Little Things (part 2 of 15)

by Mik

Mulder woke to an eerie silence. There was no traffic under his window, no neighbors arguing in the hall, no gurgling fish tank, no whining VCR or blaring infomercial.

At first, he thought he was waking from a bizarre nightmare brought on by his own exotic taste in videos. Then he realized he was not on his futon, he was not in his apartment or even in his own clothes. He sat up with a jerk, finding himself wound into the black and white flannel sheets of a king-size bed. It was no nightmare. Retching, he pushed back the bedclothes and staggered into the bathroom. Having nothing in his stomach, his heaves were dry, ineffectual and painful.

The panic that overcame him was unfamiliar. Mulder had been in much more frightening places than his boss' bathroom; he'd been on his knees with a gun to his head, he'd been at a bedside where the person who meant most to him was slipping away, he'd held his own father as he died. He'd even been, under the influence of psychotropics, held in place by his boss. But this …

He was trained to predict what a mind would do, but he would never have predicted what Skinner started last night. And he wanted out, before Skinner came back from wherever he was and did whatever it was he wanted to do. He gathered his belongings (except for his tie, which he dumped in the waste-basket) and let himself out of the condo. He walked to a diner nearby, ordered a cup of coffee to go and a taxi. Within an hour, he was home. He couldn't get the borrowed clothes off fast enough, took a long, hot shower, brushed his teeth three times and, after putting on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, sank down on his futon, trying to figure out what the hell happened the night before.

Skinner had been on his case for weeks. He knew he set off some alarms over Skinner's head sometimes, and Skinner often got caught in the fallout, but, damn it, he always got his pound of flesh for it. Mulder grimaced at the expression. Then there was that weird confrontation on the basketball court. At the time, Mulder thought it might have something to do with Scully. Males frequently tried to prove their dominance around available females, and if he thought of it, he could think of several things Skinner had said and done over the years to reveal his feelings for her. Typical Alpha male. He grimaced again. Skinner was so Alpha he was almost Omega.

But what happened last night? He had been in a bar, minding his own business, watching his prep school get wiped all over the countryside by some out-of-town boys and here comes Skinner, like he's marking his territory again or something, and suddenly, Mulder's watering hole was his too.

To be fair, Skinner did seem sincere enough about the apology, and he did wave a Knick's game under Mulder's nose. Jeesh, Mulder, you're a basketball whore. Everything seemed okay when they got back to Skinner's house. (Boy, could he have fun profiling him after seeing his place!) Skinner looked like he was trying to be a good host, even to an unwelcome guest. He fed him. He gave him sunflower seeds. (Priming his oral fixations?) Then, out of nowhere, he went nuts. Even with his photographic memory, Mulder wasn't sure he could catalog all the events, they went so weird so fast. He did remember Skinner kissing him, and rubbing up against him with that monster hard-on. After that, Mulder was pretty much focusing on his fear.

Mulder steadfastly refused to remember the choices he was offered, or the choice he made. He did remember throwing up all over that black tiled bathroom and the extreme mortification that came over him. Bad enough to have to do that, but to puke it up afterward, like some first time fairy at a redneck convention? Jeesh, he wished he'd had the balls to just take it.

And then what happened? Maybe that was the weirdest part. Skinner turning into Daddy dearest all of a sudden, full of compassion and contrition, trying to take care of him, and all he did was take a swing at him. He flicked a glance at his right hand. Skinner was right, his knuckles were red and swollen.

He had a nightmare. He remembered that. He vaguely remembered Skinner coming in and trying to talk to him. Trying to give him direction and support, all the typical Skinner by-the-book but below-the-radar actions. And, finally, he remembered waking up in Skinner's bed, thankfully alone.

The phone rang. Mulder sat up straight, holding his breath. The machine answered, but there was only a dial tone on the other end. He shrugged it away. Scully, looking for him, probably. Why didn't she try his cell? Because he left his cell phone in his jacket pocket, and his jacket was still at Skinner's house. Well, hell, it could stay there.

