Little Things (part 10 of 15)

by Mik

"Kit, are you going to go to work today?"

Mulder rolled over onto his side, groaning. Seventy two hours of gut wrenching coughs had left him feeling as stiff and sore as a linebacker for the Jets. "Yeah," he rasped. He sent his eyes across the room, still dark save the bathroom light.

Skinner was already up, in his robe, a towel in his hands. "Are you sure? You look like shit."

"You sweet talker, you." Mulder made himself sit up, and did a thorough scratching; head, chest, small of his back, groin. "What time is it, anyway?" His watch was on the bedside and he reached for it. "Jeesh, it's only five a.m." He looked around. He'd lost time again. But this time it was more like nine hours than nine minutes. "Did Scully ever come?" What was his last memory? Skinner tucking him in?

Skinner nodded.

Mulder saw something in Skinner's expression that intrigued him, something shuttered, something disturbed. "What happened? What did she say?" He pushed bedclothes back, with effort, and swung his bare legs to the floor. Wasn't he wearing jeans at one point? When did he take them off? When did Scully come? When did he go to bed? What day was it?

Skinner was shrugging, but the frown was still furrowing his brow. "Nothing. She came to protect you."

"From what?" Mulder scratched behind his ear.

"Me." Skinner went into the bathroom.

Mulder got up and followed him. Skinner was setting the water temperature in the shower and the rush of steam felt good. "Why? Did you threaten me?" Threats were the last thing he had gotten from Skinner. Sharon had threatened him, although she hadn't realized her threats were directed at him, personally. Skinner had come home and chased the threat away on a gentle breeze of laughter. He had been playful, considerate, and solicitous, adjectives not normally associated with the Assistant Director. Mulder had never experienced the freedom of just wasting time, of just laying there, listening to the sound of Skinner's breath. It was a comforting sound, and it carried all his dismal thoughts away, and they stayed away, until his impatient bladder ruined the mood and brought them back.

Skinner's sigh was louder and slightly more aggrieved than it was supposed to be. "I always do, apparently. She felt our enforced … companionship would inspire me to throw you off the balcony." He scowled at the towel in his hands. "I couldn't get her to understand that I had endured you this long, I'd hold out a while longer."

"It's the early days, yet," Mulder responded cheerfully. There was something else. Skinner wouldn't be upset just because Scully tried to protect her partner from him. He bent over the sink, splashing cold water on his face, watching Skinner from the corner of his eyes. Skinner looked as if he was going to strangle the towel in his hands. Mulder reached out and eased it from his fingers. "Easy. I would hate to have to turn you in for terry-cide."

Skinner forced himself to smile. Mulder could see it was forced. "Did I do something?" he asked quietly, avoiding Skinner's dark gaze.

Skinner looked surprised by the suggestion. "How could you do something? You've been out cold all night."

Aha! "And is that the problem?"

"No." Skinner focused on him sharply. "Mulder, there isn't a problem. Stop looking for an X-File here." He dropped the robe over the closed toilet seat and stepped into the shower.

Funny, he had said the same thing to Scully not so long ago. Mulder pushed the glass door back and looked at Skinner. The guy was a bronze statue. There wasn't a hint of fat on him, there wasn't even a hint that there would be some farther down the road. He was as cut as a body builder, with massive shoulders, broad chest, thighs corded with muscle, and lean, hard hips. The only thing that marred that bronzed perfection was the ravages of a jungle almost thirty years ago. Mulder sent his eyes over him, objectively, trying not to see him as a man, as a sexual object, but as a work of art. And he was. Without his glasses, he had very intense dark brown eyes. Mulder smiled into them. "Can I join you?" he asked.

Skinner answered with a short nod, and Mulder shed his sweater and shorts and stepped inside, enveloped first in the steam and then in Skinner's arms. Skinner was holding him so tight, for a moment, Mulder thought he was going to break his nose on Skinner's chin. Then Skinner eased him away and rubbed his shoulders gently. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Better, probably. Was I a pain last night?" He reached over Skinner's shoulder for the soap.

