Missing

        By Palinurus

        July 1998

        During the two months since Skinner had vanished, Mulder's frantic horror slowly congealed into grim despair. Initially, he was convinced that Skinner must be the victim of a crime or an accident; he refused to believe that Skinner would simply leave. He was low enough in the FBI hierarchy that several days passed before he learned that there had been no crime, no accident. Skinner had carefully planned his disappearance for several weeks.

        Paradoxically, the news that Skinner was safe was crushing. His anxiety was replaced by a plethora of emotions that were even harder to handle. Shock, rage, and paralyzing guilt numbed his brain and absorbed all light. The air seemed so thin that he could barely live on it. His limbs were too heavy to lift.

        He convinced himself that Skinner would come back. He could really be back any day. Things had simply become too intense for Skinner's peace of mind, and he had bailed out, fled. Surely he was already on his way back. He had by now come to his senses and realized what his absence had done to Mulder. He was sorry, or at least missed Mulder as much as Mulder missed him. He had come to terms with the affair. He had decided to talk about what bothered him, rather than run away from it.

        The conviction grew so strong that Mulder would wake up at night from a restless half-sleep, convinced that he had heard the door open. He'd stare, and see nothing; then he'd get up and open the door to reveal an empty hallway. Two or three times a day, in his bleary-eyed, hazy misery, out of the corner of his eye, he'd spot Skinner's large bulk. In a crowd, in a car, at the end of an empty corridor. Every vision caused a rush of joy, excitement, arousal; and every one ended in sickening disappointment.

        At night, the absence of that body by his side became physical pain.

        Sometimes his anger threatened to overcome him. Blood pounding in his ears, he would crush whatever happened to be in his hands, tremble, and get up and pace. He felt he might have a stroke, or just explode, if he didn't find a way to deal with the rage.

        Then he would remember that the desertion was his own fault, and his anger at Skinner would slowly subside. He could understand Skinner's decision, and see how the situation really had been impossible, with his unspoken but incessant demands to be entertained, to be made love to, to be loved and cherished and treated like a spoilt child, all in exchange for the rare privilege of the occasional fuck. He had never taken any responsibility for the relationship. If it ever had been a relationship. He had been content to inhabit his fool's paradise, assuming that Skinner would take care of things, that all would be well without any effort on his part. He was the slave. To accept, to endure, to suffer, and to be forever absolved of any influence.

        And then he would recall the scenes, the pleasure, the abandon, the weightless euphoria of submission and powerlessness. The blankness of his mind, the ease of accepting whatever would come. He never even considered a fight; his trust was complete. He had no idea where they would go from one moment to the next, and didn't care; he lay, tied or untied, blindfolded or gagged, passive, bending with the wind. Knowing he was safe.

        He began to dream, joyless erotic dreams in which all sexual pleasure was tainted with anxiety, with a looming premonition of the inevitable end. He would see himself in his dreams, tied down, blindfolded, while Skinner was seized by a black, shapeless presence, leaving him alone, naked and defenseless. And he would wake up, gasping for breath, with a racing pulse, because the sense of impending doom in the dream threatened to suffocate him.

        Whenever he couldn't sleep, Mulder went over the past months, meticulously, obsessively, reconstructing all the scenes they had shared, looking for clues foreboding the disaster that had struck. And found plenty of them; so many that in retrospect it was incomprehensible that he had been blind enough, felt sheltered enough, to overlook them. They had never talked much; but in the past few weeks, they had hardly talked at all, and rarely taken the time for a drink before going up to the bedroom. Skinner had always been remote, aloof, but never so much so as shortly before his disappearance. Several times he had already left for work by them time Mulder woke up, further minimizing the non-ritualized contacts. Withdrawal, distancing, removal: the signs were everywhere, obvious for anyone but the blind, deaf, dumb idiot he had been.

        Such was the price of stupidity--being cast from the warmth of Skinner's secure embrace into the freezing, deadly cold. Once his skin had been thick enough to withstand it. But he neglected his defenses, and they crumbled, leaving a gaping hole that bled when that part of him had been torn away. He had never known how deeply it was embedded in his flesh until it was ripped out.

        When ten endless days had passed, he finally gave up hoping for a miracle, and went over to the modest offices of the Lone Gunman. Frohike opened the door and said, "Ah, Mulder, at last."

        When he reached the nerve center of their tiny operation, the other two looked up from their computer screens.

        "That's twenty-five for me," Byers said sardonically.

        "What?" Mulder mumbled, barely hearing his own voice between his blinding headache and cramping stomach.

        "I bet twenty-five that you'd be here within two weeks. Frohike predicted it would be less than a week. Langly thought it would take much longer. We're working on it, but we haven't found him yet," he continued smoothly, answering all questions in one sentence.

        "Why didn't you bring Scully?" Frohike demanded.

        "I don't want her involved in this," Mulder replied, immediately defensive.

        "Good. Thirty for me," Langly announced, not even looking up.

        "He figured it would be a personal thing," Frohike explained helpfully. "After all, why else would an employee in his right mind go looking for his missing boss, right? So we made another bet. I think I got fooled by my wishful thinking..." He stared away, momentarily distracted.

        Mulder shook his head impatiently. "Have you checked the Chronicles of Higher Education?"

        Byers looked at him, calmly but with barely hidden annoyance. "Mulder. We know you're upset. We know you've been thinking about this, probably longer than we have. But don't tell us how to search for a missing FBI big shot, all right?"