Finally, he dragged himself up and went into the kitchen. He needed to eat something. He rooted around until he found a box of Cheerios and came back to the futon. With his remote, he flicked the television on, and sat through some truly abominable Saturday morning cartoons, eating cereal from the box, willing his mind to stay in neutral. The phone rang again. This time the machine got an answer. "Agent Mulder?"

Mulder felt his stomach tighten at the sound. He reached for the switch to turn the machine off, when he heard a soft sigh of resignation, and a tiny catch in the deep voice. "I'm sorry."

"You should be," Mulder agreed, and sat back, trying to ignore what was going on inside his telephone.

"I'll bring your car by this afternoon. Maybe we can talk."

"There's nothing to talk about!" Mulder shouted and threw the box of Cheerios at the phone. He got up, went into the other room, changed into his own running pants, running shoes and his favorite sweatshirt, and went running. He knew he couldn't be there when Skinner came calling.

No matter how hard he pushed himself, no matter how much icy air burned his lungs, no matter how much his muscles ached, Mulder couldn't get images out of his mind. He could see the expression on Skinner's face when he knelt beside him at the toilet. He could see the concern in his eyes when he looked at Mulder's bruised hand. He could feel Skinner ruffle his hair, almost affectionately. He could hear the kindness in his voice as he tried to get Mulder to eat, to sleep, to talk. Mulder had been betrayed before; he had a long litany of names of people who had wounded him, his own father was at the top of the list. But the list of people who had been kind to him was far shorter. Maybe it was as short as Scully and A.D. Skinner.

Okay, he conceded as he climbed the hill to his apartment building, the sun setting at his back. Maybe he's sorry. Maybe he was just trying to mark his territory, or pull a power trip on me that got out of hand, but that doesn't mean I have to forgive him just because he knew he was wrong and now he is sorry, right? Again, Mulder could feel Skinner kneeling beside him at the toilet, whispering into his hair, "I'm sorry. I am so sorry." Had anyone ever hurt Mulder? Sure. Thousands of times. Had anyone ever been truly sorry? Not until last night.

It was nearly dark. He could see his car in the parking space behind the building as he came up the alley. He slowed and came around the parking structure carefully, as if expecting an ambush. It was empty. He climbed the back stairs with trepidation, expecting Skinner to pounce on him as he came down his hall. But it was empty, too.

The apartment was empty. The Cheerios were still scattered across the floor. As he knelt to scoop them into a pile, he noticed he had eighteen messages on his machine. He jabbed the ERASE button savagely.

He dumped the cereal in the trash and went into the bathroom for another long, hot water guzzling shower. When he came out, there were three more messages on his machine. "Persistence, thy name is Skinner," Mulder sighed and hit ERASE again.

The phone rang one more time while he was fixing instant soup in the microwave. He gritted his teeth and waited for Skinner's voice. He could hear it already. He could see the light glinting off Skinner's glasses, obscuring his eyes, his jaw locked into place by his irritation, his hands planted on hips, his feet slightly apart, as if ready to fight the whole world if it took one step toward him. It bothered Mulder that he could see his boss so clearly, as if the man had been etched in his brain.

It wasn't Skinner. It was Scully. She sounded worried. Her soft, slightly breathy voice was creeping up in query, just in saying his name. "Mulder?"

He picked up the phone. "I'm here."

"Where's here?" Her voice was plaintive. "Mulder, I've been calling you all day."

"Why?" Alarms started going off. "What's the matter?"

"You tell me," she countered. "I couldn't reach you at home or on your cell. Where have you been?"

"Around." He shrugged. "Why were you looking for me?"

"Because." Her voice was dry and amused. "Because Skinner couldn't find you, and he thought you might be with me."

"Did he … did he say why he was looking for me?" Mulder bit down on his lower lip anxiously. But Skinner would never tell Scully the truth. Never, never, never.

"He said you two had an argument last night, and he was concerned about you."

Damn, damn, damn. Mulder banged a fist on the wall. "Since when does he need to check up on me just because I tell him to go to hell and walk away?" he complained.