"No. You slept very soundly, except for your coughing," Skinner answered. "Stop assuming the worst."

"It's my modus," Mulder answered. "Haven't you figured that out by now?"

He worked the soap between his hands and shyly spread the lather over Skinner's pecs. It was weird to touch such hard, hairy skin. Weird, but good. It was like touching strength. It was like caressing safety. He let his hands drop farther. Skinner was standing very still, as if afraid to speak and break a spell. Smiling to himself, Mulder slid the soap down between Skinner's legs. "Well, well, well," he said to himself. "What do we have here?"

When he touched Skinner's erection, Skinner jerked slightly, grunting. Mulder let his hands slide over it, exploring it. It was bigger than his own, but everything about Skinner was larger than life. It amazed him that he could barely get his fingers around it, and he had long fingers. Skinner had handled them both with ease and skill. Remembering that, Mulder shuddered involuntarily and sank to his knees.

When his lips first brushed the engorged tip, Skinner jerked again, forward, hitting Mulder's teeth. He opened his mouth wide to accommodate, and began something he had been rehearsing in his mind for several days, a little combination of tongue twirling and sucking and sliding the rough edge of his tongue up and down the shaft. He felt Skinner stagger slightly and shift his weight to remain upright. Skinner's hands slid into Mulder's hair and clenched. He was muttering, his muscular thighs trembling. It didn't take long, less than five minutes. Skinner grunted, and thrust his hips forward, making Mulder gag and cough, but he didn't let go.

Eventually, Skinner's grip on his hair slackened, and Mulder eased back on his haunches, to give his knees a rest. He felt oddly elated, victorious. Skinner leaned over and helped him stand. "Thanks," he murmured, kissing Mulder's swollen lips.

Mulder turned his back against Skinner's chest and tipped his head toward the spray, letting the water fill his mouth and take the taste away. He could feel Skinner's heart pounding against him, he could feel Skinner's strong shoulders offer him support, he felt Skinner's hands slipping around him, reaching. He tried to pull away.

"Come on, Kit," Skinner said, holding him tight.

"No, it was your --"

"We're not playing that way anymore." Skinner pressed Mulder's backside against his spent member and ground against him. He slid his hands down Mulder's lean, lithe frame and settled possessively at his hips, rocking him back and forth in a lazy, almost hypnotic dance. His fingers splayed out, brushing Mulder's balls, the base of his cock.

Mulder let out a long sigh that was almost a hiss between his teeth. He let his head fall back against Skinner's shoulder. The sensation was electric and intimate. It made him want to scream. It made him want to whisper. Skinner was murmuring in his ear; the words were unintelligible but the meaning was clear. Skinner's fingers slipped forward, and slid over him, making him want only to scream. He bit down on his lip to keep the sound inside.

"Let it go, Kitsune," Skinner urged. "No one will hear you but me." His fingers tightened slightly as they slid upward.

"Oh …" It was all Mulder could get out. His throat closed up. His knees felt shaky. Never, in all his years of practice, had he ever elicited such a sensation with his own hand.

Even as he held Mulder up, Skinner turned him slightly, seeking his mouth, still caressing, teasing, pulling. Mulder opened his mouth, let Skinner inside, moaning without sound, seeing the gray edges already creeping up on his mental horizon. This was going to be a 'lost time' episode, too, but one of an exquisite and unique nature.

Skinner slid a hand around his hip, and then down the cleft of his ass.

Mulder stiffened, trying to pull himself away from the marauding mouth, the invading hand.

Skinner broke the kiss to murmur, "Easy, easy."

Mulder realized he wasn't ready. The idea that Skinner would take this step without permission made him feel mildly violated, and the memories of that first time came rushing back to him. He put his hands up between them and tried again to pull away.