        "OK, I'm sorry. I know you're good at this. I'm just... How can someone just disappear?" The slight whine in his voice angered him almost beyond reason. He blinked, stared at nothing. Any day now, I'll have to stay at home because I've become an embarrassment to myself.

        "You of all people should know how easy that is, Mulder. How many places there are to hide from all but... the most determined and resourceful pursuit." Byers was visibly trying not to look smug. "We'll find him, but it may take a while. In the mean time, why don't you go on vacation or something. If he'd see you like this, he'd run a mile."

        "You don't know anything about it," Mulder countered, but it was a token protest. He didn't have enough energy to care what they thought.

        They promised to contact him once a week, and they did, in their complicated, paranoia-driven manner, meeting in underground parking garages, in greasy diners, at the escalator in Macy's. And they carefully listed for him all the avenues they'd tried: more than he would ever have thought of; and what they'd found: nothing.

        Once, about a month after the disappearance, Langly's account of the meticulous care Skinner had evidently taken to erase any traces had upset Mulder so much that he had exploded, "The *bastard*!"

        Langly had looked at him, intrigued but as usual not visibly impressed, and put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll find him, Mulder."

        The monstrous wound in his side slowly scabbed over, and the acute pain turned into a dull throbbing. Dull enough not to preclude all thought, but still painful enough to make ordinary things exhausting, daunting tasks. Shopping for groceries and doing his laundry took all Saturday. Rudimentary cleaning of his apartment took all Sunday. Sitting at his desk and being polite to Scully wore him out enough to abolish any thought of evening activity.

        At night he would lay on his couch, staring at the TV without seeing anything, and let himself be washed from self-pity to incomprehension, to powerless rage, to disconsolate sadness, and back again, without even attempting to influence the course of the endless, dizzying flux.

        Then, late one Thursday night, there was a phone call. He didn't answer; he never answered anymore. A voice told his answering machine, "We've got something."

        He got up, frantic, fumbling with his clothes, ran out without his coat, and twenty minutes later he stood among the blinking electronic skeletons, staring at a piece of printed paper dotted with numbers and meaningless letter sequences. "What is it?"

        "It's from one of the VA databases. We went over the recent updates, and matched all changes with the veteran's names, which are stored in another database at the DOD. It basically says that Skinner has been drawing money from his army pension. The money has been paid by a bank in Nha Trang."

        "Vietnam? He's in Vietnam?"

        "He *was* in Vietnam. Not many banks there are on-line yet, and this transaction is from six weeks ago; it just took this long to get registered here. This is a very old trail. We don't know where he is now." Byers looked at him almost apologetically.

        Mulder glanced at him, about to say, "Is that all?" but checked himself in time; he had asked them to let him know as soon as they got anything, no matter how small. He swallowed, blinked, and asked, "So what's next?"

        "We may be able to trace him through this number." He pointed at a seven-digit number on the paper. "That's his VA ID number. He's been using that instead of his passport, which would have been easier to trace, and he'll need it whenever he wants to do something official there. We'll go on searching, and we may find other uses of it."

        It was clearly a very long shot, and Mulder almost physically felt his hope leave his body and drain into the ground. "You'll never find him."

        That didn't go down well. "Jesus, Mulder. Of course we'll find him," Langly replied indignantly. "How long has it been, nine weeks? Give us some credit, OK? Why don't you find someone else to help you through your time of abstinence?" He went on muttering, but the rest was unintelligible.

        Mulder badly wanted to pull him up from behind his table and punch him, but he controlled the impulse.

        Frohike stepped in. "Just let him be, Langly. He's not having an easy time right now."

        "If he'd only taken better care of that guy, we wouldn't be..." Langly continued, and then shut up as Mulder yanked him up across the table, accompanied by the sound of tearing cloth, and hissed into his face, "Shut the fuck up, Langly. You couldn't take care of a cockroach if your life depended on it. Don't tell *me* what I should have done." He let go, upset by his own anger.

        "OK, Mulder, OK, I'm sorry," Langly said in a soothing tone, pulling down his torn T-shirt. He appeared genuinely contrite about the outburst he'd brought on. "You're right, I have no idea. Although we do have some roaches here that seem to do OK. But I guess someone is slipping them something extra from time to time. I'm sorry."

        There was a brief silence, in which Mulder stared at the ground and breathed deeply. Finally Frohike touched his arm and said, "Will you be OK? You could stay here while we work, maybe sleep in the back room... We have a TV too."

        "No thanks, I'm going to..." But while he said it, he reconsidered. It might be better here. It certainly couldn't be worse; and if they found something, he wanted to be present. "Uh, well... OK, I think I'll stay then." He looked at Langly and said, "Sorry. I know you're doing your best, I'm just a bit, um, easily upset these days."

        "No problem," Langly conceded immediately, staring at his screen, already miles away with his continued search.

        He hung around for a while, but it quickly became clear that there was nothing he could contribute, so he went into the back room, switched on the TV, cleared the couch of empty soda cans and candy wrappers, and stretched out on it.

        He woke up slowly to feel a hand stroking his hair. He didn't open his eyes, didn't move, still half in a dream. He didn't want to know yet what part of this awakening would turn out to be an illusion. He floated as long as he could, clinging to his respite, the touches almost soothing him back to sleep. But his brain was becoming too alert to be fooled anymore, and he opened his eyes.

