Little Things (part 6 of 15)

by Mik

Mulder groaned a little as he rolled over. The stack of pillows at his side was still warm, but it wasn't what he was looking for. He lifted his aching head and listened. Skinner was in the shower. His head throbbed and he eased it back down on the pillow. What did I drink last night?

When he tried to swallow he realized it wasn't a hangover. His throat was raw and burning. There was a heaviness deep in his chest. He coughed and that escalated the pain. ‘The flu?’ he wondered, putting his hands to his eyes. There was one going around the office, but since he spent so much time in the basement, away from most human contact, he was never prone to picking up the 'disease of the week'. I can't be sick, he told himself. Skinner just spent the equivalent of my rent on Lakers tickets.

Biting down on his lip to stifle another groan, he got up to the side of the bed, and gripped the edge of the footboard to steady himself. The room couldn't seem to make up its mind; clockwise or counterclockwise, and decided to switch back and forth. With effort, he pulled himself up and went to the guest bath. He prowled through the medicine chest, finding aspirin and decongestant, and took some of each. The cocktail of Bayer and Tussin just about choked him, and he coughed so hard his stomach heaved.

With gritted teeth and his high level 'shitheaded stubbornness' as his father had called it, he managed to shower, shave and dress without falling down or throwing up. By the time he got downstairs, the medications had kicked in, and he felt a little better. Skinner suggested that he eat something and he made himself go through a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice.

Skinner wasn't clucking at him, for a change. He was eating cereal and reading the paper, and didn't seem to notice that Mulder's eyes were overbright, or that there was unusual color in his vampiric complexion. It was weird, this domesticity, Mulder thought, taking his bowl to the sink. Except for Katonah, this was the first time they'd had a morning together. As he rinsed out his dishes and put them in the rack to dry, he risked a look at the A.D. Why was Skinner being so good to him; sending him to the cabin, finding Uncle Francis, the basketball tickets? Was it just an elaborate seduction? Was he taking this power trip of his to the extreme? Mulder sighed. Might as well get it over with, he decided. I can't take waiting for the ax to drop anymore. This weekend, A.D. Skinner gets his wish -- all of my ass he wants. Then maybe next week, things will get back to normal.

He realized Skinner was looking at him over the edge of the paper. "Do you want more coffee?" he asked, in a raspy voice.

Skinner checked his watch. "No, we'd better get going." He folded the paper neatly and tucked it under his arm as he gathered up his dishes. "The flight is in an hour and ten minutes."

Mulder nodded and went for his jacket. Skinner rinsed his dishes and went for their bags.

In the parking garage, Mulder tugged out his keys. "Let's take my car," he offered. "If something happens to it in the parking lot over the weekend, it will be easier to replace my car than yours." Besides, if after getting what he wants, Skinner doesn't want me anymore, it will be a lot easier for me to just get in my car and drive away, he promised himself. "The motor pool is used to replacing my car."

The drive out to Dulles was quiet. Skinner seemed to be wrapped in his own thoughts, and Mulder was too hoarse to carry on a conversation. But it was by no means uncomfortable. Skinner was a nice companion, even in silence. Occasionally he would reach over and brush Mulder's hand that rested between them on the seat, or maybe he'd give his fingers a little squeeze, just to show that he knew Mulder was there. Scully could vanish on him for hours during a long car ride. And, in truth, he often did the same to her.

Mulder parked, they got their luggage and then they looked across the parking lot to the terminal. "Do we go in together?" he asked. "Or pretend we've come on our own?"

"There's no reason why you wouldn't offer to give me a ride, if you were coming that way," Skinner pointed out. "No one would accuse you of being selfish."

"Except Scully, this morning," Mulder countered.

Scully was waiting in the pre-boarding lounge and her eyes visibly widened even from where Mulder was when she saw him. He kind of hunched himself into his topcoat, feeling bad. "Hey, Scully." He put the luggage down. Skinner was getting their boarding passes.

