Little Things (part 3 of 15)

by Mik

Skinner had learned to expect the unexpected over the years, but the last thing he expected when he went to open the door that Thursday night was Agent Mulder. He looked like a whipped puppy. He looked so scared, so unsure, so miserable, so completely unlike the annoying asshole that Mulder could be that Skinner wanted to rush to him, take him in his arms, soothe and comfort him. But, he just let him come inside.

Mulder didn't try to explain why he was there. He acted as if he believed Skinner already knew. He let Skinner take his topcoat, and then his suit jacket (Where did this G-12 get the money to live in Armanis?) and stood in the hallway, looking around as if he couldn't get his eyes to focus. Skinner wanted to help him, but he didn't know how much help Mulder would accept. He put out a hand, waiting to have it slapped away, but to his amazement, Mulder almost collapsed into his arms. Skinner couldn't believe it when Mulder allowed him to put his arms around him. He even put his arms around Skinner.

Skinner could have stayed right there all night, smelling Mulder's hair, holding that strong body, feeling his ragged breath. But he was sure that wasn't what Mulder had come for. He eased Mulder away and took him into the living room. Mulder made a half hearted attempt to leave, but Skinner persuaded him to stay, even invited him to spend the night. Mulder not only accepted it, he made jokes about it. Transylvineyard.

It had been a long six weeks. Six weeks of evaluating and reevaluating every action he had taken that night. (Even in his thoughts he couldn't make himself refer to it as anything more than 'that night'.) Eventually, reevaluation gave way to remembering; Mulder's scent, the silkiness of his hair, the color of a go to hell gleam in his eyes, the warmth of his mouth, and rebukes turned into remorse, and then finally returned to regret. Not so much regret for what he had done so much as regret that what he had done had forever prevented him from getting close to Mulder again. And there he was, one night, six weeks later, sitting on the edge of his bed again, right where this all started.

Skinner didn't mean to touch him, but there was that chest, and he could see Mulder's heart not just beating but still pounding in it, and he just let one fingertip trail along the pulse line. The electricity of the touch made him pull his hand away in surprise. Embarrassed, he busied himself trying to assure Mulder that he had nothing to worry about. He was absolutely dumbfounded when Mulder asked him to stay.

He went downstairs, poured himself a stiff drink, promised himself that he wouldn't touch the agent, and went upstairs, getting ready for bed with those dark, sleepy eyes watching every movement as if in terror. He climbed into bed, and offered Mulder the comfort of his embrace and the next thing he knew, Mulder was cuddled up in the curve of his arm, his head tilted down, so that he couldn't see Mulder's face. Within minutes, Mulder was breathing softly and regularly.

He woke when it was still dark. Mulder had turned, had his back to him, but Skinner's arm was still draped around him. Skinner leaned forward a little, sniffing the back of Mulder's neck. He had the cleanest smell. This fascinated Skinner. The man was a walking disaster when it came to paperwork, his office should be shut down as a safety hazard, his apartment was a wreck, and the car pool always complained that his cars came back filled with sunflower seed shells, empty coffee cups and discarded staples. But, personally, Mulder was invariably clean, fresh, and neat. His clothes were meticulous, his person was well-groomed, even his shoes were shined. After a night of pure hell, he still managed to smell as if he had just gotten out of a shower. Skinner sniffed again.

Mulder wiggled a little. Apparently, Skinner's breath tickled. He started to ease away and was surprised to have long fingers clutch at his arm. So, instead of sniffing, Skinner tried a gentle kiss to the back of his neck. Momentary stiffness gave way to easing back into his arms, pressing against his chest. He grew bolder. He let the hand around Mulder's waist stray a little, sliding up the muscular belly to the chest and across one nipple, which hardened instantly under the tee shirt. Remembering (because it had become a chorus in his memory) a sigh of reluctant release one horrible night, Skinner licked that spot behind Mulder's ear. Suddenly, he had a molten pool of Mulder in his arms. Mulder rolled back into his arms, and looked up at him sleepily, expectantly, uncertainly.

Skinner didn't want to hurry things. He knew, for the moment, Mulder was extremely receptive and he didn't want to rush toward anything that would interfere with the reception. He started with a tentative kiss. Mulder shut his eyes and responded. Skinner groaned. Mulder's mouth was hot, mobile, soft. For six weeks, Skinner had fantasized about this moment, his wildest fantasies did not compare to the reality of it.

He let his fingers dance lightly back down Mulder's stomach and over the fabric of the running pants, lingering over the size and shape of a bulge he found there.

Mulder pulled his mouth away. "That happens every morning, sir," he mumbled.