        And stared into the horrified face of Langly, who quickly withdrew his hand and jumped up like a startled rabbit. He walked into the table, scattering cans and tools, muttering, "Shit. I'm sorry." He bent over to rub his shin, and without looking up, continued, "I'm sorry Mulder, I just, eh, well. I'm sorry." He turned and limped to the door.

        "Langly. Wait." He regretted the words when he saw the hopeful face turning towards him. "Did you find anything yet?"

        The face barely moved, but he saw it change subtly to reflect the same crushing disappointment that he had felt earlier that night. He could almost feel the facial muscles mold themselves into that familiar expression.

        "No. Nothing yet." Langly replied curtly.

        "Langly." This time the other didn't turn, just paused.

        "I'm sorry."

        "Yeah. Well." A small shrug, and the door closed.

        The next time he woke up, someone was impatiently shaking his arm.

        Frohike said, "Hey! Mulder. We've got something. He's probably back in the States."

        Mulder sat up, his head aching. He rubbed his eyes and said, "How do you know?"

        "That same VA code has been used to buy a ticket from Ho Chi Minh City to Seattle. Either he must think we're pretty stupid, or he wants to be found. It's in the name of William Smith, but that's really not a name, is it? He might as well have chosen John Doe. We think it's him. We're searching Seattle and surroundings for this William Smith right now."

        At that moment, Byers' voice could be heard from the other room, shouting "Mulder!"

        Mulder got up and rushed out, brushing past Frohike. "What have you got?" he asked, a little breathless. He could feel his pulse in his throat.

        "Address. William Smith, 1526 Powell, Lynnwood, Washington. Lynnwood is a suburb north of Seattle. He moved in two weeks ago, got telephone and cable, and the local supermarkets have just begun sending him these welcome coupon booklets. There's even a phone number. Do you want that too?"

        He scribbled it down and wondered how long his legs would go on supporting him.

        "You can call him from here, if you like," Frohike offered helpfully, then grinned when he saw Mulder's stricken look. "Just kidding. Want us to book you a flight?"

        When he was on his way out, Langly called after him, "Hey, Mulder. Good luck."

        He looked around, hesitated, holding the door handle.

        "Better hurry," Langly added benignly.

        He turned and ran.

        Sixteen hours later he sat in uncomfortable folds in a cramped airplane and wondered about the wisdom of his latest impulsive decision. He felt sweaty and dirty. He hadn't slept after he'd left the Lone Gunman editorial office and spent his day pacing and agonizing over what to pack in his overnight bag. On an impulse, he'd called Scully to tell her he was going away for a few days and ask her to feed the fish and empty the mailbox.

        "Are you saying you're taking a vacation?" she asked incredulously.

        "Yeah, well, I figured I needed some time away from the office. I haven't been feeling too well lately."

        "Tell me about it. I'm just amazed to hear you finally admit it. Where are you going?" She sounded wary.

        He'd given her a miserable, clearly improvised excuse, and she hadn't believed him, but had let it go.

        He had considered calling Skinner, but he found he simply couldn't do it. He looked at the phone as if it was about to jump up and go for his throat. He went for a little walk around the block, looked at the phone some more, and finally decided to gamble that a surprise would work to his advantage.

        On the plane, he created dozens of scenarios in his mind, all of them derailing badly after only a few minutes. Then he tried to read the on-board glossy magazine, cursing himself for not thinking clearly enough to bring a book. Finally he fell asleep.

        And woke up during the landing, with a cramp in his right calf. He desperately flexed his foot until it subsided. He still felt quite miserable, but the few hours of sleep had helped a bit. It was seven p.m. and already dark. He'd rent a car and drive to the address on the sheet of paper. He estimated he would arrive around 8:30.

        The drive was bad. He was getting very nervous, to the point where he started to tremble. He swallowed all the time, and his stomach began to complain. He would have liked to take another shower, and considered checking into a motel in Seattle before going on to face his fate. He finally decided against it; he'd be sweating again by the time he'd arrive anyway.

        It was very cold by the time he arrived. A clear, quiet, frosty night. The address was in a residential neighborhood. The street was so quiet that he half feared that the neighbors would come out to check on a strange car in the neighborhood. Or Skinner would step out before he'd parked, making the walk across the neat lawn to the front door endless and excruciating. But neither happened; he parked, and made it to the front door on slightly wobbly legs.

        Pressing his nose against the glass, he could see inside through the thin sheers. It took a second to see clearly, but then he saw Skinner, sitting in an easy chair next to a wall of books, reading. A fire was burning in the fireplace. The house looked as if it had been lived in for years. The furniture looked expensive and well-used. There were lots of lamps, rugs on the wooden floor. There was even an upright piano standing against one of the walls.

        And for the first time, the realization struck him that Skinner might not live there alone. This unforeseen possibility took his breath away. He leaned against the wooden window frame with one hand for balance. The sudden rush of blood to his head created black gaps in his field of vision. For a moment he thought he might faint, but his vision cleared, and he could breathe again.

        Feeling foolish, he stalked around the house and checked the garage. It seemed too small to hold two cars. There was no other car parked at the curb. He looked around for other clues, saw none. He went back to the window and looked in again. Skinner hadn't moved. Now he could also hear soft classical music through the glass pane.

        He stood, stock still, determined now to take the chance, waiting for courage. Then he walked to the door and rang the bell. He could hear a floorboard creak and suppressed an immediate impulse to run away as fast as he could. Then the outside light came on and the door opened. Skinner stood and gaped at him.