"Where've you been?" Scully muttered, glancing toward the boss.

"I gave Skinner a lift this morning," Mulder answered with a shrug, and let himself drop into one of the molded plastic chairs.

"He lives the other way," Scully pointed out.

Boy, does he! Mulder thought, amused. "I was out in the neighborhood, anyway," he hedged. "Where's the Iron Maiden this morning?"

Scully was pondering this new detail about Mulder's mystery woman. "She went to get coffee," she explained belatedly. "How did Skinner convince you to pick him up this morning? Skinner in the morning is like feeding time in a lion's cage. Isn't that what you always say?"

Mulder felt a flush come over his features that was not fever induced. Skinner had come up behind them, boarding passes in hand, and heard her quote. "I bribed him, Agent Scully," he responded in his lockjaw locution.

"You?" Scully said, looking down at Mulder. "Accepted a bribe? What? I've tried chocolate, money and sex, and it never works."

"Scully," Mulder hissed, embarrassed, giving her ankle a nudge. (Well, she would have called it a kick.)

"Basketball tickets," Skinner answered, handing Mulder a boarding pass. "A friend of mine gave me tickets to the Lakers game tonight. I offered to share with Agent Mulder if he would drive me to the airport." Oh, so he can lie …

Scully tipped her head slightly. "Oh," she said, and sat. Her brows were up when she met Mulder's eyes. He answered with a shrug.

They boarded. Mulder and Scully sat one row up, on the opposite side of the aisle. Skinner and Agent Ridge were together on the other side. Mulder was torn. Part of him really wanted to sit next to Skinner. Ever since Max had 'died' in that plane crash, Mulder had added fear of flying to his neuroses and he really longed to feel Skinner's calm and strength as they screamed across the continent. On the other hand, he always sat with his partner, and he needed the sense of normalcy more than ever in the wake of his early morning decision.

"How was your evening?" Scully asked, remembering how fast Mulder had cleaned up and scooted out of the office at the tick of five.

"Good," he said. "And that's all the information I'm giving you."

"Is she pretty?" Scully teased.

"Not as pretty as you," Mulder answered. "Now, stop it. Just stop it."

Scully settled back and adjusted her seat belt. "So, what do you think of this conference?"

"That it's nothing but a politically correct grandstanding by the Bureau," Mulder answered baldly.

Scully nodded. "That's pretty much what I thought. Still, a weekend in Los Angeles …"

"Yeah, you like the West Coast, don't you?" Mulder said it with the same inflection one might use to imply that someone enjoyed clubbing baby seals.

"I do," Scully admitted. "You would, too, if you would ever give up that effete New England snobbery of yours."

"Effete New England snobbery?" Mulder repeated indignantly. "There's culture on the East Coast, Scully. There's history, there's --"

"There's the Knicks," Scully cut in. "I never knew all it took was basketball tickets to make you roll over and get your tummy rubbed."

"I'm not --"

"Mulder, I was teasing you," Scully protested, noting the way his face got hot and his eyes blazed. "I didn't know you'd be so sensitive about giving the A.D. a ride. Don't worry, Mulder, no one is ever going to mistake you for teacher's pet."

Mulder answered with a choking cough. He wanted to look over his shoulder, see if Skinner was watching him, but he didn't. He picked up an In-Flight magazine and started making mean comments about grammar and spelling. Scully laughed occasionally, or hit him on the head with her own, rolled up magazine.

At one point, over Ohio, maybe, Mulder started coughing again. Scully popped a cough drop in his mouth and he caught her hand and held it to his lips.

Flustered, Scully pulled her hand away. "So, does this videodrone know you carry a torch for your partner?" she teased lightly.

"Oh, yes," Mulder said with complete honesty. "This videodrone, as you say, knows exactly how I feel for you." He moved the cough drop around in his mouth, and decided to go for broke. "She knows I pine for you nightly, and if you showed me the slightest hope, I'd denounce Roswell as a hoax and go to work selling insurance."