Skinner smiled to himself. Did Mulder really believe that Skinner didn't understand about morning erections? He moved so that he could get his fingers under the pants and brushed the tip of his penis. Mulder responded with a gasp and a slight arching of his back. Hmm, sensitive, Skinner thought. "Do you want to get up for anything?" he offered.

Mulder shook his head faintly. "I was up earlier."

Emboldened, Skinner lifted himself up enough to draw the pants down. "I believe I owe you something," he murmured, gliding his hand over the shaft. Mulder's cock was thicker than he would have imagined.

Mulder gasped again. "You don't owe me, sir."

"Stop calling me 'Sir'," Skinner growled and leaned up to kiss him again. Tugging at the oversized tee shirt, he pointed out, "You're not on duty at the moment."

"What do you want me to call you?" Mulder asked on a sigh.

"I don't know," Skinner murmured, distracted. Since there was very little light, he had to learn Mulder's body by touch. He was lean and hard with well-defined coils of musculature, especially in his long, runner's legs. His shoulders were not broad, but they were straight and well-rounded with strength. There was very little hair on his chest, but plenty across his lower abdomen and groin. And, if Skinner remembered correctly, his skin was a very soft gold.

But this perfect body had not remained perfect. Scars told a Braille horror story; a scar on his right thigh, six inches long, a small, circular bullet wound on the front and back of his left shoulder, four long lines along the bottom of his rib cage that felt like slash marks. Skinner shuddered. Not only did this young man suffer severe emotional pain, but he had been wounded in the line of duty too many times to tell.

Skinner put his hand back up to Mulder's pulsing erection. "Oh, Fox," he sighed.

"Don't," Mulder said harshly, twisting away from Skinner's kiss. "Don't call me Fox. No one calls me that."

Skinner was too intrigued to be discreet. "Not even Scully?" He squeezed Mulder's sac gently as if squeezing the truth out of him.

"No," Mulder gasped again.

"Not even in moments of … intimacy?" He let his fingernails ride gently up the shaft.

"We're not … intimate," Mulder grunted.

This stunned Skinner. Although there was strict policy against agents becoming involved, everyone assumed that Mulder and Scully were just this side of matrimony. "Oh."

Mulder drew a deep breath to regain control. "It's not that I wouldn't like to," he confessed. "But, she's my partner. I need her too much the way she is. Sex would complicate things."

"So?" Skinner prompted. Had he read Mulder wrong? Was his righteous indignation only a cover?

Mulder opened his eyes and sought Skinner's. "So?" he echoed, bewildered.

"If not Scully, who?"

His expression remained bewildered. "No one."

"No one?" Impossible. A good-looking, intelligent, personable young man like Mulder? A young man so driven that he had to be forced to take vacations and recognize holidays. Mulder was either working, running or sleeping. There was no room in his life for food, fun or sex. "Well, we'll fix that, for this morning, at least."

Mulder put his hand down as if to protect himself. "You don't have to do anything, Si -- um, Walter."

Skinner made a face. Mulder couldn't say the name without making it a mockery. "I won't call you Fox if you won't call me Walter." He pushed Mulder's hand away.

Mulder was distracted by the problem. "What will we call each other?"

Skinner's tongue darted out and traced the slit of his glans tentatively. "I don't know." Mulder was looking toward a future of them needing to speak to one another by something other than the formality of the office. This made Skinner smile to himself. "We'll make up names."

He was gratified to hear Mulder chuckle even as he arched up in a spasm of pleasure.

The sensation of another man's penis against his lips, his tongue, was intriguing, not at all as unpleasant as he expected it to be. The taut flesh was warm, silky, smelling of sweat and soap and something that must be unique to Mulder, because Skinner couldn't identify it. Skinner didn't know much about fellatio, except what he had learned on his foray into the WEB and his experiences on the receiving end. But, he was a resourceful man and he put what little knowledge he had to use effectively enough that he had to reach up and put a hand over Mulder's mouth lest he wake the neighbors. Who would have taken uptight, in control Mulder for a screamer?

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

Skinner paced his office nervously. It was nearly eight a.m. How was he going to handle having Mulder in his office after having him in his mouth? After having to nearly smother Mulder with a pillow to keep him quiet, he had felt the agent stiffen and pull away. He tried to entice him back into his arms, but Mulder scooted to the far side of the bed and then out. "I've got to go home and change," he mumbled. "Oh, thanks for everything." He dressed and was gone like lightning.

There was a knock at the door. Scully peered in. "Sir? Kim's not in yet. I didn't know if you were ready to see us."

Us? So Mulder was with her? He steeled himself against the edge of his desk. "Yes, come in." There was Scully in a light blue pantsuit, looking pale and drawn as if she had gotten no sleep the previous night. "Sit down. Would you like some coffee?" He went to the pot beside the conference table. Where was Mulder?