"That's what I'd like to know," Scully said, in her slow, sweet drawl. "But, he did sound very upset. He said he had been to your house, and had called you, but couldn't find you. Then I started calling you, and now I'm worried."

"Well, you can stop worrying, Mother," Mulder snapped. Then he softened his tone, guiltily. "I went running, Scully. You know I never take my cell when I'm running."

"All day?" Scully said, disbelieving. "You ran all day?"

"Yeah." He heard the microwave ding. "My dinner's ready and --"

"You ran all day?"

"Yeah. It's my weekend. I can do whatever I want, no matter what you and A.D. Skinner say. Now --"

"All day?"

Exasperation put an unusual bite in his voice. "Scully, what's your point?"

It didn't bother her. "Look, Mulder, if you want to go off on a tangent and track leads without me, that's fine. Just don't play me for a fool and tell me you went running all day. It's not humanly possible. Not even for a metabolism machine like you."

"You want my itinerary?" he offered.

Scully was quiet for a minute. "Who is she?"

She? If you only knew … He put a smile in his voice. "Scully, you know there's no one for me but you."

Scully ignored that. She always did. He could stand face to face with her, roses in one hand, a diamond in the other and profess his undying love, and she'd ignore it. She never took him seriously, because he'd spent five years proving that, work aside, she couldn't take him seriously about anything. "So … who's the girl, Mulder?"

Mulder sighed. "I have to go now."

Scully gasped. "She's there now, isn't she?"

"Yes," he said dryly. "She's here now, getting the cameras set up. We're going to make our own video. So, I've got to go. You know the old saying, Scully, the show must go on."

Scully was chuckling. "By all means. I'll see you Monday."

"If I live that long." He cradled the phone. He sighed. Then he smiled. Then he laughed, out loud, something he never did. If Skinner called Scully for an update, she would tell him in no uncertain terms to leave Mulder alone -- that he was not to be disturbed.

It must have worked. He didn't get another call the entire weekend.

Monday morning, he went to his car, his low-end Ford from the motor pool, and found his suit and cell phone, waiting in the car. There was no note. He tucked the phone into the pocket of the suit he was wearing, and went on to the Hoover Building.

Scully was already at her desk, looking amused. "Nice weekend, Mulder?" she murmured.

He followed her eyes, and came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the cluttered office space. Roses. Two dozen, long stemmed, blood red roses. In a box, in the middle of the mess he called his desk. He took a hesitant step forward. "What's this?" He lifted the box and turned toward her. "Shouldn't you --"

"No." She was struggling not to laugh. "Ironically, I thought they were for me when Security called me to get them. But, they are for you. You must have made one great movie."

He was blushing. He knew it. He could feel his ears on fire. He didn't bother to look at the card. "It's a mistake." He put the box down on a filing cabinet. "No one would send me roses." He stilled, his eidetic memory treating him to a string of conversation last Friday night.

Scully stood. "They should be put in water, Mulder, or they'll die. I think I have a vase."

"No." He put a hand out to stop her. "Don't take them out of the box. I'm sure it's a mistake, and someone will be calling to get them."

"Mulder, the card is addressed to you." She lifted the lid and procured the small white envelope. "F. W. Mulder, Hoover Building. Who else could it be?" She started to open the envelope.

Mulder moved like lightening, snatching it from her fingers. "Don't." He sat down, put the envelope on the desk in front of him, and willed it to spontaneously combust. When it refused to do so, he lifted it delicately, and slid the card out, terrified of what he might find. It was just a plain card, with one word, handwritten. 'Sorry.'

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. The bastard remembered.

Scully looked over his shoulder. "What did she do?"

Mulder tore the card in half and then again. "Nothing." He dropped the bits into the trash can. "Let's get to work."

"Mulder, you just keep getting more and more mysterious." Scully wanted to be let in on the secret. She hated being left out. She went back to the box. "Let me put them in water."

Angrily, Mulder stood, grabbed the box and dumped it in the trash, too. "Let's forget about the roses and get to work, shall we?"