"Ugh," Scully said, wrinkling up her nose as she laughed. "You wouldn't be you, selling insurance, Mulder. And I could never love a pencil pusher."

"Could you love a paranoid, government worker with a photographic memory?" he prompted.

She pursed her lips. "Probably not. Every time we had a fight, I'd have to believe you could remember every word we both said. How could I win against that?"

"Could you have a little sleazy sex with a paranoid, government worker with a photographic memory?"

"Mulder, do you talk like this to your girlfriend?" she scolded.

"No." He sucked hard on the cough drop. "We speak French."

"Really? I thought you two would speak Japanese."

"Only on the weekends," he retorted.

She laughed. "Be quiet, now. I'm reading. If you promise to be a good boy, I'll ask the flight attendant to give you some crayons and a coloring book."

Mulder shifted around, leaning on his side, and sent his eyes back up the aisle. He couldn't see Skinner's eyes, the light reflecting off his glasses left nothing but a blue white blur, but he had the oddly comforting feeling that Skinner was looking at him. He smiled slightly. Skinner did not react. Closing his eyes, he sighed, and let himself drift away.

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

"Mulder, wake up." He felt his arm twist again. "Mulder, we've landed, get up."

He shifted, stiffly. Scully was shaking his shoulder. He sat up, rubbing grape flavor from his mouth. Oh, cough drop, he remembered. Nodding, he unfolded himself, nearly bumping into the overhead compartment. (Another reason why he hated to fly.)

Scully put a hand on his arm. "Are you all right? You look a little flushed?"

"I think I've got a little cold or something," he confessed, and added almost desperately, "Don't say anything to Skinner about it. He'll probably re-neg on the Lakers tickets."

"Here." She opened her purse and handed him half a bag of cough drops. "They kept me sane all week."

So that's where he picked up the cold. "Thanks." He shoved them into the pocket of his coat, next to half a bag of sunflower seeds and some really old gummi bears.

Skinner and Ridge were already collecting luggage at the carousel when Scully and Mulder made it off the plane. Skinner looked irritated and impatient. But, then, Mulder reflected, when didn't he? "Good of you to join us, Agents," he said tightly, thrusting Mulder's garment bag into his arms.

"Sir, according to the schedule, we're supposed to check into the conference at noon," Ridge said, consulting a paper she produced from her bag.

Skinner checked his watch. "We can't do that and check into the hotel. Agent Ridge, why don't you and Agent Scully go to the Convention Center and check us in? Agent Mulder and I will take the luggage to the hotel and meet you there."

Mulder jerked a glance back at Skinner. Whoo boy, here it goes, he thought.

Scully nodded and handed her small suitcase to Mulder. Ridge handed hers to Skinner, which made Mulder smirk. He could see in Ridge's eyes that she harbored a few hopes for the weekend, herself. She was a physical opposite to Scully; tall and built strong, like a Russian runner, she had long black hair, and blue white skin. Her eyes were almond-shaped and almost black. She would be pretty if she didn't look so … stern. He flicked a glance toward Skinner and thought they were a pair.

Skinner got the two women into a taxi and then signaled one for themselves. Mulder didn't say anything until they were settled in the back, and on their way to the downtown hotel. "Pleasant flight, sir?" he asked conversationally.

Now he could see Skinner's eyes. They were blazing. "That woman is very much like you, Agent Mulder, in that she is tenacious about a subject she believes in. She believes we need a better computer tracking system to catalog our cases, and she thinks she's written the perfect one. She wants me to present it upstairs. She spent the entire flight rattling off statistics like a -- a --"

"An insurance salesman?" Mulder suggested.

"Exactly."

"Uh oh," Mulder sighed.

"What do you mean, 'uh oh'?" Skinner demanded.

"Nothing." Mulder shrugged. "Agent Scully just has an aversion to insurance salesmen, that's all." Surreptitiously, he let his fingers slide over to Skinner's and he matched the squeeze Skinner had given him earlier. "Sorry," he murmured.