"Yes, thank you, sir." She twisted slightly in the chair to look at him. "Have you seen Mulder? I know you told us not to discuss this case, but I went by his house last night." There was an uncharacteristic quiver in her voice. "He wasn't home."

Skinner knew he had the power to ease her fears, but he couldn't. "Did you try his cell?"

"Yes, sir. It rang and rang. Thank you, sir," she added as he brought her coffee. She stood and went back to the coffee pot to add things.

"I'm sure he's all right, Agent Scully," Skinner said, trying to sound reassuring. At least, he was a couple of hours ago. But, where the hell is he now?

"He's fine." Mulder was in the doorway, looking perfect in a dark gray suit -- one Skinner never remembered seeing. "He just wasn't in a mood to answer phones."

Skinner looked from Scully to Mulder and back again. Mulder looked as if he had been well-fed and well-rested. Scully was the wreck, and she was noticing it too.

"Well, wherever you were, it agreed with you," she observed, with a tone far too familiar to be used in a superior's office.

Mulder's only answer was about half a smile, so intimate it made Skinner catch his breath, wishing it had been directed toward him.

"Okay." Skinner went back to his desk. "Let's get down to it, although, preliminary reports are coming in, and there doesn't seem too much to get down to. Crime scene reports suggest that Internal Affairs is going to do a cakewalk on this. The ballistic reports say the bullets taken from Dr. Yen's limo match the assault rifle collected at the scene. We have three witnesses who saw him wave the weapon and threaten to shoot Agent Mulder and Officer Rittner. We've managed to open the juvenile files and our perp has a rap sheet going back to age twelve, including an attempted manslaughter charge involving his stepmother. There probably won't be a formal hearing on this, Agent Mulder." He risked a look at the agent, who was listening with no more or less intensity than he usually did. "It looks like you'll have your gun back in three days. In the meantime, I'm requesting you take your administrative leave and get out of town." He tossed a set of keys across the desk. "My stepdad's got a place in Katonah, West Virginia. It's about a three hour drive. It will take you away from all this."

Mulder and Scully were staring at him. "Don't look at me as if I've lost my mind," he ordered. "They pulled your jacket, Agent Mulder. They're suggesting crisis intervention again. I thought a fishing trip might look better on the record."

Mulder stood and reached for the keys. "Thank you, uh … sir." He paused.

"Something the matter, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder swallowed, fingering the keys, avoiding Skinner's stare. "Don't think I don't appreciate it, but I tend to get in trouble when I'm left alone like that."

Skinner's eyes widened, but the reflection in his glasses hid the reaction from Mulder and Scully. "Oh, you'll be all right, Agent Mulder. The lodge has a satellite dish."

Mulder nodded and pocketed the keys. At the door, following Scully out, he turned, looked back at Skinner as if he wanted to say something, and then just kept going.

Skinner settled back into his chair with a heavy sigh. Did Mulder just ask him to come down over the weekend? Did he want to go? Of course he did. Would he go? Probably. He was ashamed to say that Mulder in a new suit was more than his reason and judgment could handle. Was Mulder expecting him today? Would he be disappointed and leave if Skinner didn't show up? Could he make himself wait another day before going down there?

Somehow, he managed to make himself busy until just before noon. Then he stepped out into the anteroom, shrugging into his topcoat. "Kim, I've got to go interview a witness to that shooting last night. I think I'll head home from there. If I had any other appointments, cancel them. I didn't get any sleep last night, and I'm beat."

Kim murmured an obedient, "Yes, sir," and reached for her phone.

Skinner made a half hearted attempt to conduct an interview, even though the ground had already been covered by IA, and he hadn't been in the field in years. He just wanted to be able to say he wasn't lying when he left the office. Then he went home, threw a few things in a bag, grabbed his spare set of keys, and pointed the Lexus toward West Virginia.

By six o'clock, he was swinging up the narrow, tree lined road that would dead-end at his stepfather's front door. As he came around the last turn, he was actually holding his breath. But, there was that low-end Ford, parked under a tree. He pulled in behind it, smiling to himself, and climbed out of the car.

The house was dark, the door was locked. He let himself in, put his bag in the hall, and called out softly, "Mulder?" There was no answer. He went into the den, where the only television was. It was off, it was cool. Mulder had not spent the afternoon in front of it. He went to the kitchen. The counter tops were bare. There wasn't even coffee in the pot, or a glass in the sink to indicate that Mulder had helped himself to a glass of water. He went on through the pantry, to the back door.

It took Skinner a minute to see him. He was standing down the hill, staring into a copse of trees. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, and his green shirt seemed to blend into the surroundings so well, if he hadn't sighed restlessly, Skinner might still be looking for him.

Skinner went down the path, and about five yards off, called out, "Mulder?"