Skinner wasn't letting go. His eyes were shut, his fingers starting to clench around Mulder's cock. "Easy, Kit," he was whispering, over and over. "It will be all right." He found a place with his finger that arched Mulder forward.

Mulder bucked away, trying to make his mouth work again, trying to say no.

Skinner's hands tightened, persisted, probed deeper.

It hurt. That was the thing that surprised him the most. It really hurt. It was the pain that broke through his silence. "No!" he shouted, and twisted and stumbled and scrambled until he was out of that glass cage. Outside, the cold air assaulted him, braced him, calmed him, and although he was trembling, he didn't run any further. He reached for a towel and began to dry himself, adopting an almost comical air of normalcy.

Skinner turned the water off and pulled the door back, looking at him. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

Mulder lifted a hand to his mouth, saw that his hand was shaking and pressed it to his lips. He nodded. For one moment, he had been as scared as he had been that night when Skinner practically kidnapped him out of the bar at the Pentagon.

Skinner reached for another towel and brought it to his own body. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Mulder nodded. "I know," he said in a croaky voice.

"I thought everything was going all right," Skinner said flatly. "I guess it wasn't."

"It was. It is." Mulder draped the towel around his hip and held it there. "It just …" He stopped. He didn't know how to explain. He wished his heart would stop pounding. "I guess you caught me by surprise," he said finally, and went back to the bedroom, rummaging for clean underwear and socks from his garment bag.

Skinner came out, the robe around his shoulders, but not closed, not hiding that amazing, glorious body. "I just wanted to please you," he said. "You pleased me. It seemed only fair."

Mulder glanced away from him, embarrassed by how much he had enjoyed looking at that body. "Well, I guess I have a low threshold for pleasure," he ground out, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull on black boxers. He could still feel Skinner hovering nearby. "Look, don't worry about it. I freaked. I overreacted. I always do. You should know that about me by this time." He tried to smile but it was pointless. He was still quaking inside and he hated himself for being so weak. "Besides, it hurt."

Skinner's face, a black, unreadable mask, crumbled and he rushed to the bed. "Are you all right?" he demanded, reaching out but not touching Mulder. "Should we … check it?"

"No." Mulder scooted away. He looked up. Those intense eyes were filled with intense pain. He sighed and reached up, making his fingers touch that stubbled chin. "I'm okay. Really. I'm okay. It wasn't that bad. We'll talk about it later. I promise."

"Tonight?" Skinner asked.

"No, this weekend. I need that space for a while." Mulder let his hand fall. "Jeesh, I haven't been home since Thursday. If nothing else, I've got to get home and feed my fish." He reached over and pulled his socks on. He saw his jeans, folded neatly on the floor next to the bedside table and he picked them up and slid into them. "But, I'll … I'll … see you around the office this week." He grabbed his sweater, and pulled it over his head and stepped into the battered leather loafers. He pulled his gun out of the garment bag and slid his holster into place. Then he looked back.

Skinner was still sitting at the edge of the bed, looking as if Mulder had just taken away every last friend he had. Guiltily, Mulder came back to the bedside, and pressed a kiss to the top of that smooth head. "Thanks for looking after me this weekend, Kat." He grabbed his garment bag, and left, practically running down the stairs and out the door.

The sun was just rising as he drove back to Alexandria. He still felt like shit, but it was a different shit than earlier. He no longer felt like he was about to tip over the precipice. Now, he felt like he wished he could. And all that was frosted with a thick layer of guilt over how he had treated Skinner. Isn't this where I came in Sunday night? he wondered as he passed the spot where he had phoned Scully and then made his impetuous U-turn.

"U-turn," he said aloud. "That's exactly what my life is taking. One giant U-turn. Am I gay? Because I sure never felt this way about a woman before. But I don't feel like I like the sex. Sunday, in the hot tub, I was thinking about Scully. It was the only thing that kept me hard." He bit down on his lip, shocked to hear those words out loud, shocked to hear them tumbling out of his mouth. Oh, Scully, Scully, what am I going to do?