Skinner seemed to relax. He let his head fall back against the car seat. "I hate Los Angeles," he said, in a matter of fact tone.

"Me, too," Mulder agreed. "Scully says I suffer from effete New England snobbery."

"There's nothing effete about you, Agent Mulder."

"Nothing effete, nothing mundane. Are you trying to say I'm unusual?"

"In the extreme," Skinner murmured behind closed eyes.

"Didn't you sleep well, sir?"

"No, I stayed up too late doing some research. Then I had to try and …" He stopped, remembering the driver. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I had to drag a hundred seventy pound fox up a flight of stairs."

Mulder rubbed his eyes. That explained how he ended up upstairs. The last thing he remembered was watching television on the sofa after dinner. "You should have left him where he was, sir."

To his surprise, Skinner squeezed his fingers slightly. "Didn't want to."

The taxi stopped in front of the Bonaventure, a set of five silver cylinders made famous in television and movies. Mulder leaned forward and whistled appreciatively. "Wow. This is not exactly the Parkit Here Motor Lodge."

Skinner's smile was almost smug. "It was a trade-off. If we doubled up on rooms, we could stay in a five-star hotel."

"I should travel with the A.D. more often," Mulder decided, sliding out of the cab. "Even when I offer to double up with Scully, we end up at Motel 6."

Skinner got the keys for both rooms while Mulder got the luggage and paid the taxi. Then they climbed into an elevator that slid up the side of one of the cylinders, affording them an amazing view of the Los Angeles basin. Mulder stared out, fascinated. Even with the time he spent in New York and Boston, he couldn't grasp the concept of so many people in one place. The city of Los Angeles seemed to throb, as if it was a living entity.

Their rooms were on opposite sides of the hall. This amused Mulder. "Scully and I always have adjoining rooms," he told the A..D., dropping Scully's suitcase on one of the two king-size beds. "We spend more time in one another's rooms than in our own."

Skinner paused. "Do you want me to switch the rooms around?" he asked carefully.

"And make you share with the anal retentive Agent Ridge?" Mulder gasped in mock horror. "I'd never get another 302 signed in my life."

"Then don't tell me about how you spend your nights when you're on the road with Agent Scully," Skinner retorted curtly, and held out the key for the room across the hall.

It wasn't a room. It was a suite. Mulder arched a brow. There were definitely perks to traveling with the A.D. A very plush living room, with bar emptied into a bedroom with one king-size bed, and a massive bathroom, complete with jacuzzi tub.

Skinner followed him into the bathroom. "I asked for that, specifically," he said, and let one hand fall on Mulder's shoulder.

Mulder shivered. It seemed that his decision was unnecessary. Skinner had made it for him.

"Naturally, for appearance's sake, you'll sleep on the sofa," Skinner went on, putting his dopp kit on the counter top.

"Naturally," Mulder said, still staring at that tub. He felt a little tingle going up and down his spine. Well, if he was going to be used and thrown away, what a way to go …

"Come on. We need to get to the conference."

Mulder made a face. "Do we have to go?" he wheedled, reaching for Skinner's hand. "Do you really think anyone would notice if we didn't get back there?" He tugged a little, backing toward the tub. Now that he had resigned himself to it, he wanted to get it over with.

Skinner was torn, Mulder was pleased to notice that. But, ultimately, Skinner was Skinner. And he said they had to go. But before they could get out of the hotel room, Skinner turned on Mulder, forcing him back against the wall, for a very slow, deliberate kiss, running his hands through Mulder's hair, sliding his hands over the fabric of Mulder's crotch. Mulder gave a start when he found and gently squeezed the tip of his cock. He opened his eyes wide. He was about to say, 'Screw the Lakers, let's stay in tonight.'

Skinner pulled back abruptly. "Mulder, what the hell have you been eating? You taste like grape Kool-Aid."

Mulder remembered the cough drop he had opened while he was paying the taxi. It hadn't lasted long. As usual, he had chewed it instead of sucking it for maximum results. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Something Scully gave me."