Mulder turned sharply. His eyes registered surprise. "You came," he said, as if he thought that impossible, and then he came back up the path.

"Didn't you ask me to?" Skinner asked, anxiously.

Mulder shrugged. "I think it's a good thing that you did." He walked past. "We need to talk."

Skinner felt his heart plummeting. "I think so, too," he said in resignation. He turned and followed Mulder back up to the house.

"This is a nice place," Mulder observed as they reached the back door.

"My stepdad used to spend every summer up here. Now he only comes up once in a while."

"I didn't know you had a stepfather," Mulder said, holding the door open.

Skinner came through, nodding. "My dad died several years ago, and my mom remarried a couple of years later. He's nice enough. He's not my dad."

Mulder nodded, as if he understood completely. "I can make coffee," he offered as they came into the kitchen.

Skinner almost smiled. One would think that this was Mulder's house, and he was the guest, instead of the other way around. "Sure. How was the drive?" he asked, going to one of the tall stools in the corner.

Mulder answered with a one shouldered shrug. He was opening cupboards, looking for coffee.

"Try the freezer," Skinner suggested.

Mulder's eyes opened as if he had now truly heard everything. He went to the pantry and came back with a red and green bag from Starbucks. He looked at it, smiling sadly. "You know, that's what Scully's dad called her. Starbuck."

Skinner didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

Mulder overcame his melancholy quickly. He ground the beans, filled the reservoir with water and pushed the red button, then leaned back against the counter, his hands resting on the edge, as if he intended to hoist himself up. "So," he said, meaningfully.

"So," Skinner echoed.

"I think pretending it didn't happen is pretty much out of the question now," Mulder said after a while.

Skinner looked down at his hands. They seemed so naked without his wedding ring, and he looked away. "It doesn't have to be that way. If that's what you want --"

"That's the thing," Mulder interrupted. "I have a photographic memory. I don't forget anything."

"I'm aware of your remarkable capacity to remember most details," Skinner said dryly. "Little things like paperwork and getting approval for your wild excursions seem to be the exceptions."

Mulder's eyes narrowed. "I'll make a note of that, sir."

Skinner matched his expression. "You don't think I'd stop expecting you to follow the rules, do you?"

Mulder's eyes remained narrowed, but he shook his head.

Skinner sighed, exasperated. "All right, if you were a mere mortal, Agent Mulder, would you want to forget this ever happened?"

Mulder screwed up his mouth. After a long, thoughtful moment, he sighed, too. "No."

Skinner didn't realize he had been holding his breath. "Then what do you want to do?"

"I don't know." Mulder did pull himself up onto the counter, and absently toyed with a row of coffee cups on hooks beneath the cupboard. "It's not what I saw for myself. I mean, I never pictured myself as gay. I like women. Some women I like a lot," he added almost defensively. "But, I've never had a really satisfying relationship with one. The women I'm attracted to are users. I get used up too easily." His voice softened. "I need someone who's going to give back." He lifted his eyes and almost smiled at Skinner. "You seem to be able to give back, and then some."

Skinner relaxed. "I'm certainly willing to."

"Of course, I'm not blind to the obvious; you're a lot older than I am," Mulder continued, nodding at nothing in particular. "Any psychologist would recognize the fact that I'm looking for paternal approval and affection. That's a heavy load to lay on someone who's just in it for sex."

"You think that's all it is?" Skinner asked sadly. He was hurt -- more so than he expected.

Mulder gave him that jerky shrug again. "I don't know what to think. I do know that I'm willing to try it out, see where it goes. After all, I've had my heart broken before. If you break it …" He surprised Skinner by grinning. "I'll just have to shoot you."

Skinner stood, on surprisingly unsteady legs. The idea of Mulder's heart being broken almost broke his. "Come here," he said.

Mulder slid down from the counter and came toward him, almost diffidently.

Skinner reached out and took his face between his hands. "Look at me," he commanded softly.

Mulder raised his eyes, slowly.

They were so deep, those gray-green eyes of his. Skinner thought he could drown in them. "I'm not going to hurt you. If this is going to be too much for you, say so, I'll let you out. But, I'm in it for the long haul. I didn't expect to take this direction, Mulder, I'll tell you that. But, now that I'm on the path, I like being here, and the reason is I like being with you. Okay?"

Mulder lowered his eyes and nodded against Skinner's hands.

"Can I kiss you?" Skinner asked quietly.

Mulder raised his eyes again. Then he nodded.

Skinner noticed that he closed his eyes, but he didn't fight the contact, in fact he gave as good as he got, winding his arms around Skinner's chest, and giving him his weight. Skinner had to break the embrace when he knew he wasn't going to be able to stop soon. Drawing in a ragged breath, he looked at Mulder. As soon as he had ended the kiss, Mulder had backed away, as if caught invading someone else's space.