Startled, Scully backed up a step. She backed up another and dropped into her chair. She looked at him for a moment, her teeth set on her lower lip, as if struggling to keep it from quivering. Then she said, in a tiny little, wounded-Scully voice, "Okay, Mulder."

They worked in silence for a couple of hours. The only sounds were the click click of her fingers on the keyboard, and the creaking of his chair as he shifted, trying to find a position that would allow him to concentrate on the words in front of him. The sound of the telephone ringing was so loud it made both of them jump. Mulder looked at Scully. Scully looked at the phone, as if to say, 'What, I'm your personal secretary, now?'

Mulder's look became pleading.

With a sigh, Scully picked up the phone. "Crisis central," she muttered. She straightened with a jerk. "Oh, yes. Right away." She put the phone down. "The A.D. wants to see us, immediately."

"Both of us?" Mulder said hopefully.

Scully arched a brow. "Of course."

He got up and reached for the jacket he had abandoned hours before. "Let's go."

Kim, the A.D.'s ever efficient, and usually ever present secretary, was at lunch when they arrived in the ante room, but Skinner's office door was open slightly, in tacit invitation. As Mulder hung back, Scully knocked lightly on the door. "Sir? You wanted to see us?"

Skinner was in shirt sleeves, staring out the window behind his desk. He turned. His eyes went over Scully, and then went on to Mulder. "Come in. Sit down. Mulder, get the door."

Mulder felt himself being dissected by the gaze behind those hide-all glasses. He felt clumsy as he moved back to the door, as if he was going to trip over his own feet. When he returned to his chair, Scully was already seated, hands folded in her lap, her lips pursed, poised for action. He sort of sank down into his chair, emitting a sigh.

"Are we keeping you awake, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked in mock solicitation.

"He's been working very hard this morning, sir," Scully put in.

"That would make a nice change," Skinner muttered, reaching for a manila folder.

Mulder ground his teeth.

"Sir, of all the things you could say about Mulder, you could not accuse him of wasting time," Scully said, almost hotly.

"That's true," Skinner conceded. His eyes went to Mulder and back to his partner. "Does he have anything else to say, or can we get on with it?"

Scully looked at Mulder. Mulder shook his head. "No, sir," she said.

Skinner nodded. "Good. There's going to be a conference in Los Angeles next month. Someone got the bright idea that the FBI needs to be more … 'enlightened' about using potential paranormal research in crime work." His tone got sarcastic. "For some reason, the D.D. thought you two would be ideal for the conference." He pushed the file toward them.

Mulder didn't show any interest. He knew all about so-called 'psychics' that were called in to help locate missing people. He knew ninety percent of it was luck. He had very little patience for those people. Why would the FBI waste its time and resources on this? Or was it just a ploy to get him out of Skinner's -- he cut himself off before he thought the word 'hair'.

Scully was perusing the file, with similar thoughts going through her mind.

Skinner was watching Mulder's narrowed, averted eyes.

When Scully looked up, she saw the way Skinner was looking at Mulder. She lowered her eyes guiltily. She almost felt as if she had been eavesdropping on a very private, very intense conversation. But she would have loved to know what this was about.

"That's all," Skinner said abruptly. "I thought there were some field reports due?"

"They're all done, sir," Scully said quickly.

"Could you bring them to me?" Skinner's voice had softened slightly. "I have to take them to a meeting at three. Mulder, wait. There may be points I'll need to discuss with you."

Mulder dropped back into his seat with all the grace of a thwarted child. As Scully pulled the door shut, he turned on Skinner. "Roses?" he hissed. "Why didn't you just put 'thanks for the good time' on the card?"

"They weren't meant like that," Skinner said. "They were meant as an apology. And," he drew a breath. "I knew you couldn't let them go without some kind of remark, so it was a way to talk to you." He reached into his drawer and pulled something out.

"What is with you and talking, all of a sudden?" Mulder demanded. "For the past five years, all you do is tell me to shut up. Now, out of the blue, you want me to talk?" He leaned forward. "Okay, sir, here's your chance. What do you want to talk about? Baseball? The weather? The effect of the fall of Communism on the price of wheat? What?"