Skinner rubbed at his mouth. "Well, it's awful."

Mulder touched his lips, slightly swollen from the intensity of the kiss. "Sorry." Now, how was he going to hide the fact that he had a cold?

Skinner reached out again and ruffled his hair. "Come on, Kit. We've got many miles to go before we sleep."

Mulder smiled. Poetry, A.D. Skinner? He liked it.

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

The ride to the Convention Center was too short for any carefully chosen conversations. So they rode in more of that companionable silence that Mulder was coming to enjoy.

They were late. Scully and Ridge were standing just outside the conference room, looking irritated. Mulder was going to make a lame apology about traffic, but Skinner just opened the door, and held it. "Agents," he said. They went in, single file. The host was still making his opening remarks, so they sidled into their assigned seats; Scully, Mulder, Skinner, and Ridge. Looking around the room in boredom, Mulder recognized many familiar faces from assorted field offices around the country. Having an A.D. in the group impressed people, because everyone sat up a little straighter.

Mulder didn't sit up straight. He slumped in his chair, closed his eyes and his ears and concentrated on not coughing. Occasionally he heard Scully sigh or snicker, and once in a while, Skinner would grind his teeth, but, on the whole, the room was pretty quiet.

The 'psychic' ended with some demonstrations. After assuring two young female agents that the men of their dreams were just around the corner, he selected Mulder from the group (probably because they came in late, and because Mulder had been obviously disinterested from the beginning, he decided) and insisted that he come up to the podium. When people recognized Spooky Mulder, there were a few catcalls and whistles, but Mulder just smiled serenely and thought obscene things about the 'psychic's' mother.

He was invited to sit on a stool, and he did so, letting his hands hang between his knees, giving away nothing in his expression or his body language. He even kept his eyes from Skinner and Scully. He looked, instead, at Agent Ridge.

The 'psychic' put a hand to his temples, a la the Stupendous Yappi. "Oh," he said, sadly. "This is very interesting. Your long-time relationship is at a crossroads. Do you marry her? Do you go away and start again?" Mulder's only answer was a shrug. The psychic, irritated that he had not gotten an amazed 'that's right!' from Mulder as he had from the others, continued. "There is … yes, I see a child is involved; you love her very much but someone is keeping her from you. Her mother? Yes, you are divorced, your ex-wife will not allow you to see your daughter until you make this change in your life." He looked at Mulder again, willing him to acknowledge this.

Mulder answered with a slow, disinterested blink.

"Very well, let's discuss work." He paused and walked all the way around Mulder, drawing in his 'aura'. "You crave power. You feel you are being held back by your superiors." The psychic was going for the jugular now, in an effort to punish Mulder for failing to support his claims. "You could do more, could have more responsibility, a position of authority, if only someone would believe in you."

Mulder bit down on his lower lip, and let his eyes trail slowly to Scully, who was now pressing both fists against her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Even Skinner seemed to be struggling with feeling.

Because he had gotten a response, he pounced. "You want more challenges in your job, you want to get away from the mundane. You cannot deny this, Mr. Mulder. It oozes out of you."

By now, there was laughter throughout the room. Anyone who had ever known Mulder knew there was nothing mundane to get away from. Mulder leaned toward the man, and whispered, "Do you know where I hid the body?"

The words were picked up by the psychic's microphone, and Scully let out one helpless yelp, and tipped her head forward between her knees.

"Mr. Mulder, you are --"

"I know, I know," Mulder said, sliding from the stool. "Emitting negative energy. I get that a lot." He moved toward the stairs.

"You'll get the little girl back, Mr. Mulder," the man called as he started for the steps. "That much I know is true."

It took every ounce of strength in Mulder's body not to turn around and go back up on stage. He straightened his shoulders and went back down into the audience. Someone told him about me, Mulder insisted to himself. That's all.

Before Mulder could get back into his seat, Skinner leaned over and whispered, "Let's go." Single file, they went back out the door.