He's so young and so old at the same time, Skinner marveled, watching his eyes. He's seen everything and knows nothing. He could tell Mulder was trying to put some pieces together, and he watched the brows knit up in a frown. Finally, he put a hand on Mulder's shoulder. "What is it?"

Mulder sighed, tried to speak, paused, and then tried again. "It's the sex," he said bluntly. "I'm not sure how much I'm ready for."

Skinner laughed gently. "We're going to blaze that trail together, Agent Mulder," he promised. "It's all virgin territory for both of us, if you'll pardon the expression."

Mulder's eyes widened again, as if he couldn't imagine the A.D. making such an awful pun. Then he frowned. "Work will be hard."

"No, it won't," Skinner assured him. "Let me make it perfectly clear to you; in the light of day, I'm not going to slack off on you one iota no matter what happens in the dark. In fact, I may be a little harder on you, just because my own fears and feelings will be more directly involved." He watched Mulder's reaction to this declaration. "Now, do you want out?"

Mulder actually seemed relieved by the threat. He answered by shaking his head.

"All right, how about some coffee?"

They decided they'd better lay in some supplies. Mulder seemed a little uncomfortable about going out into public with him, but Skinner assured him that he and his stepbrother came up here all the time, and that he had invited more than one old Marine buddy up for the weekend. They weren't going to be noticeable. "What did you think?" Skinner teased as they went out to the Lexus. "That we've got tattoos on our foreheads now?"

Mulder answered with a bewildered shake of his head. "I don't know what to think. I never noticed it when I was in England -- except for the guys who just blatantly asked me, but everyone told me it was going on under my nose. And, Scully's got this … radar. She can always tell. I always miss it." He shook his head, again, looking disgusted at his lack of cognizance. "We were in Florida once, and this guy kind of came on to me -- I just thought he was being real friendly -- but Scully saw it, and pointed it out to me. Teased me about it for weeks."

Skinner didn't like the idea of other men coming on to Mulder, but he refrained from commenting. Jealousy hadn't been discussed, yet. "Are you going to tell her?"

"Oh, no," Mulder said emphatically. "She's not exactly open-minded, you know."

"It's her Catholic upbringing, I'm sure," Skinner said, opening the car doors. "I know I never was."

Mulder turned and looked at Skinner in the moonlight. "You're Catholic?"

Skinner nodded. "I don't go much. After Nam …" He stopped, his mouth tightening into a line. "What about you? Are we wandering into another issue here?"

"Me? Oh, no." Mulder settled back in his seat. "We weren't really anything. Just New England self-righteous. Episcopalian, I think. I remember Sunday School when I was real young, but after Samantha …" He stopped, just as Skinner had done. He screwed up his face, thinking hard. "I think everything stopped then. As a family, we sort of … I don't know … died."

"But they still had you," Skinner pointed out. It seemed after his sister died, his parents just loved him all the more.

Mulder shot him a meaningful look. "Let's put it this way. I think my parents thought they took the wrong one." He shrugged again. Skinner had to notice that it was awkward and elegant all at once, just like everything Mulder did. "They got divorced. My mother got bitter, my dad got drunk. I got smart and went away to school."

"You were pretty young, weren't you?" Skinner remembered reading somewhere that Mulder had gone on to Oxford at a time when most kids were just graduating from high school.

"I guess. It didn't seem soon enough at the time."

"Why Oxford?"

"Because I couldn't get into a school on the moon," Mulder answered flatly. "Isn't there another station we could listen to?"

Skinner took the hint and they were silent the rest of the drive.

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

Watching Mulder in a grocery store was an experience Skinner wouldn't trade for all the promotions in the Bureau. Once assured that he wasn't expected to cook, Mulder picked up boxes, studied labels, made decisions and planned meals like a gourmand. Having stopped at the snack counter for a Coke, he strode the aisles, barely restraining a desire to skip, his white running shoes squeaking on the tiles, his ever active mouth working around the straw, his eyes taking in everything on every shelf. He was manic in the snack aisles: sunflower seeds, pretzels, chocolate chip cookies, red licorice. The rules and regulations of his diet defied description. He didn't like green veggies, but he got plenty of salad stuff. He loved red meat, hated chicken. He wanted real butter on his whole wheat bread, but wouldn't drink anything but non-fat milk. Yogurt made him gag, but he bought a huge container of cottage cheese. Skinner followed him, barely containing his amusement.

At the checkout counter, he blithely pulled out a credit card and paid the bill, silencing Skinner's protest with one furious look. He carried things out to the car and loaded them himself. When Skinner reminded him that he was his guest, Mulder answered with a grunt and climbed in the car.