Skinner had come to his feet during Mulder's outburst, and now he was standing in front of the agent. "I wanted to tell you I was sorry." He held out Mulder's tie.

Mulder shook his head. "I don't want that. I could never wear it again, without seeing you …" He grabbed it from Skinner's hand and threw it in his wicker trash can. Skinner's proximity and size unnerved him for the first time in their working relationship.

Skinner shook his head. "This has clearly upset you," he began.

Mulder stared. "Gee, you think?"

"You need to talk this out with someone --"

"I don't need to discuss this with anybody," Mulder answered hotly.

"Damn it, Mulder, don't be so quick to always turn down help." Skinner's fist met the edge of the desk so emphatically it made Mulder jump. "Let someone help you sometime. Even if it's me," he added, lowering his voice to that soft, dangerous pitch that usually came just before he threatened government moles or wayward agents. He sighed again. "I am trying to say I'm sorry."

"You said that --"

"And that I let things get out of hand."

"Hands weren't the issue," Mulder muttered. "Sir."

Skinner continued reluctantly. "But, that, to be completely honest, I wouldn't mind it happening again-- under different circumstances."

With a jerk, Mulder pushed back in his chair, and the chair and Mulder rolled backward, so that Mulder ended up on his back on the floor.

"Yeah, I was pretty surprised myself." Skinner reached over him with an outstretched hand. "Only, I know it's not going to." He brought Mulder up to his feet, and for a moment they were nose to nose.

Mulder could feel Skinner's ragged breath on his face, he could feel the heat of Skinner's hand on his wrist. He could feel something else -- passion? -- flowing off the A.D.'s body and burning his own.

There was a tap at the door, and they broke apart as Scully came back into the room, an envelope in her hands. "Here are the field …" Her blue eyes went round with fright as she moved up between them. "What happened?" she demanded.

Skinner righted Mulder's chair. "Nothing."

"Did you hit him?" Scully demanded.

"Of course not," they both said.

She looked at Mulder. "Then how did your chair end up on the floor?"

"I … I stood up too fast." Mulder shoved his hands into his pockets. He wasn't exactly sure what would have happened if Scully hadn't arrived when she did, but he had a feeling it was something that would have scared the hell out of him.

Scully's eyes were going around the room, as if trying to catch ghosts of the argument. There was no doubt that she saw the tie. Did she recognize it as one of Mulder's? Mulder shuddered. "Scully, you can go over the figures with him. I have nothing to add." He got out of there so fast, it might have been comical, if anyone was in the mood to laugh.

Scully came downstairs just a few minutes later. Mulder, still in his jacket was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. "What happened with you two? Are you two still fighting?"

What the hell had happened? He had been asking himself that since he literally ran out of the office. He felt slightly dazed, and definitely confused, but not … and this was the thing he could never have profiled in a million years … afraid. Mulder shrugged and tried to busy himself with papers. "You know how it is, Scully. I'm the thorn in Skinner's side and lately, no matter what I do, I just seem to dig a little deeper. Part of the reason he hasn't been promoted is because he can't seem to keep me in line." And that's what he was trying to do, drag me back in line. It wasn't exactly subtle, was it? What else could he do? He knows I don't give a damn about promotions and merit raises, or public accolades. He can't take the truth away from me, so he tried to redefine the truth. I'll be a sonofa --

"When did he tell you that?" Scully demanded on a sharp breath.

Mulder shrugged again, irritated. "I don't know. I just know it."

"Well, he was sure breathing fire when you left." She drew out her chair. "He as much as said to me that he didn't give a flying you-know-what about the field reports."

"It's my natural charm," Mulder answered with a tight smile. "It's the reason you're in love with me."

"Oh, I wondered what caused it," Scully answered with a wry smile. "I thought I just had the flu."

"Thanks." He drummed his fingers on the desk and abruptly pushed upward. "I'm going home," he announced. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Scully looked at her watch, nonplussed. "Mulder? It's only three o'clock. Since when do you go home early?"