Scully's eyes were wet with tears of laughter, and Agent Ridge was looking bewildered. "I didn't know you were married, Agent Mulder," she said.

"He's not," Skinner put in, guiding his agents toward the doors. "Never has been. The man was a phoney."

"But a funny phoney," Mulder said, and Scully laughed again.

"You don't believe in psychic powers, Agent Mulder?" Ridge asked.

Mulder wondered how a woman who read actuarial tables as a hobby could be selected for this symposium, then he decided she was supposed to be the voice of reason. "Sure I do," he answered, unwrapping a cough drop with his fingertips, deep in his pocket so Skinner wouldn't see. "But that …" He jerked his free hand toward the door, and popped the cough drop in his mouth. Classic misdirection.

"The Stupendous Yappi," Scully drawled.

"Scully, you read my mind." Mulder tucked the cough drop to one side so he wouldn't chew it.

"Ooh, wait, I'm having a vision, Agent Mulder," Scully intoned, pressing her fingertips to her temples. "You're going to take your partner out for a hamburger and a chocolate malt at Johnny Rockets."

Mulder turned his palm over and looked at it. "Where does it say that?"

Scully took his hand. "Right there." Sensing Skinner's frown, she let go of Mulder's hand and stepped back. "Sorry, sir. Did you have other plans for us?"

Skinner sighed right to the soles of his shoes. "No, I think food would be a good idea. Where is Johnny Rockets?"

"Back at the hotel," Scully answered. She looked at Mulder. "I had no idea we'd be staying at the Bonaventure, until Agent Ridge told me."

"The joy of traveling with the A.D.," Mulder said with a note of superiority.

"I'll have to do that more often," Scully murmured and followed Mulder out to the taxi that Skinner had flagged down.

Scully sat between Skinner and Mulder. Agent Ridge sat in the front seat. She obviously wanted to dissect what they had heard that afternoon, and she twisted around in her seat to look at the trio in back. "Have you ever encountered a real psychic, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder decided to grant her a little dignity. "I think we're all a little psychic, Agent Ridge," he explained patiently. "We all get a little burst of precognition, every now and then. Some of us are more sensitive to it than others. But very rarely do you find someone who truly sees the future."

"Clyde Bruckman," Scully murmured.

"He didn't count," Mulder said impatiently.

"Who was Clyde Bruckman?" Ridge asked.

"A man who could see how people died," Scully said. "That's all. But he knew details no one else could ever see. He even predicted Agent Mulder's death," she added.

Mulder dug a knuckle in her thigh.

"Really?" Ridge leaned back, curious. "How is he going to die?"

"Oh, he isn't," Scully answered, rubbing her thigh. "At least, not the way Mr. Bruckman predicted. He was supposed to be killed by a serial killer, but we killed him, first."

"Could we change the subject, Agents?" Skinner said tiredly, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Are we going back tomorrow?" Agent Ridge asked.

"To the symposium? Yes, I think so. Tomorrow they are supposed to discuss some profiling techniques. That ought to interest you, Agent Ridge, although I doubt they can tell Agent Mulder anything. As you probably know, Agent Mulder has long been considered the best profiler the Violent Crime Unit ever had."

Mulder's sleepy eyes opened, and he looked down at Scully since he didn't dare look at Skinner. Scully looked as surprised as he felt. High praise from Skinner? In front of witnesses? Unthinkable. Skinner was definitely trying to seduce him. For that, he might just let him have his way right here in the cab.

Agent Ridge looked at Mulder with new curiosity. "Really? How do you do it?"

Mulder leaned forward and whispered, "Smoke and mirrors."

The cab arrived in front of the Bonaventure. Mulder backed out of the car first and held a hand out to Scully. As he pulled her forward, he caught her and whispered into her hair. "Have you got any aspirin on you?"

"I can do better than that," Scully promised. "I've got some cold and sinus stuff upstairs."

"Are you psychic?" he asked, smiling.