        His mouth went dry, his knees were weak, and he suddenly felt close to crying. "Hi," he said weakly.

        There was a moment of ink-black silence, in which the world came to a halt. Skinner stared at him as if he was a banshee. Then he stepped back and said, "Come in."

        Mulder didn't know what enabled him to just walk in, rather than jump at Skinner and wrap his whole body around him; or alternatively, prostrate himself on the ground, throw his arms around Skinner's legs, and grovel, pleading, begging to be loved. But he walked in. Stood. Turned around, hands in his coat pockets, and looked at Skinner.

        He looked good. He still had a tan from his trip, he seemed to have acquired some more muscle, and he looked... content. Although on second thought, he did seem to have slightly darker circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't been sleeping enough. Even so, Mulder felt pale, sweaty and rumpled next to him.

        "Nice place," he said, not sure himself if he meant it or said it in irony.

        The music stopped, and the silence was oppressive.

        Skinner sighed, walked over to the fireplace to lean a shoulder against the mantel. "I'm renting it from an acquaintance," he said, unwittingly putting to rest one of Mulder's major fears. He looked up at Mulder, who hadn't moved. "How did you find me?"

        "Picked up your trail in Vietnam and followed it here. Seems you got sloppy after the first two months."

        "I didn't think anyone would still be looking. I didn't... think I'd see you again."

        Mulder slowly shook his head. "Why did you think I'd give up that easily?" He had intended to be a bit more circumspect, but none of the niceties, none of the good intentions mattered anymore. "Why? Why did you leave?"

        The fire crackled in the brittle silence.

        "I was disappointed."

        "Disappointed..." Mulder was getting angry. "Disappointed in what? In me? Did I even have anything to do with it, or was I part of the clutter that you left behind, that was too cumbersome to take with you?"

        "I was disappointed in the way it was going. Or not going. It was not the life I had planned, Mulder. I need more than that life." His gaze was now almost entreating, as if he desperately hoped Mulder would sympathize.

        Mulder noted the look, but was in no mood to sympathize. "And that is your reason to just drop everything? Was your life written in stone? Was it so immutable that you didn't even bother to try?"

        "It was useless, Mulder. We only had sex, do you remember? It was great sex, but it's all we ever shared. We barely exchanged a word, before, during or after, and you didn't seem to mind. There was never anything the sex, and no prospect of more. Maybe it would have been enough to live on twenty years ago. But not now. It's just not enough."

        "Jesus Christ, Walter..." Mulder shook his head, baffled. "Did you ever bother to ask? No, you didn't need to, of course. You just appraised the situation with your infinite wisdom, your infallible judgment of human character, and decided that it wasn't going where you wanted it to go. And then you packed up and left? Without even fucking bothering to tell me?" His anger was rapidly growing. "Do you know how *I* felt in the last two months? Did you ever think about that? Do you give a damn about it? It wasn't good enough for you, so you kicked me into the gutter like a stinking dog and took your exalted life elsewhere?"

        "Mulder, it wasn't like that. I was miserable, and you couldn't help, and I..."

        "And that gave you the right to stick a knife in my back? And how the fuck could you be so sure I couldn't help? Did you ever ask me? Did you ever give me a chance to do something about it? Not fucking likely. You had decided that I couldn't, and that was it, you didn't have to ask me. The all-knowing AD Skinner knows best." He was almost shouting now.

        "Goddammit, Mulder, listen to me! It's not... It wasn't going to work. We could have gone on for a while, but it would have ended eventually, and with a lot more pain. I could see it coming, and I didn't want it to happen, so I decided I wouldn't wait for it." He shook his head sadly. "Why didn't you just leave it be? It's going to be a lot harder now."

        Mulder turned around and marched over until he stood next to Skinner. Bringing his face even closer, he hissed, "It's going to be a lot harder? You throw me out like a dirty towel, and when I call you on it, you complain I'm making your life difficult? I almost *died* when you left, Goddammit! I'd rip your fucking *heart* out and take it back with me if I thought I could get away with it, you bastard!" The last words were almost shouted. Mulder straightened himself and glared at Skinner, breathing heavily.

        Skinner raised himself to his full length, and seemed to grow several additional inches. "Don't give me that crap, *agent* Mulder. For you it was sex, only sex, nothing else, so don't come whining now about how you've suffered. Did I hurt your ego? I'm sorry. Did I squash your hope of having a creative, industrious, understanding master for the rest of your life? I'm sorry about that, too. But don't pretend you're actually hurting. It's undignified, it's a lie, and it makes me sick."

        Mulder stared at him, glassy-eyed. It was unthinkable, unbearable, but even so it was probably true. His legs were quickly becoming unsteady again. Careful to keep his balance, he slowly took off his coat. He sat down on the sofa and draped the coat over the armrest.

        The longer he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed, and the better it fit with all the memories that still sat fresh in his mind, painstakingly reconstructed for a completely different purpose. It made perfect sense. It was the perfect explanation, the one he wouldn't have thought of, because it might mean things could be repaired.

        He softly said, "You're wrong, you know."

        Skinner whirled around and snarled, "Would you kindly spare me your moral judgments? And while you're at it, would you kindly pick yourself up and get out of here? This has cost me far too much already, and I'm not waiting to hear your self-righteous assessment of the situation. This is not only about you anymore."