"I'm the one supposed to be here," he reminded Skinner when Skinner had started the car and hit the road. "If you had used your ATM, it would have shown that you were up here this weekend. Use your head, A.D. Low profile, remember?"

"Well, I can pay you back," Skinner began.

"You can go to hell," Mulder answered and then added, cheerfully, "God, I've always wanted to say that to you."

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

Mulder made the salad while Skinner broiled steaks and potatoes. Mulder seemed a little intimidated about the concept of setting a table. He either ate in restaurants or over the sink, but he gamely made a go of it. They ate in companionable silence. Mulder, the manic in the grocery store, had turned into Mulder the mild once they crossed the sill. He helped with the dishes, and managed to only break one plate.

After dinner, things got complicated. They didn't know what to do with each other, and moved around, awkwardly, trying to be near one another without making contact. Finally, Skinner suggested television. Mulder brought licorice and pretzels and dropped into one of the leather sling chairs, while Skinner settled on the leather sofa. "Hey," he said after a few minutes. "Come sit with me."

Mulder came with surprising alacrity. At first he sat a few inches away from Skinner, being careful not to brush up against him. Then Skinner reached out and put a hand across Mulder's shoulder and pulled. Mulder settled down against him, pulling his feet up under him, his hand making a constant trail between the bag in his lap to his mouth.

Skinner could no longer focus on the movie -- an old John Wayne western. He was ultra aware of Mulder's breathing, his scent, the constant movement of his mouth, the fact that he kept reaching down between his legs to pick up a red rope, and then twirl his tongue around it lazily, occasionally sucking on it before putting it out of its misery by chomping down, and chewing it up.

He let his hand play along Mulder's collarbone, his hair, his chin, and once in a while, his full lower lip. Mulder responded with a firm bite when he did that, but it didn't stop him from doing it again a few minutes later. He forgot what the movie was about, he didn't care. He wanted to go to bed, to hold Mulder's naked body against his, kiss him, caress him, do whatever Mulder was ready to do. But, resolutely, he watched John Wayne win the West.

As the credits ran, he looked down. Mulder had turned his face against Skinner's chest. His eyes were closed, his hands were still, his breathing was regular. Skinner touched his cheek. "Come on, baby," he said. "Bedtime."

Mulder opened his eyes. At first they were wide, frightened, disoriented. Then he looked up. "Baby?" he repeated, mildly indignant.

"Fox?" Skinner suggested.

"Baby," Mulder returned and straightened up. He stretched, and the ripple of muscles was visible even under the heavy cotton of his Henley shirt. "Can I take a shower first?"

It took Skinner a minute to make his tongue work properly. "Sure. Do you know where everything is?"

Mulder stood. "I'll find it." He took the empty licorice bag and carried it back to the kitchen.

Skinner went into the bathroom next to the main bedroom, washed his face and brushed his teeth. He could hear Mulder moving around in the guest bath, and he wanted to go in and peek. But he waited. He dressed for bed; still cool enough for pajama pants, and went into the master bedroom to pull the bedclothes back.

Mulder came in a few minutes later, barechested, in dark blue sweats, that rested low on his hips, toweling his hair vigorously. Then he stopped. "Did you … um, want me to sleep in here?"

Skinner gave him an impatient look. "Yes."

Mulder came to the side of the bed and looked down. "Is this side okay?"

"Yes."

Mulder turned around and padded out of the room.

"Mulder?"

"Just putting the towel away," he explained and climbed into the bed, sitting on his knees, looking down at Skinner. "If I … um …" He licked his lips. "Never mind."

"What is it?" Skinner demanded.

"Nothing." Mulder made a great show of getting under the blankets.

Skinner was amused. "What? Do you snore?"

Mulder nodded. "If it gets too bad, kick me out."

"If I notice," Skinner promised dryly. He flicked the light out and reached for Mulder.

Mulder came, but seemed a little reluctant. Skinner arranged the bedclothes around them. "Good night, Mulder."

"Good night," Mulder whispered. It took a long time for him to relax.

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

He didn't snore. He wiggled. At first, he lay in the crook of Skinner's arm. Then he bunched himself up almost in a fetal position. Then he stretched out. Then he rolled onto his back. When Skinner woke up in the morning, Mulder was wrapped across him, his head on one shoulder, his hand curled around the other. Skinner liked the feel of his warm, strong body, and he ran his hands over Mulder's bare back, luxuriating in that smooth, hard skin. He rested his cheek against Mulder's forehead, and listened to him breathe through slightly parted lips. Asleep, Mulder was thirteen again.

Mulder eventually responded to the caresses, reaching up to touch Skinner's unshaven chin. "Uh oh," he murmured sleepily. "One of us is going to end up with rug burn."