Once again he fumbled for his cell phone and dialed without thinking. This time he didn't wake her. Like Skinner, she was an early riser. "Hello?"

"Hey, Scully, it's me, back to the land of the living."

"Mulder, where are you?"

He checked a road sign. "About fifteen miles out of D.C. You want breakfast? My treat? I still owe you for Johnny Rockets." Please, please, please. I need you.

"Are you coming to work?"

"I want your expert opinion on that."

He could hear her sigh. "Okay. I'll see you at Bart's in about twenty minutes." The connection went.

Bart's was an old-fashioned coffee shop, with miles of counter space and a few booths in the back. It was a commuter's haven, the home of the solitary dining experience. Mulder had had more breakfasts with Scully here than with anyone, anyplace else on earth.

She was already there, already dressed for work, wearing that pale gray dress with the gray plaid jacket. He liked that outfit, it made her a little more feminine and he had a feeling that was why she wore it this morning. When he got closer, he could see her little gold cross trembling at the pulse point in her throat. He loved that.

She was already assessing him before he got to the booth. "You still don't look well, Mulder," she observed. She reached out and pressed a hand to his forehead. "You feel a little clammy."

"I feel a lot clammy," he agreed, reaching for the coffee Scully had ordered for him. "I'm shaky and wired and I've slept too much and gotten no rest. But I'm not coughing so bad. That's a good sign, huh?" He sipped.

"I'm not sure you should be up," Scully said with a frown. "I'm surprised Skinner let you go."

"Yeah, well, you can only take so much of his growling and glaring, you know." He sipped again. The coffee was way too strong to be palatable, but it was hot on the back of his throat and he needed a caffeine kick. "And, then there was a charming little altercation with his ex-wife."

"Sharon?" Scully said, surprised. "What happened?"

"She came to his place while he was at work and I wasn't. She's become obsessed with the idea that he's seeing someone and, you're going to love this," he added around the rim of his cup. "She thinks it's you."

"Me?" Scully's protest was a squeak.

"I know, I know," Mulder agreed. "It's insane, but so is she." He put the cup down. "By the way, can you look at a burn for me?"

"A burn?" she repeated.

He pulled the collar of his sweater down, gingerly, to show her the spot that was still red and blistered.

Scully gave it a cursory study. "What was that?"

"Tea. Also courtesy of the former Mrs. A.D. She threw it at me when I, ever so politely, suggested she mind her own business."

Scully's mouth was pursed up, struggling with a cross between anger and amusement. "Well, it's not too bad." She released his collar. "It's blistered, so try not to irritate it too much."

Mulder nodded and emptied his cup.

"So," she said, tapping her nails on the plastic cover of a menu. "What's it like having A.D. Skinner as a nurse?"

Mulder's brow wrinkled up in a frown to hide the fact that he knew he was starting to blush. "This is weird, but he's very … um … nurturing."

Scully spluttered into her coffee. "Our boss?"

Mulder nodded, smiling. "It's true. He's fussy about eating and taking meds, and -- oh, crap."

Scully looked up. "Mulder, what is it?"

"I left all my medicine at his house."

"You must have left in a hurry," she observed in a little drawl. "It's not like you to be up and about this early."

"He was getting ready to go to work, and I had a feeling that if I didn't walk out the door with him, I'd be locked in, like a teenager who has been grounded," Mulder lied.

"Well, maybe if we called him, we could have him bring the meds in," Scully offered, digging for her cell phone.

"Nah, he's probably already at the office," Mulder said. He shook off an unexpected wave of melancholy and straightened up. "So should I go home, get dressed and make an appearance, or should I use my last day of ETO, and watch Jerry Springer and Sally Jesse Raphael?"

"Go home," Scully advised. "Stay in bed -- excuse me, futon, keep warm, drink fluids." She reached out impulsively and squeezed his hand. "And for goodness sake, behave yourself. Don't let some Japanese woman with a camera fetish wear you out."