"In some ways," she answered. "I'm always thinking about how you're going to die."

Skinner was on the sidewalk on the other side of the cab, Agent Ridge at his side. "Agent Mulder, since we've got a game to catch, I suggest we change, and meet Agents Ridge and Scully to eat, and then we can go directly to the game."

Mulder nodded, glad for an excuse to get the medication as soon as possible. He let Scully go. "What are you two going to do tonight?"

Scully shrugged. "I think I'll call Bill and see if he feels like meeting me somewhere," she answered. "I haven't seen Matthew since Christmas."

They all went into one of the glass elevators. On the seventeenth floor, they got out and started walking. Skinner held out key cards to the women. Scully took hers and nodded her thanks. Then she paused at the door. "I'll get that information for you, Agent Mulder," she added.

Skinner was opening the door to their suite. "Information?" he echoed, letting Mulder precede him.

Mulder shrugged out of his coat and suit jacket. "I don't know. She's back in Southern California. She's giddy."

"Agent Scully is the least giddy person I have ever met," Skinner answered, tugging at his tie.

"All right, the psychic tickled her," Mulder suggested, going for his own tie. Suddenly, he was nervous again. "And what was that bit about being the best profiler?"

"Well, you are," Skinner said, opening the bedroom door.

"Since when did you notice?" Mulder called after him.

"Five years ago. The Brody case," Skinner answered over his shoulder, going for the bathroom.

"Took you long enough to tell me," Mulder yelled, as a knock came to the door. He hurried over before Scully knocked again.

She held out a foil package. "This ought to get you through the night," she promised. Then she stopped. "A suite?" she said, arching both brows.

Mulder grinned. "You think the Assistant Director is going to share a bedroom with me?" He pointed toward the leather sofa. "He thought I'd be more comfortable on my home soil."

"Hmm, he found out about your double life, eh, Foxula?" Scully asked dryly.

Mulder twisted her toward the door. "Get out of here. I have a basketball game to go to."

Skinner came back into the room just as Mulder pushed the door shut, and shoved the medication into his pocket. He was in a pair of black chinos, a black and white plaid shirt in his hands. "Who were you talking to?"

"You," Mulder answered, feigning indignation. "Or, myself, apparently."

Skinner looked apologetic. "What did you say? I had water running."

"I was complaining that you never bothered to acknowledge my contributions to the Bureau before," Mulder answered, going past him to get water from the bar.

Skinner shrugged into his shirt. "I thought you didn't have an inferiority complex about work?"

"Only where you were concerned," Mulder said, trying another piece of sleight-of-hand to get the foil pouch out and open.

Skinner came up behind him, and put his hands on Mulder's shoulders. "For the record, Agent Mulder, I have always been amazed at your ability to get inside a killer's head. Amazed and frightened."

Mulder stiffened guiltily, not wanting to be caught with cold medicine in his hands. Skinner misunderstood his reaction and backed off.

Mulder sighed and turned around. "Let's not have this discussion tonight, please?"

"You're right." Skinner leaned forward and kissed him again. "Mulder, there's that grape again."

Mulder licked his lips. "Sorry. It … lingers." He wiped his mouth and gulped water, successfully swallowing the tablets. "There, all gone."

Skinner reached for his chin and forced his mouth open. "Your tongue is purple." He was barely able to keep from laughing. "What the hell have you been eating now?"

Desperate to come up with an answer that would not involve cough drops, Mulder remembered the gummi bears, went to his topcoat and pulled the bag out, sheepishly.

Skinner did laugh. He pulled his glasses off and wiped tears from his eyes. "Mulder, you are priceless." He slid his glasses back into place. "Now, go change. The women will be waiting for us. And your partner is about to eat shoe leather."

Mulder came out of the bedroom fifteen minutes later, in jeans, a white turtleneck tee shirt and a navy pullover. He had changed from his Nunn Bush dress shoes to battered leather loafers. He had combed his hair and brushed his teeth, but, unlike Skinner had not bothered to shave again. He felt Skinner's eyes go over him approvingly. Skinner seemed to like it when he wore jeans -- or nothing.