That made Skinner laugh. Listening to the sound of Skinner's laughter against his ear made Mulder laugh, a sound Skinner was completely unaccustomed to. "Well, which one?" he asked finally.

"Well …" Mulder rolled back onto his back and stretched like a cat, his hands over his head. "I guess it's my turn." He sat up in a flash, throwing bedclothes back. He had Skinner's pajamas off easily, despite Skinner's vain attempt to stop him. After that, he stopped, slightly helpless. "Okay," he said with a deep breath. "My memory of that other night isn't too clear on this part."

Skinner clucked at him. "I thought you had a photographic memory."

"I do," Mulder agreed. "I had my eyes shut."

Skinner touched his face. "You don't have to --"

"I know." Mulder's voice was odd. "But, for that very reason, I'm going to." He knelt between Skinner's Titan legs. "I'm just not sure how."

Skinner toyed with his hair, his ear, those indecently long lashes. "Think of your licorice last night," he suggested.

Mulder considered it. And then he put it to practice.

He still wasn't perfect, but he could get the job done, and he did. Letting his tongue trail gently around the head, up and then down the shaft, as if taking measurements, he tested the length and breadth of it, and his capacity to hold it. Once he was sure he could take it all in comfortably, he proceeded to do so, and with relish. Mulder had always enjoyed a job well done. He had Skinner writhing in anticipation within seconds, and gasping for breath in minutes. When Skinner realized that his orgasm was imminent, he tried to pull Mulder away, to spare him the ignominy of throwing up again. But Mulder wouldn't quit. He took it, all of it, with barely a shudder. Then he backed away, felt his way off the bed, and ran to the bathroom.

It took Skinner a moment to regain himself, and then he followed, concerned.

Mulder wasn't doubled over the toilet. He was leaning over the sink, rinsing his mouth. "You okay?" Skinner asked. He looked a little pale.

Mulder nodded at him in the mirror. Then he straightened, looking indignant. "You're not supposed to get up that quick. I'm going to have to practice."

Skinner chuckled and pulled him into his arms. "And now …"

Mulder eased away from him. "We'll save that for later," he promised. "What about breakfast?"

"There's a coffee shop near here that makes great pancakes --" Skinner stopped because Mulder was scowling.

"I spent eighty-six bucks on groceries last night," he said. "We're eating in."

They made pancakes. They also made a mess. But they cleaned up the pancakes, and then they cleaned up the mess, side by side. Mulder wasn't playful about it. He took the job seriously. He did a good job, and he reminded Skinner of a boy who had been a houseguest too often, always reminded to be tidy and clean up after himself. He must remember to give Mulder a chance to make a mess sometime.

"You want to run?" he asked, watching Mulder pace the kitchen, while the dishwasher churned.

Mulder nodded. "Where?"

"Well, there's a lake about three miles from here. We could run there and back. The ground's pretty level."

Mulder went for their jackets. "That sounds good."

It annoyed Skinner that Mulder could carry on a conversation while running. It amazed him the things that occurred to him while he ran. Mulder was a fount of the interesting and the arcane and in those six miles, Skinner got an education about the tea trade in South Africa, how the German word for Fox had become bowdlerized into a swearword, and where the word bowdlerize came from. He also got an education on how near and dear a certain redheaded forensic scientist was to him. Almost every paragraph had a Scully reference. "Scully thinks this" or "Scully told me that". Skinner wondered if he shouldn't be just a tiny bit jealous. Then he decided that, if he had worked as closely with Scully as Mulder had, Mulder might never have been in the picture.

When they got back to the lodge, they were both laughing. Mulder was absolutely high on endorphins and Skinner was high on Mulder's laugh. In all the years he had known the man, he had never seen more than a smug smirk lighten his expression. Usually he was raging, either inwardly or out. When they got inside, Skinner wanted desperately to give him something, anything, that wouldn't frighten him, yet would express how much he mattered. He looked around the lodge and focused over the mantlepiece. "Did you ever learn to fire a rifle when you were at Quantico?"

The word rifle was the wrong word. Mulder stopped laughing. The glaze of pain that had been on his face two nights ago was back. He sighed deeply. "I don't like guns much," he said flatly and went into the guest bath. A moment later, Skinner heard the shower taps go on.

"Damn it," Skinner hissed, punching a pillow on the leather sofa. Mulder was a walking minefield. Skinner never thought he would get a thrill out of danger, but never knowing what would set Mulder off was erotic in its own way.

Mulder came out, back in his sweat pants, an FBI sweatshirt tugged over his lean chest. His wet hair was spiky. He looked a little like a wild animal. He dropped, barefoot, onto the sofa beside Skinner, tucking his long legs up under him. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry." Skinner slid his fingers through Mulder's porcupine hair. "It's hard to reconcile the hothead that throws punches in the hallway, with a man who could be moved to tears because he had to bring down a perp." He hoped his voice stayed gentle enough that Mulder wouldn't think he was making fun of him.