Mulder nodded obediently, and stood, on slightly unsteady legs. "Yes, Doctor." He reached for his wallet.

"Hey, I thought you were buying me breakfast," Scully protested.

He tossed enough money on the table to buy breakfast for four. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll call you later," she offered.

He gave her a wave over his shoulder and ambled out the door.

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

Scully had been there. He could smell her scent hanging in the apartment, along with the musty scent of being shut up for five days. He hugged himself. Silly woman, she cared about him. He pushed the door shut with his foot, and considered his mail. Junk, junk, bills, junk, Roswell Journal, junk, a threat to turn off his subscription to D.C. After Dark. He tossed the pile on the kitchen counter, and dropped his keys and his cell phone beside it, as he flipped on a light. Then he froze. His kitchen … was clean. Scully didn't do this. She wouldn't. She believed it went against genetic imprinting for her to clean up after him. If he was imprinted with messiness, she couldn't alter it. And there was coffee in his coffee pot. Why didn't he notice that when he was smelling Scully and shut-in smells? His hand went to his hip, and he released the catch on his holster, letting his fingers curl around the butt of his Sig, while he inched toward the living room. In a wave of raging paranoia, it never occurred to him that a lurking assassin wasn't likely to while away the time waiting for him making coffee.

He saw the silhouette, recognized it, and stiffened. "How did you get in here?" he demanded, flipping on another light.

Skinner was dressed for the office, Brooks Brothers Blue -- one of his best looks. "Unlike Scully, I don't have a key," he said mildly, with a hint of reproach. "So I picked the lock again."

"That's a felony, A.D. Skinner," Mulder said, snapping the catch of his holster and tugging his sweater back into place.

"You left your meds behind." Skinner indicated a pile on the coffee table. "I thought you might need them." He looked at his watch and then asked Mulder a question with his eyes. It was: I left twenty minutes after you did, and I've been here long enough to start your dishwasher and make coffee. Where the hell have you been?

"Yeah, you're right, I do." Mulder pulled open the door to his hall closet and dropped his garment bag on the floor. "I went to see my doctor, and get a medical opinion as to whether I'm ready to go back to work," he said, answering Skinner's unasked question.

"And what did Agent Scully say?" Skinner's voice had never been so flat, so cold.

Mulder flicked a look back in surprise. That tone wasn't necessary. "That I should take it easy one more day. Why, do you disagree?" He lifted his chin, challenging his boss, not his lover.

"No, I agree with her." Skinner unfolded himself from the futon. "I expect you'll follow her directions to the letter?"

"Yes, sir," Mulder said warily.

Skinner paused as he got even with Mulder in the hallway. He drew a deep breath. "I did not mean to hurt you this morning, Mulder," he said in the same flat voice.

Mulder, not Kit. Mulder swallowed and nodded. "And I didn't mean to freak out the way I did. It just … caught me by surprise. It was by no means personal. It's just that I was just getting comfortable with where we were. I wasn't prepared to take it to another level."

Skinner nodded. "I understand." He turned toward the door.

Mulder caught his arm. "Kat."

Skinner looked back at him.

Mulder felt the white hot intensity of that gaze, magnified by the glass in the steel frames. He felt his voice catch. "I'm sorry."

Skinner nodded again.

Damn it! Mulder lunged forward, blocking Skinner's path. "Is that it, is it all over just because I'm not …" His eyes widened at the familiar words. "I'm not …" He started to laugh. He couldn't help it. It was suddenly just so damn funny. The laughter disintegrated into strangled coughing.

Skinner waited until he brought himself under control. "Do you mind telling me what is so funny, Agent Mulder?"

"You. Me." He gasped for breath. "The speech I was in the process of making. Didn't I sound just like a girl who wouldn't put out? And aren't you behaving just like the boyfriend who would dump her?"