"Since I've given almost every waking minute to this place for the last twelve years," he answered waspishly. "I think I'm entitled to a little comp time, don't you?" He slammed the door on his way out.

He knew why he was angry. Because, if Scully hadn't interrupted, Skinner would have kissed him. And he … well, he would have let him.

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

Mulder was bathed in blue and white lights, oblivious to the lightly falling rain. Scully was on her knees just a few feet away, trying desperately to resuscitate a young man with a bullet wound right in the middle of his chest. Mulder stared at her bloodied hands, knowing it was a waste of time. When Mulder fired his gun, he fired to kill.

In the dark, with the red beam of a laser on his chest, Mulder had fired, knowing only that someone would kill him in the next second. But now that there was light from patrol cars, he could see that the someone was practically a child. He couldn't be more than twenty. And he would never be twenty-one.

A car pulled up behind them, just as Scully eased back on her haunches, brushing red hair back with blood red hands, leaving a streak on her white skin. She turned sorrowfully toward Mulder and shook her head slightly.

Car doors opened, and Agent Harris came up, took in the scene and turned to Mulder apologetically, as he showed him his badge. As usual, Internal Affairs wasted no time. They were worse than the media at knowing when an agent fired his gun. "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder, but until IA has a chance to investigate, you're going to have to relinquish your weapon."

Mulder stared at him. Couldn't he see the high-powered, laser-sighted assault rifle laying beside the body? Of course not. He saw someone down, and an agent with a smoking gun. He lifted his hand, with effort, and held out the gun.

"Is this the weapon you fired with?" Harris asked, taking the gun with rubber-tipped fingers and dropping it into an evidence bag.

A hand came down on Mulder's shoulder, squeezing slightly. "My agents don't answer any questions until they've been debriefed by me."

Mulder didn't turn. He knew who was standing beside him. Someone he had gone to comical lengths to avoid for the past six weeks.

Agent Harris looked disappointed. "That's not a very helpful attitude, Assistant Director Skinner. Internal Affairs is just trying to do its job."

"And my agents were doing theirs -- preventing a threatened assassination of a visiting, high ranking member of a foreign government," Skinner retorted. "Go home, Agent Mulder. Agent Scully. Report to my office at eight a.m. and don't discuss this with anyone until then -- even yourselves." When Mulder didn't move, Skinner squeezed again, and added softly, "Come on, Son, take it easy. We'll get this worked out." He raised his voice slightly, to include the other agent. "Agent Scully, can you see that Agent Mulder gets home?"

She nodded, reaching for him. "Come on, Mulder."

He jerked free of her grasp and that of Skinner's. "I'm all right," he said in a strangely subdued voice. "I can get home on my own." He turned on his heel and marched toward his car, the door wide open, where he had abandoned it to chase the suspect on foot. He slid in and started the car with a savage twist of the key.

Scully came up beside him, and put her worried face close to his. "Are you all right, Mulder?"

He gave her their stock answer, the answer they both used to lie to each other over the years. "I'm fine." He wasn't fine. He was starting to shake. He hated death. And to be the one to administer it was absolutely crushing. He had an intellectual knowledge that the deceased would have killed him if he had not fired first. He also knew that, if he was down, the assassin would have, in all likelihood, shot Scully, at least two other cops, and very probably his original target. Still, when he looked into that young, dying face …

"Let me drive you home," Scully insisted.

Mulder turned toward her, astounded by the composure of her blood-streaked face. "Doesn't it ever get to you, Scully?" he said in that ragged whisper that promised either temper or tears in its wake. "All that death?"

"Death is never pleasant, Mulder," she said. "But, dealing with it is our business. It's our job, our duty."

Mulder met her eyes, incredulous. "It was my duty to kill a kid?"

"It was your duty to prevent him from killing other people," Scully countered firmly.

"And I prevented him from ever doing anything ever again." Mulder banged his fist on the steering wheel.

"You did what you were trained to do," Scully said gently.

"Fuck training," Mulder retorted. He snapped the car into reverse and pulled away.

