warily. "You're safe."

Mulder took a step toward the bed. "I'll eat if you'll leave."

Skinner stood. "Well, you can't sleep in that." He went to the louvered closet doors again. In a moment, he returned with a clean tee shirt and a pair of running pants. "Here."

Wordlessly, Mulder took the clothes, went into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Hearing the rasp of metal in the lock glide sent a jolt of pain through Skinner's rock-hard composure. He dropped to the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. "My God," he groaned. "What have I done?"

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

Skinner was jolted awake. At first, he was disoriented. Why was he asleep on the sofa in the living room? Then the evening came rushing back to him in ego crushing clarity. Finally, he wondered what sound woke him. In his foggy memory, it sounded like a wounded animal. Just as he was convincing himself that it was only his guilty conscience playing tricks on him, and he started twisting around to find a more comfortable position, he heard it again -- an unearthly threnody from above.

He sat up. His gun was locked away for the night, but Mulder's, which he had pried from his agent's hands, was on the coffee table. He snatched it up and started for the stairs, very slowly. He heard another muffled sound as he reached the bedroom door. Letting the light from the hallway fill the room, he peered in.

Mulder was on his side, his back to the door, his face buried into pillows, his long fingers clenching and unclenching spasmodically at the bedclothes, moaning something over and over.

Skinner moved to the bedside. The food on the table was untouched, congealed. The tee shirt was too big, falling off the spastic shoulder. For a moment, all Skinner could think about was that he had never seen a more erotic sight than Mulder's collarbone. Then he noticed the erratic way the pulse was leaping in his throat and that there were dried tear tracks on his cheeks. This isn't what I wanted, Skinner thought, putting the gun on the bedside table. All I wanted to do was make him appreciate procedure, respect authority.

Mulder moaned again, into the pillows, and his hands clutched at the air.

Skinner put a hand on his shoulder. "Mulder. Fox, it's all right. It's just a dream." He shook the shoulder slightly. "Fox, you're safe."

Mulder went still, opening his eyes slowly and turning just enough to meet the A.D.'s eyes. He rubbed at his mouth and twisted around, sitting up and away from Skinner. "What is it?" he rasped. "What do you want?"

"Nothing." Skinner eased himself down on the edge of the bed. "You were having a nightmare."

A dull flush came over Mulder's face. "Sorry if I woke you."

Trust Mulder to shoulder the blame, Skinner thought. I'm the one who gave him the nightmare! "It's all right. I was awake," he lied. "Do you want something? Coffee, tea? Another beer?"

Mulder shook his head. His hands were shaking and he locked them between his legs. "A glass of water."

Skinner stood. "Aspirin?"

Mulder nodded.

When he returned, Mulder was at the foot of the bed, using the remote on the portable television in the corner. He was a mess. Unshaven, uncombed, in running pants and tee shirt way too big for his slender frame. Without looking at Skinner, he took the aspirin, tipped his head back and popped the aspirin in. Then he reached for the water and drained the glass, letting a little trickle from the side of his mouth and down his throat. He didn't try to wipe it away. "I can't sleep," he announced. "I'm going to watch television."

Skinner turned to look at the television. It was VH1's Pop Up Videos. "Do you want to talk?" he offered.

Mulder gave him a look that said it all and returned his interest to the television. But Skinner could see that he was still shaking, still pale, still agitated. "Come on," he prompted. "As a psychologist, you know the benefit of --"

Mulder came up off the bed. But, instead of lunging at Skinner, or for his gun, he went toward the bedroom door. Skinner caught his shoulders and forced him backward to the bed, surprised that Mulder put up so little resistance. "Sit," he commanded. "I have something to say to you. Shut up!" he barked as Mulder started to protest. "I hurt you. I know that. I'm sorry. I know the words can't take away the fact that I betrayed your trust, but I am sorry." His jaw unclenched and his eyes rolled Heavenward. "Oh, God, I am so sorry."

Mulder didn't respond. He was staring glassily at someplace beyond Skinner's bedroom. He was shaking again. Skinner reached out tentatively, but Mulder didn't flinch away. Skinner slid his arm across Mulder's trembling shoulders and eased him upward. "Let's go back to bed, Mulder. We'll talk it all out in the morning."

It was a little awkward, but he managed to get the special agent back into bed. Impulsively, he went around the bed and climbed in on the other side. Mulder started, but Skinner put a hand out. "It's okay. I just want to be here in case you have another nightmare, or change your mind about talking." Reaching for the remote, he plunged the room into silence. Taking off his glasses, he put them and the remote on the little table at his side of the bed. As he was settling down into the king-size bed, taking care not to inadvertently brush against Mulder, he thought briefly about Mulder's gun on the other bedside table. Well, he decided, if Mulder is mad enough to kill me with his service weapon, then I deserve it. He floated off to sleep.

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

At some point in the night, they drifted toward each other, ending up in the middle of the bed, near but not touching each other. When Skinner woke at first light, Mulder was on his side, his back to him, his breath was soft, and deep and regular. Skinner put on his glasses and looked down at him. Skinner, the ex-Marine, the lapsed Catholic, and formerly devoted family man had never thought another man could be beautiful, but, that morning, Mulder was beautiful. Maybe it was just because he was still alive, not driven to some rash and irrevocable act, but Skinner was so glad to see him laying there alive and well, that he had an irrational urge to kiss him again.

Kissing Mulder last night had been as much a shock to him as it had been to the agent himself. With his eyes closed, he could almost pretend he was kissing a woman. There was no doubt that, unresponsive and angry as he was, Mulder was the best kiss Skinner had ever had. He wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of one of Mulder's willing kisses.

The thought brought Skinner to a full erection, and embarrassed, he eased out of bed quickly. He dressed efficiently and quietly, ever mindful of the man asleep in his bed. He took Mulder's pants and emptied the pockets of wallet, change, keys and badge, resisting an urge to look in his wallet. He tugged the black leather belt free and left the accessories on the bathroom counter. Then he prepared to take Mulder's pants to a cleaner near the condo that opened at seven in the morning, fulfill his promise and end this whole horrible episode once and for all. Monday morning, he'd request that the X-Files be transferred to another A.D. No one would question it. Everyone would assume that Walter Skinner had simply been burned one too many times by Spooky Mulder. But, would any other A.D. appreciate the X-Files? Would any other A.D. protect Mulder and Scully? Would transferring the department do Mulder more harm than good? Skinner decided to table the decision for a few days and wait on events. Skinner almost never did anything without thinking it through. As he passed through the bedroom on his way out the door, he flicked a glance at the dark head on one of his pillows. Almost never.

- END part 1 of 15 -
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