        Mulder waited it out with difficulty, and resumed, "I mean, you're wrong about me. I never told you, and I probably should have. I would have, if you had asked. I thought you knew. Even *I* thought you knew everything."

        He got up and walked over to Skinner. Leaning against the mantel, he reached out with one hand, hesitated, then curled his fingers around Skinner's neck.

        Skinner removed the hand, took a step back and said, "Don't do that." Looking at the wall in front of him.

        Mulder exclaimed, "God *damn* it, you blind fool! *That*'s why we never talked - whenever I try to say anything except 'fuck me' you tell me to shut up." He was shouting again, took a few deep breaths to calm down. "What I was going to say is that I love you."

        Skinner stared at him for a long time before he finally shook his head. "I don't believe you."

        But Mulder was on his way and sure of his destination. "Of course not. You've made up your mind for both of us, and you always know best. But I'll stay here and wait until you believe me." He took a step forward, brought his face close to Skinner's and said softly, "I do love you, you know. You just never noticed. You never bothered to look." He stepped away, sat down on the big sofa, and added, "And I never told you."

        He stared into the fire. The mix of emotions was so complex that they seemed to cancel each other. He was left in an eerie, quiet mist. He looked at the flames and waited. When minutes had passed and Skinner still stood motionless, he got up and asked, "Do you have anything to drink?"

        Skinner looked up, composed, as if he'd been disturbed while reading the paper. "Of course, what would you like? Would scotch be all right?" When Mulder nodded, he opened a door in the bookcase against the wall and poured two glasses. He walked over to Mulder, handed him one, and retreated to his chair. After another minute, he said pensively, "You never told me."

        "You never asked," Mulder replied in a gentle tone.

        "That's true, I never asked. I never even considered it." He seemed slightly dazed. "It's not easy to talk to you, you know."

        "Isn't it? I suppose... But you could have tried. You should have tried."

        "Goddammit, Mulder, I *did* try. You ignored me. You just wanted to get laid," Skinner said, his tone defensive. "At least, that's what I thought. I guess I gave up too soon." He looked straight at Mulder. "I'm not made of iron, you know. Though you probably wouldn't say so."

        "I... I know that. I just thought things would change by themselves, eventually, when the time had come. I would talk to you. It was just so easy to wait, and so hard to say something." He pulled a face. "I should have known what I was in for."

        They sat in silence. Eventually Skinner asked, "What do we do now?"

        "We should be... We should be bawling our eyes out, or screwing each other senseless. But I guess... Having another glass and going to bed seems more appropriate, somehow."

        Skinner got up, fetched the bottle and moved over to the sofa. He poured Mulder another glass, then himself, and carefully sat down. "Do you mind if I..." he reached out a hand, carefully, "if I touch you?"

        "No, of course I don't mind," Mulder replied with a small smile.

        Skinner reached out and slowly stroked the side of his face.

        They looked at each other for a second, then Mulder moved over, put his feet on the far armrest and his head in Skinner's lap. Looking up, he said, "You're an idiot, you know that?"

        "Yeah." Skinner lay a hand on Mulder's throat, caressed it thoughtfully. "I guess it takes one to know one." He stared at the fire, his glasses reflecting the light. His hands drifted over the face in his lap like a blind man's hands over a Braille text. Unbuttoning Mulder's shirt, he traced a rib with one hand, appeared to stumble over a nipple, and then the hand faltered, stopped, and Skinner sat motionless, eyes still fixed on the fire.

        Just when Mulder began to wonder if he had fallen asleep, Skinner seemed to suddenly come to his senses again. His movements became purposeful, almost businesslike, and he went on unbuttoning where he had left off.

        Mulder looked up at him, puzzled, vacillating between worry and amusement. When Skinner moved on to his fly, he grabbed his wrist to stop him. "Walter."

        "Hmmm...?"

        "I don't think I want to have sex tonight."

        "I don't think your speech center has consulted the rest of you," Skinner countered.

        "The rest of me will have to take it as it comes for tonight. I don't want to... It shouldn't become a sexual thing again the moment we meet. Let's wait, for a change. If you don't mind."

        Skinner gave him a baffled look. "I guess... No, I don't really mind. I just hope I haven't planted the idea in your head that I'm tired of having sex with you." He finished his whisky in a gulp and added, "And I hope you weren't planning another round of talking. I don't think I have any words left. Nor any thoughts, for that matter. Hopefully some more will form during the night, or you'll have a catatonic on your hands tomorrow."

        Mulder tugged at his neck until he bent his head far enough to be kissed. Then he got up and asked, "Where's the nearest shower?"

        When they were both in bed, Skinner put out the lights, lay back, and said, "I don't think I know how not to have sex with you."

        "You're doing fine, Walter." The voice sounded as if it was about to become a giggle.

        "I'm not doing fine, I assure you. I feel ridiculous. But then, I guess the whole thing is really a hoot, if viewed from the proper distance." He sighed. "Are you sure you don't want to have sex?"

        "Absolutely. But I think I can still bear being touched. You could move over to my side and put your arms around me, for example."

        "Are you laughing at me?" Skinner asked, moving over.

        "Not at all. I'm just explaining some basic..." Then the giggle couldn't be contained anymore. "I'm sorry, Walter. You're just such a... such an absolutist. But I do love you. Really." He rearranged himself a bit to be more comfortable, then resumed, "What are we going to do?"