He didn't go home. He didn't want to sit in his empty, darkened apartment, hearing the shouted threats and warnings, the ricochet of gunfire, the stunned moan of his target. He kept driving. He didn't know where he was going. At first he just drove around D.C. Then he went over the border into Virginia, as if he thought he would go home, but four blocks from his apartment, he turned around again. Then, when he was filling the gas tank just outside the Mall, he thought he might go to Greenwich, and talk to his mom. But he couldn't do that. He already knew what would happen. She'd listen to what he had done, and then she'd say 'Oh, Fox,' in a tone that was ten times worse than anything the IA would do to him. He turned around again. He couldn't go to Scully's. She wasn't supposed to discuss this with him until they had been debriefed. But he needed to talk. He needed to be debriefed tonight, not eight hours from now. He started back to Virginia.

All the way to the front door, he kept telling himself to turn around, to go back, to go home, get drunk, sleep it off. But he rang the bell.

The green door opened.

Skinner was still in shirt sleeves and tie. His glasses were pushed up on his brow, as if he had been doing something that didn't require near sight vision. He didn't seem surprised that Mulder was standing on his doorstep, looking mussed and miserable. He stood back, and let Mulder come inside. Wordlessly, he took Mulder's coat and then his jacket and put them in the closet. He turned back to Mulder, who was still standing there, looking as if he was about to implode on himself. Skinner put out a tentative hand, and Mulder started coming.

Mulder didn't know what drew him toward the A.D. Maybe it was just the idea of having a shoulder to cry on. That's where he went, slowly, uncertain, until he put his aching forehead down on Skinner's shoulder.

Skinner let his weight go back against the closet door and brought Mulder's weight with him, his arms lightly around the other man's waist, waiting for Mulder to break.

Mulder didn't break. He stood there, wrapped in comfort and understanding, a place he had never been before. Even if this man had betrayed his trust, he still respected him, he still needed his respect. And this man was trying to be kind. This man was trying to right the wrong he had done. Slowly, he brought his arms up, and put them around Skinner's waist. He let out a sigh of pure pain, something that, with a little effort could have become a howl.

After a moment, Skinner broke the embrace. "Come on, come in and sit down." With his arm still around Mulder's waist, he directed him inside, but avoided the chair Mulder had been in all those weeks ago. "Do you want a cup of coffee?" His voice was a blissfully familiar rumble of normalcy.

Mulder shook his head. He could see paperwork scattered all over the coffee table. "You're working. I'll go."

"No." Skinner held him in the chair. "This is more important. How are you?"

He almost said what he always said to Scully. He looked up at Skinner bleakly. More important, he had said, "How do you think I am? I just killed someone. I just killed a kid."

"You killed someone who was threatening to kill other people."

Mulder shrugged.

"Okay, let's not talk about it yet. I'll make you something to drink, and you just sit and let it go." Skinner went to the bar and stopped, looking back at him. "Whiskey?"

Mulder lifted his eyes again. "I don't drink the hard stuff."

Skinner turned toward the kitchen. "Then let me make you some coffee, some decaf. Have you eaten?"

Mulder managed a lopsided smile. "I'm not a guest, sir. You don't have to feed me."

Skinner came back to the chair, looking down at him. Impulsively, he caught a wave of Mulder's hair and tugged it back from his eyes. "You look like shit, Mulder. You were on stakeout all last night, and in briefings all day. When was the last time you slept?"

Mulder sighed. "I never sleep. Didn't you know? I'm a vampire."

To his surprise, Skinner laughed. "Go upstairs and lay down. You need the rest. You're going to have to be coherent tomorrow for the Internal Affairs investigation."

Mulder shook his head. "I need to sleep in my home soil."

"Guaranteed." Skinner had him under the arms and was easing him upward. "Straight from Transylvania."

"Nope," Mulder muttered, letting Skinner push him along. "It's got to be Transylvineyard."

"Fine. I'll make a call."

"Assistant Director Skinner, sir, you're making jokes." Mulder was surprised.

"Come on, Mulder," Skinner grunted. "You're heavy. Move your feet."