Skinner didn't smile. "You walked out on me, remember?"

"Correction." Mulder wiped his eyes. "I ran out on you."

"Whatever." Skinner looked at his watch.

Mulder touched his arm again. "Look, can't we talk about this later? Tonight? Come on, Kat, don't do this to me. Let's talk about it when I'm not ready to drop and you're not late for a meeting. Come here after work. Or … or I'll come there. Whatever you want." Was that him sounding so needy? He cringed inwardly.

Skinner cringed outwardly. "I'll call you." He reached past Mulder, pulled the door open and left. Mulder watched the door swing shut. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

The phone rang. He reached for it, snapping, "Suicide hot line."

"Hey, Mulder, good to hear you're back among the living."

"Hey, Frohike," he said, dragging the phone down the hall to his futon. "How are you?"

"In dire need of a blow-job," Frohike answered.

Mulder's stomach turned over slightly at what was their normal aberrant banter. "Well, don't look at me. I've been sick."

"That's what the monkey said," Frohike retorted. "No kidding, where've you been? I've been trying to find you since Friday."

"If you would stop trying to hack into my files at the office and check out airline records once in a while, you'd know I was in California," Mulder said, sinking down onto the futon.

"God, I'm sorry." Frohike's sympathy was genuine. "What were you doing out there?"

"Going to a basketball game." Mulder lifted his feet to the coffee table, scattering bottles of medicine.

"No, seriously."

"I am serious. I went to a basketball game."

"I know you're a fan, Mulder, but why would you feel compelled to go to L.A., to see a game?"

"Actually, I went for a conference, but I got sick, so the game was all I got to do."

"Oh … cool. Who won?"

Mulder had to think. "Lakers."

"Oh."

"So, what did you call about on this extremely early morning?" Mulder allowed himself a good, deep yawn.

"I wanted to catch you before you went to the office. Have you read your e-mail today?"

Mulder laughed grimly. "I haven't even fed my fish in five days. You think I've read my e-mail?"

"You remember that crazy son of a bitch in Connecticut who claimed he had more predictions than Nostradamus?"

"Yeah, Weston … Franks." Mulder yawned again. "What about him?"

"Well, he's making predictions again. You should check your e-mail." There was a click at the other end of the phone.

Wearily, Mulder sat up and turned on his computer. Click, click, click. You've got mail. Nineteen messages. Eleven from someone called Futureboy. He sighed and hit the first one. His eyes went over it. He hit another one. And another one.

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

He slammed the paperwork down on Skinner's desk. "It's all a question of your loyalties, A.D. Skinner," he said.

Skinner's incredulous eyes went over Mulder, leaning, white knuckled against the desk, to the 302 in front of him. No, they were both real. "Let me get this straight. You want to go to Connecticut to stop a man from starting World War III?"

Mulder nodded.

Skinner nodded too. "Let me see that S on your chest again?"

"Come on. He sent me eleven e-mails over the weekend, predicting the time to the hundredth of a second that the first missile would be fired, and whose finger would be on the trigger." Mulder rattled the paperwork. "Time's ticking, A.D. Skinner."

"This guy is a survivalist maniac," Skinner said dismissively, pushing the 302 back across the desk. "And you're still not a hundred percent --"

Mulder leaned in, hissing so low that even a mike in Skinner's tie clip wouldn't have picked it up, "Would you be so quick to dismiss it if I'd stood still and taken it up the ass for you this morning?"

Skinner came up and across the desk so fast, Mulder was almost knocked down. He caught Mulder's shirt front, his fist pulled back as if he was going to drive Mulder's nose to the back of his head. "Don't you even …" He bit it off. "Don't even suggest something like that, Agent Mulder. I'm denying it because he's a crackpot, and you're out on sick leave." He released Mulder's shirt front and Mulder stumbled backward into a chair.

"Is that your last word on the subject?" Mulder asked him, with equal coldness.