        "Aside from sleeping? I was hoping you might have some thoughts on that. Until two hours ago, I knew exactly what I was going to do."

        "What was that?"

        "I was going to accept a part-time consulting position that I was offered. Together with what the Bureau owes me, the money is good enough to support me comfortably, and the job sounded interesting. And then I would get a dog and become the neighborhood's friendly uncle."

        "Sounds, um... very solid. And now I've messed up your plans."

        "Yes. Of course I had never realized I'd drop them the moment you showed up. So now we have to come up with something new. I'll consider anything but taking my old job back. If only because I don't want to be your boss anymore. Assuming they'd even take me back, which I doubt. They don't take kindly to desertion."

        "But you wouldn't mind going back to DC?"

        "If I can find a way to support myself..."

        "Don't be coy, Walter. It would take about two days."

        "I'd have to go *ask* for a job."

        "I doubt that, even. Just tell a few people you're in the market, and I'd be surprised if it doesn't take care of itself."

        "You have too much faith in me. But it's worth a try. I also don't want to go back to Crystal City."

        "You could live anywhere. Buy an inconspicuous little place in Chevy Chase. Or a colonial mansion in Virginia. Don't tell me you're strapped for cash."

        "OK, I won't tell you that. So it's arranged? That was easy."

        "Too easy. You'll have second thoughts tomorrow."

        "I doubt it. But we'll see."

        They arranged themselves into their customary sleeping position, on their sides, Skinner behind Mulder, one arm loosely around his waist. Skinner lay for a moment, sighed, and said, "Mulder, I sometimes wish you weren't so skinny. You really occupy only one dimension. Though I'll admit you do that very elegantly. But you should work on expanding your girth a bit."

        "It's called *lean*, Walter. What do I need two dimensions for? Is one not enough for you?"

        "It is, in all situations except this one. It would be nice if I could lean against *your* broad chest for a change, but you don't have enough of a second dimension for that."

        "Well, I'm sorry, but I don't think my second dimension will ever expand much, even if I'd try. Instead of asking me to expand, why don't you shrink a bit?"

        "I would, except I don't think I'd shrink into quite as graceful a silhouette as yours. I'd shrink into an egg. And then you'd leave me."

        "That's true, I would. OK, then don't shrink. But I think you're overestimating your chest circumference, or underestimating mine. Try it. Turn around."

        Skinner grumbled, but turned. Mulder wrapped his arms around him, and to his surprise it didn't feel awkward at all. He dimly thought he should have tried it before, and couldn't remember why he hadn't.

        "Walter?"

        It was distinctly strange to feel Mulder's breath in his ear. "Hmmm...?"

        "Did you just say you loved me?"

        "No, I... Do you think I should have said that?"

        "It would be nice to hear. If you feel like saying it, of course."

        He took a breath, then imagined how the words would ring out, reverberate, bounce against the bedroom wall, echo back into his face... He winced, wriggled out of Mulder's arms. "Just let me turn around first."

        "You mean you can only say it in a certain posture?"

        "Jesus Mulder, you're laughing at me again. You have to stop doing that." He continued his turn and buried his face against Mulder's shoulder. Then he took another breath and said, "I love you."

        Mulder chuckled. "You're a courageous man, Walter Skinner."

        The next morning, Skinner woke up in an empty bed. He sat up and looked around, bewildered, and then noticed the sound of the shower. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, and tried not to make any plans. When the shower stopped, he languorously got up and stepped into the bathroom. To his mild disappointment, he received a hasty kiss in passing and was left alone.

        When he re-emerged from the bathroom, he took a step into the room and stopped in his tracks.

        Mulder had thrown the bed covers aside and lay face-down on the bed. His ass was turned towards Skinner, half-covered by the tails of an unbuttoned white shirt. His right leg was pulled up at an angle, slightly lifting his hip; his right hand disappeared below it. His left arm was stretched out beside him, palm turned up, the fingers slightly curled.

        "Oh Jesus..." Skinner's breath stuck in his throat, and he grew rock-hard almost instantaneously. He held on to the bathroom door for support, and gawked.

        The slight, short movements of Mulder's right arm indicated that he was jerking off with a slow rhythm. The folds in the shirt covering his back, his buttocks, and his thigh muscles moved slightly with the motion, outlined sharply in shifting shadows in the morning light. He was looking at Skinner over his right shoulder, his eyes heavy-lidded, almost closed.

        Skinner stood breathless, motionless, giddy, in his frozen universe. "Oh God, Mulder..."

        How to approach this delicate situation? He noiselessly stepped back into the bathroom and got a small bottle of lube. Then he went back and studied the scene like a billiards player, pondering his next move. Although it had clearly been created for his benefit, he was almost afraid to disturb the delicate tableau. He stood, stared, fighting dizziness, ignoring his alarming heartbeat. Then he took a furtive step, another few, and stood still again beside the bed.

        Mulder, breathing heavily, pretended to be oblivious, his slow hand motions now the only sign he was awake.

        Finally Skinner made his move. Carefully kneeling down between Mulder's legs, he ran his hand over the inside of the bent leg, followed it up to the hip. Leaning slightly over the prone figure, he reached over the leg into the same space Mulder's right hand was occupying, checking as furtively as possible if he was wearing a cock ring. He wasn't.

        Skinner gently put his large hand over Mulder's and stilled the movement. A small whimper was the only reaction. "Don't come yet, Mulder," he whispered warningly.