Mulder went up the stairs because the thought of that big bed and flannel sheets just sounded so good.

Skinner got him into the bedroom, and sat him down on the edge of the bed, and kneeled in front of him. He worked the laces on Mulder's Nunn Bushes and eased them off, while Mulder considered the bald spot on the top of the A.D.'s head in a numbed fascination. The men in his family didn't go bald. They didn't even have receding hairlines. Skinner reached up and started to work Mulder's tie. Suddenly, he stopped. "You know, that's actually a halfway decent tie, Mulder. I'd hate for you to throw that one away."

With a self-conscious smile, Mulder worked the tie free, himself, and handed it to Skinner. Skinner started on the buttons of his shirt. As he got buttons open almost to his belly, Skinner stopped and let one stray fingertip slip up and down Mulder's sternum. Mulder shivered and his eyes opened wide.

Skinner stood abruptly and went to the closet. "Here." He brought back another pair of running pants and a tee shirt identical to the one Mulder had worn that night. "Make yourself comfortable."

Mulder took the clothes and watched Skinner back toward the door, red-faced and flustered, and he felt abandoned. If he wanted to be alone, he could have gone back to his apartment. "Are you … are you leaving me?" he asked quietly.

Skinner misunderstood the question. "You don't have to worry about me behaving inappropriately tonight, Agent Mulder," he said in a tight, controlled voice. "You're perfectly safe."

Mulder bit down on his lip. "I wish … I wish you would stay."

Skinner's eyes widened and color rushed back to his face. Mulder wasn't looking at him. He was looking at the clothes in his hands. "I'm not sure what you want from me, Agent Mulder."

"I guess I just don't want to be alone right now," Mulder confessed quietly. "That's all. Just not to be alone."

Skinner screwed his mouth up, trying to make a decision. Then he nodded. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

Mulder changed, finding a hanger for his suit, put his underwear and socks in a neat pile near his shoes. He climbed back into the bed. (The sheets were still black and white but, since it was Spring now, they were percale, not flannel.) Then he sat and waited, chewing on his lower lip, wondering what the hell he was trying to do to himself.

No. He knew what he exactly wanted. There was nothing sexual about his desire to be here, although he knew it would probably be the price he paid for needing the kindness and comfort that Skinner would provide him. Skinner had shown a capacity to be everything his father couldn't be, and everything that Mulder wanted and couldn't ask from Scully. And he needed some of each tonight.

Skinner came upstairs after a little while. He gave Mulder an uncertain look and went into the bathroom. When he came out, he had on the black bathrobe, his shirt, slacks and tie draped over his arm.

Mulder watched him put everything away, rubbing his bared arms distractedly. He wanted this first part to be over so they could get to the second part; the compassion and kindness he needed. He had never had a homosexual relationship, although he'd had a lot of offers, especially while he was at Oxford. He didn't understand the attraction. The guys who came on to him were usually the big, burly, super macho ones, the ones Mulder would never have picked as gay. The ones not unlike A.D. Skinner. If Mulder's proclivities had ever gone in that direction, the muscle wouldn't have done anything for him. He would have been turned on by brains … not unlike A.D. Skinner.

But, Skinner was an ex-Marine, an ex-husband, a super straight-laced, by the book man. He was even known to go to church. What was he doing making passes at some skinny kid from Oxford?

Skinner came to the edge of the bed. "Um … Mulder, this is my side of the bed."

Mulder scooted to the far side obediently.

Skinner dropped the robe across the foot of the bed. He was wearing white briefs that set off the darkness of his skin. Mulder looked at the television in the corner.

Once Skinner was in the bed, arranging the blankets the way he wanted them, he turned toward Mulder and held his arms open. "Come here."

Mulder went, reluctantly, fear knotting up his throat like a tie. Skinner drew him against his shoulder, wrapped one arm around him, and reached up to turn the bedroom light off. "Good night, Mulder," he whispered.

Stunned, Mulder murmured a faint, "Good night," and let himself melt into the warmth of an unexpected embrace. Within a few minutes, he was asleep.

- END part 2 of 15 -
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