"It is," Skinner said.

"Fine." Mulder picked up the paperwork, stood, reached for the door and left.

Mulder was so mad he was trembling. That dirty, rotten S.O.B. He skipped the elevator and took the stairs, two at a time, to the office in the basement. He slammed the door open.

Scully looked up, startled. She looked at him. She saw first that he was in a suit and not his jeans and sweater. Then she saw his face. "What happened? Mulder? Mulder, what are you doing?"

Mulder was going to his desk, yanking open the bottom drawer of his desk and pulling out his emergency bag.

"Mulder, where are you going?"

"Connecticut," he answered, raspily, over a spasm of coughing. "Weston Franks is on the loose again."

"That madman?" Scully put a hand on his shoulder and was stunned that he shrugged her away. "But, Mulder, you're still sick and --"

"Save it," he snapped. "I already got this speech from your boss." He stood, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "I'll see you in a couple of days."

"I'll go with you --"

"No." Mulder put a hand on her shoulder, but his touch wasn't as gentle. "You'll stay here. There's no reason for him to be mad at you."

Even so, he heard her steps hurrying to catch up with him as he pushed the fire door open and went out into the parking garage. When he looked over his shoulder she had her emergency kit too, and was strapping her holster into place. "Scully --"

"Save it," she said, imitating him. "The last time you went up against this guy, he nearly blew your head off, for fun. You need backup. If you think Skinner's going to be mad if I go with you, think how mad he would be if I wasn't there to keep you from getting killed."

Mulder opened his car door. "Scully --"

"Besides," she continued, fighting to keep her voice light. "I wouldn't know how to contact this Oyakata woman, and tell her you'd been killed."

"Oh, believe me," Mulder sighed, settling behind the wheel. "Oyakata would find you."

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

Mulder could feel Scully's eyes on him, anxiously. Below them, they could feel more than hear the slam of the door as Suzanne and Christian Cole left the house. Mulder shifted in the chair, testing the limits of the handcuffs that kept him there, while a madman was waving a very illegal automatic pistol in the general direction of anyone who moved. At the scraping sound of the cuffs on the back of the chair, the gun came around to him. Nearby, he could feel Scully flinch. He closed his eyes, only because he was so tired. Then he opened them again, and sighed. "Go ahead," he taunted. "I've got a bitch of a headache anyway."

He could hear Scully's tiny "Mul -- der."

"Of course," he continued, keeping his voice level, monotone. "While you're shooting your hostage, they shoot you. It's called misdirection in magician's terms. You understand that, don't you, Franks? You're a magician, aren't you? You're going to make a whole world disappear."

"Shut up." Franks wasn't agitated, only annoyed. "You got what you wanted. I let the kid go. I let his mom go. I told these two they could go." He waved the pistol toward the police officers standing with their backs to the wall, their hands at their sides. "I'll let the broad go."

Mulder shook his head. "Now, Franks, we've had this conversation before. Agent Scully is not a broad, she's an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Now apologize to Agent Scully. You're a gentleman, aren't you? Isn't that what you keep telling everyone? If you are, prove it. If you aren't, then you're a liar, and you've lied about everything else. Which is it, Franks?"

Weston Franks glared at him. He switched the glare to Scully, kneeling at the top of the stairs, her service weapon in her hands, ready to take him out if he moved toward the computer or either of his two hostages. "I'm sorry I called you a broad, Agent Scully," he said. His glare went back to Mulder, in challenge. "I ain't no liar."

"No, of course you're not," Mulder agreed, with an approving nod. "Thank you, Weston." He shifted his gaze slightly. There was more movement on the ground outside the window. Mrs. Cole and her son were being rushed into a police car. Police officers were milling around behind a phalanx of other vehicles. They were going to take action soon. There was no way they would let him get close to his deadline. "So, tell me about this hyperlink you set up?" He looked toward the laptop computer on the bed, hooked up to more wires and tubes than a coding heart patient. "I'm just getting into hacking, myself. I'm afraid I don't really appreciate the technology involved."