        Keeping his hand in place, he shifted his balance back and used his left hand to caress the inviting ass before him. He slowly ran his fingers, then the palm of his hand over the curve, and slid his fingers into the crack.

        Mulder pulled his leg up higher, trapping Skinner's hand between leg and hip bone.

        Skinner freed it gently, and used it to spread the ass cheeks. Slow, heavy breathing when he bent down, growing faster when he ran his tongue first up, then down, then up again to the halfway point. The breathing almost stopped. He put his mouth to the tight opening, waited a bit for effect, and then sucked strongly.

        The muted cry that followed went straight to his balls and made his head spin.

        He continued sucking, using one arm to keep the writhing body pinned to the mattress. When he finally thrust his tongue inside, Mulder convulsed, then slowly lay back down, moaning. Putting one arm around Mulder's pelvis to protect himself from unexpected movements, he sucked, thrust, and bit softly until Mulder sounded breathless, incoherent, and on the verge of coming.

        "Don't come, do you hear?"

        Another moan, a stifled "Oh, Jesus..."

        He moved, pulled up Mulder's hips and lifted him half onto his knees. Then he groped around for the bottle of lube on the mattress and squeezed a bit on the fingers of his right hand. Spreading Mulder's ass with his left hand, he slowly pushed his finger inside, probing, stretching. A second finger, and Mulder grabbed a pillow, hugged it. He made soft, plaintive noises, increasing in strength when the third finger entered him.

        Reaching around with his other hand, Skinner found the artery in Mulder's groin, felt the pulse. It was quite fast already. "Don't come, Mulder. Don't even think about it."

        A short, breathless laugh, then, "Oh God... I can't, I really can't."

        He pressed down hard with the three fingers of his right hand, and Mulder cried out, sounding as if he was in pain. "AH! Jesus... Oh God, Walter, please... OH!"

        Skinner set up a slow, circular motion, brushing over his prostate with every thrust. The pained cries intensified as Mulder tried to curl up, pulled up his knees until Skinner blocked them, and writhed, struggled under the merciless stimulation. His hips moved against the hand in a counter-circle, making it even harder to hold back. He was covered in sweat, trembling. "Oh Jesus, stop... I can't take it, I'm going to..."

        "Don't come yet," Skinner growled. The fingers of his left hand again felt for Mulder's pulse. It was very rapid, and he wondered how long Mulder could keep this up.

        Mulder clenched his teeth, and didn't come. Stinging beads of sweat (or was it tears?) ran into his eyes. His back ached from the tension. The frantic beating of his heart reverberated through his chest; it felt like it might give up at any moment. He held on, desperately, while Skinner's hand moved inside him in hard, tender strokes, forcing more strained cries from him. When he was sure he would have a stroke from the pressure, Skinner suddenly withdrew his hand.

        Mulder lay gasping, Skinner's knees between his, keeping his legs apart. His heartbeat refused to go down, his muscles wouldn't relax, his ass was tingling. He moved slightly, winced, and lay still again, aching, exhausted.

        "Don't come," Skinner whispered in his ear, certain that neither he nor Mulder would last much longer. Wrapping one arm around Mulder's waist and half-lifting him off the mattress, he moved forward on his knees and guided his cock into position. Mulder felt the pressure against his sphincter increase, felt himself being stretched wide open, Skinner entering him with a strong, sure stroke. He cried out again, then whispered, "O God, I can't..." and began to come.

        Skinner was pleasantly surprised that the penetration hadn't made him come immediately. He didn't pause, and fucked Mulder hard, deep, keeping the pace until Mulder began to soften, to slowly melt in his embrace, and he could feel his own climax approach with all the quiet grace of an oncoming train. He gasped with the force of it, trembled, almost let Mulder fall out of his arms onto the mattress. He slowed down, ground to a halt, and after a few seconds of heavy synchronized panting, their combined bulk toppled over to the right.

        Mulder was still clutching his pillow, Skinner was still clutching him, and the soaked shirt was stuck between them.

        Minutes later, Skinner emerged from his stupor to the sound of muffled sobs. "What the hell... Mulder? What's wrong?"

        Mulder shook his head and dove deeper into his pillow.

        Skinner held him, mystified and at a compete loss.

        A few minutes later, the sobs lessened until there was only an occasional hiccup, then nothing. After another minute, Mulder turned onto his back with his pillow and said, "Sorry."

        "What was that?" Skinner couldn't keep the amazement out of his voice.

        "That was... just some post-traumatic stress relief. I've had a few traumatic experiences lately."

        Skinner gazed down at him, his heart shrinking.

        Mulder turned another 90 degrees to face Skinner and said, "It would be good for you, too."

        To his enormous surprise, Skinner suddenly felt his nose congest and his throat constrict. What the hell was happening here? "I never... I'm an ex-marine, Mulder. I don't cry."

        "I'll bet. 'Old soldiers never cry, they simply sneak away...'," Mulder improvised without thinking. The look on Skinner's face made him realize what he'd said, and he amended, "Oh shit, Walter, I'm sorry, that was... an accident. I didn't mean it the way it came out." Then, resignedly, he thrust the pillow into Skinner's face and said, "You may want to use this. I'm sorry. I really am."

        "So am I," came the muffled reply after a while. Then Skinner threw the pillow to the side and took Mulder in his arms again. "I'm very sorry. I really am an idiot."