Skinner looked pretty good, he decided. The black chinos hung just right on his hips, and the black and white, banded collar shirt emphasized all the broad parts. He had the sleeves rolled up on his forearms. He had a black suede and leather jacket in his hands. "Let's go."

Scully was surprised to see her boss looking so casual, but both she and Agent Ridge considered him with hungry favor, both ignoring Mulder. Scully had changed to black leggings and a long, lacy shaker sweater. Mulder had seen her dressed like that a hundred times and he still loved it. Agent Ridge was still in her navy suit.

The medicine kicked in, turning Mulder a little manic with the ephedrine in his system. He got silly, and Scully fed off him. They had a little food fight, stabbing one another with French fries, that Skinner stopped with a glare and then they went off on a tangent of outrageous puns. Scully was probably the only person he knew who had the same points of reference to appreciate his truly twisted use of the English language. By the end of the meal, Scully was in tears, apologizing profusely through bouts of laughter, and Skinner and Ridge were exchanging helpless and bewildered looks.

Finally Skinner checked his watch. "Agent Mulder, if you're about through here."

"Oh," Mulder sighed, wiping his eyes with a napkin. "I think I am." He stood and pulled out his wallet.

Skinner stopped him. "The Bureau will pay for this." He reached for the check and signed it.

Mulder looked at Scully. "I guess I still owe you a hamburger at Johnny Rockets," he said.

Skinner was very quiet, all the way to the Forum. Mulder missed it. He was so wired that everything around him was zinging. He was absorbing the feel of the mist in the air, the sounds of the traffic, the hum of the engine in the seats of the cab. The only thing he missed was Skinner's silence.

The seats Skinner had paid such usurious prices for were unbelievable, center court, two rows back. When Mulder realized this, he bounced around on the balls of his feet, like a little boy, stopping just short of a war whoop. Skinner frowned at him again, and he settled down, but he practically skipped to his seat.

Skinner got indulgent all of a sudden, and bought a program, and a couple of beers before he came down the aisle after him.

Mulder didn't even think about the potential danger of mixing medications and alcohol. He tipped his head in thanks and took a couple of sips.

The game was exciting. Mulder followed the ball like a sniper, jumping from his seat and cheering every time the Lakers scored. He sang himself hoarse during every time out, when the audience was exhorted to sing Queen's We Will Rock You. He clapped, he hooted, he nudged Skinner encouragingly, he actually laughed out loud a few times.

And then, in the final few minutes of the game, the beer and the ephedrine met, and it was as if someone had pulled the plug on him. He slumped down in his seat, getting glassy-eyed. The tie-breaking foul shot didn't elicit a flicker from him. Skinner turned to him, speaking for the first time in hours. "Mulder? Are you all right?"

"Fine," Mulder said thickly, trying to sit up. "Fine." He opened his eyes wide, trying to focus. The Forum was spinning, and the ecstatic cheering around him was too loud. He put his hands on his ears. "I think I need to go home," he mumbled. When he stood, he swayed.

Skinner put a hand on him, frowning. "One beer, Mulder. You only had one beer."

"Beer," Mulder repeated. "That's what it is. The beer."

"You think the beer was bad? I had two. I'm fine." Still, Skinner looked worried.

"No, the beer was fine. It's me. I …" He felt a spasm of coughing bubble up and rack his body, painfully. He struggled against it in vain. "I need to go home," he decided with a ragged whisper.

It wasn't cold outside, but Mulder's teeth were chattering. Skinner slid his coat off and draped it around Mulder's shoulders, not caring how it might look to strangers. "Stay here," he commanded. "I'll get a taxi."

Mulder nodded, pulling Skinner's jacket around him, and waited near the gate, grateful to have something solid to lean against since the entire city insisted on going lopsided beside him.

- END part 6 of 15 -
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