"I ain't telling you," Franks answered and moved defensively toward his computer, like a mother protecting her child. Then he stopped and turned around. "What time you got?"

Mulder made a little gesture to indicate he couldn't lift his hands. "You've got my hands otherwise occupied. Sorry."

Franks looked at Scully. "Time?"

"Ummm … nine thirty nine," she stammered out.

Oh, Scully, don't show fear, Mulder thought, not looking back at her. Franks ate fear for breakfast.

Franks nodded and stroked his chin with the barrel of his gun. "Huh," he said, and walked around the room again.

Mulder risked another glance at the window. Snipers were scurrying around, getting into place. He looked away just in time to see Franks looking at him.

"What's going on out there?" Franks demanded, charging toward the window, gun raised.

"Get the hell away from the window," Mulder commanded.

Franks skittered to a stop and stared.

"You show your face at that window, and they'll take you out, just like that," Mulder assured him.

"What are they doing?"

"What you expect them to do," Mulder answered evenly. "Setting up to protect the police officers you're holding."

"I ain't holding them!" Franks shouted. "They want to stay. They want to see the truth." Franks hugged his hands to the side of his face. "Now, shut up. Everybody shut up. I need to think." He sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at the keyboard of his computer.

There was an inhuman silence. For nearly forty five minutes, no one spoke, no one moved. Mulder's arms were aching, his chest was burning, his eyes were on fire. He needed his meds, he needed a bathroom, he needed to get those cops and Mr. Cole out of that room, he needed to move. But for the last twenty minutes, he hadn't been thinking about being handcuffed to a chair. He was thinking about the fact that Skinner almost put his lights out that morning. If this thing with Skinner was over before it really got started, it was all his fault. Sitting there all day, partly as an observer, and then as a negotiator and finally as a hostage, he had small spans of mental silence which let him relive moments with Skinner. He was giving up a lot, and he knew it, and he could kick himself for what he had said. It was bad enough he fought off Skinner's … well, they were advances, corny as that sounded. But to stand there, nose to nose and accuse Skinner of denying him this assignment because he had been piqued … well, that was professional and personal suicide. Skinner was a man of honor, and because of that, he'd never forgive Mulder for making such an accusation. Mulder sighed inwardly. For a moment -- just one rash, wild moment -- he was miserable enough to entice Franks into losing his temper.

But he didn't dare. Scully was sitting directly behind him. In fact, he realized, as he focused on the window again, she was in the direct line of fire if either one of the two snipers on the roof of the Cole's house and garage opened fire.

Franks stood up again abruptly, making everyone jump. "What's going on out there?"

"The usual," Mulder answered, in a matter of fact tone. "They're watching you, making sure you don't get impatient and start the game before kickoff. If I were you, I wouldn't spend much more time next to that computer. You're making them nervous."

Franks came toward him, gun thrust forward as if going right for the bridge of Mulder's nose. "And if I were you, I'd shut the fuck up." He glanced at Scully. "Excuse me, ma'am."

The timing was so perfect it could have been a gift from above. With Franks so close, but momentarily diverted, Mulder lifted his feet, and pushed sharply against Franks' knees. The force sent him backward in his chair, catching Scully off guard, so that she scrambled backward, lost her balance and tumbled backward down the stairs.

Franks went backward too, his arm flailing upward, his fingers clutching at the trigger, firing into the air. Suddenly, there was answering fire from outside, shattering all the windows.

Glass was falling into Mulder's face. With the last little bit of strength in his stunned body, he managed to roll over in the chair, until he hit the wall, as bullets rained everywhere and everyone tried to dive for cover. And then, for just a fraction of an instant, he felt something at the side of his head, and he didn't feel the glass anymore, or hear the bullets popping around him, or Scully's frantic, "Mul -- der!"

- END part 10 of 15 -
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