"He was a twenty year old kid," Mulder said, in a monotone. "I think where I was when I was twenty … I could have been him."

"No, you couldn't," Skinner started to protest.

Mulder was staring back into a time and place he didn't want to be. "Yes, I could. I was just back in the States. I'd been through a mindfuck of a relationship. I was alone, except for my father's not so subtle influence to get me into Quantico. They put a gun in my hand again, and I was good with it. I thought, briefly, that I could make a career out of shooting guns." He fell quiet.

"Again?" Skinner blurted, against his better judgment.

Mulder focused on him. "What?"

"You said they put a gun in your hand again," Skinner prompted.

Mulder nodded. "I was in ROTC in college."

"You?" Skinner threw back his head and laughed. Mulder in the military?

Mulder sat up, indignantly. "Yes, me. I was an officer."

"Of course you were," Skinner agreed. Mulder couldn't have been anything less. "God, I would have loved to see you in a uniform."

Mulder made a face. "Black pants and a white shirt and jacket. Black epaulets. Brass buttons. High collar. No tie."

"I would still love to see it. Have you got a picture?"

"Not in this lifetime, W.S. Skinner," Mulder assured him. Then he mouthed a word and grinned.

"What did you say?" Skinner leaned forward.

"Wes," Mulder said the word aloud. "W.S.S. Wes." He made that jerky motion with his shoulders. "Now I know what I'll call you."

Skinner leaned forward again and ruffled his hair. "I guess I'll call you 'baby' until I think of something better."

"I hope you think of something soon," Mulder told him. "Phoebe called me baby -- among other sickening sweet things. Honey, sweetie, darling -- they're all out."

"Well, I refuse to call my lover by his last name," Skinner said.

Mulder looked up at him, startled. "Lover?"

Skinner felt his skin going red under Mulder's gaze. "Well, what are you, then?"

Mulder sent his eyes around the room. "Your lover, I guess," he agreed.

"What's the W for? What's your middle name?" Skinner asked abruptly.

Mulder's eyes were ice-cold. "William."

Skinner dropped the subject immediately. William had been Mulder's father's name. He had to come up with a better name, soon. "Okay, Mulder for now."

"Mulder, for now," Mulder agreed quietly.

After dinner, they went to bed. There was no kissing or petting. Skinner piled the pillows up high. They both got out books; Skinner's was a poly-sci textbook he was reviewing for a friend, Mulder's was a history of space exploration. Mulder leaned up against Skinner, and they read together. Skinner loved the peacefulness. He never thought he would compare his marriage to this relationship, but he couldn't help noting differences. Sharon had to fill up every silence with talk. Reading in bed couldn't be done. Mulder could stay beside him for hours and not say a word. Occasionally, Skinner would drop a kiss to the top of Mulder's head, and Mulder would sort of nestle his shoulder against Skinner's chest in response, but he never said a word.

Eventually, Mulder fell asleep. Skinner eased the book out of his fingers and surrendered a pillow to lay Mulder down. He shifted and murmured a protest in his sleep, but never woke up.

Sunday morning, Skinner wanted to return Mulder's generosity, but Mulder demurred. Skinner was slightly irritated and very frustrated, but he made himself shrug it off. He had promised Mulder his space in this relationship. Mulder seemed willing, even eager to accept affection in almost any form, but sex made him uncomfortable and he just wasn't ready to let his guard down yet.

When Mulder came back from his run and found Skinner packing, he stood in the doorway, biting his lower lip. "You know, Wes," he began. "Um … now that I'm awake …"

Skinner smiled at him. "I'm not leaving in a huff like a spurned lover," he assured him. "I have to be at work in the morning. It's a long drive, and I left a pile of paperwork behind to come up here. I have to leave in a little while."

Mulder lowered his eyes, contritely. "I'm sorry, I --"

"Stop it." Skinner put a hand over his mouth. "No apologies on either side. Got it?"

Mulder twisted away. "If you say love means never having to say you're sorry, I will shoot you."

"Love?" Skinner's heart actually skipped a beat. "Are we talking love here, Mulder?"

Mulder looked absolutely wild-eyed. "That's not what I meant. I was just quoting that movie."

"It's okay, it's okay," Skinner soothed, pulling him into his arms. "I push. I'm sorry."

Mulder gave him a light punch in the ribs. "You said no apologies, remember?" Then he lifted his hands until they were around Skinner's neck and to both their surprise, kissed him deeply. "Drive safe, huh?"

Skinner was tempted to forget the paperwork and drag Mulder to bed. He got stiff and business-like. "You'll be back Tuesday?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes, sir."

- END part 3 of 15 -
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