        "Yeah," Mulder offered cheerfully, "like you said, it takes one to know one." He grinned at Skinner and continued, "Well, that was very therapeutic, don't you think?"

        "Damn you. You must have drugged me. Bewitched me."

        "I've charmed you into betraying your true self. Well, part of it. And high time, too."

        "Mulder, I'm beginning to worry that you have forgotten your place. I may have to put you back in it. Assuming you still want it."

        "Oh yes. A damn fine place it was. Nothing wrong with that place."

        "So. I'll put you back in it. Today is Saturday, right?"

        "Yes..."

        "So why the hell did we wake up at..." Skinner raised himself up on one elbow and glanced at the clock. "Oh, it's 10.30. Well. Anyway, the problem, one of the problems, is that I have no... gear. I have almost nothing to help you remember your place. I need some things. That's where you come in."

        Mulder looked at him suspiciously. "You mean I get to choose what..."

        "Here's the plan. I go to the supermarket here in Lynnwood and buy some food, and then I'll cook dinner. You're going to drive to Seattle today and find a hardware store, and you'll buy us some toys. You know what you like, and you know what I like. I'll even give you my plastic to pay for it. That way we both get a present, in a way. What do you think?" "It seems barbaric to me. Civilized people buy those things over the Internet."

        "Civilized people with plenty of time. I'm in a hurry. I'm worried it may be too late already. Your ego seems to have grown quite a bit since I last saw you."

        "Since you *left* me. So you really want me to physically drive there, find an establishment where they sell that... gear? Gear. And go in, and get a shopping basket, and look around, and... and... report to the cash register with my little basket filled with cuffs, plugs, whips...?"

        "Don't forget the enema bags."

        Mulder looked at him in mock horror. "What if I meet someone there? Like someone from the Seattle bureau?"

        "Then you'll have something in common with a third Federal Agent. I like this plan better and better."

        "I don't even believe you can cook."

        ~:~

        Mulder came back around 4 in the afternoon with a large, discreet plastic bag that appeared, and turned out to be, rather heavy. Trying not to look self-satisfied, he handed it to Skinner, who could barely suppress a smile. He had laid a fire, and with the cold, gray weather outside and his plastic bag of gifts inside, it was beginning to feel a bit like Christmas.

        And the Christmas elation came with it. It was hard to suppress to urge to turn the bag upside down and dump its contents on the rug for inspection, and then rummage through it with both hands... he put it down gently, and sat next to it on the floor, cross-legged. Mulder sat down on the sofa across from the fire and looked on.

        The first item was the receipt. He glanced at it. It came to a bit over 500 dollars, which made him smile again. "I'm glad you didn't economize on my behalf," he said, grinning.

        In rapid succession, he pulled out some standard items. Light brown leather, fleece-lined wrist- and ankle cuffs. A suede cock-and-ball harness in the same tan color. A bottle of lube, and another of some soothing ointment. It smelled expensive, a fresh, herbal scent. A black velvet blindfold. Butt plugs in three different sizes. A nylon riding crop. Trying it out on his hand, he found that it had a mean sting to it.

        "Did you even try this before you bought it?"

        Mulder, now sitting on the edge of his seat, shook his head. "I like a surprise." He succeeded in looking coy.

        "I'm not sure you'll like this one. But I'm honored that you have so much faith in my restraint."

        The heaviest objects remained at the bottom of the bag. A wooden paddle, nicely balanced, handling like an old, familiar friend. Skinner held it, flexed his wrist, then waved it around, and felt the old, intoxicating sensation of power return. He looked at Mulder again, and thought he saw the complementing feeling in his eyes. His arms suddenly felt heavy with emotion.

        Mulder got up and stood beside the fire, looking at him with tense anticipation. The best was clearly still to come.

        Putting the paddle aside, Skinner delved into the bag again. Only one thing remained. It was heavy in his hands, and very smooth. He freed it from the bag, almost reverently. It was a large wooden dildo, elegantly shaped, slightly curved, the shape suggestive but not overly naturalistic. One end was slightly thickened to prevent it from sliding in. It was made from some kind of tropical hardwood, very dark brown with flames of a lighter color, finished with a hard, very clear high-gloss finish that enhanced the grain of the wood. It gleamed in the afternoon light. A thin leather strap carrying a price tag was knotted around it like a parody of a cock ring. The thing had cost almost 90 dollars.

        "Classy..." Skinner said to himself, his tone dreamy. "It's almost a piece of art." He looked at Mulder, who was leaning against the mantel, motionless, so intent Skinner was reminded of self-hypnosis.

        The dildo was surprisingly heavy. Its size made him a little nervous; he wasn't sure how to interpret that gesture. If it was a gesture. Was Mulder trying to impress him? To please him? Did he secretly still think the whole thing was about sex, and that the damage could be repaired with heavier sex? Or had he just taken a fancy to the damned dildo, without intending it to be used at all?

        Stop that, you fool. You're thinking for him again, adopting his brain, assuming you can predict how it works.

        He looked up again, and said dubiously, "I hope you've thought about this, Mulder..."

        Mulder stared at him with huge eyes, a scorching, searing gaze. He appeared mesmerized by the little act Skinner had created for him. He was half-erect, and he stared at Skinner as if he was only seconds away from jumping at him.

        For a moment, Skinner was unable to look away, gaze glued to his lover in breathless admiration. Mulder was leaning against the mantel, in faded jeans and a loose-hanging, light blue flannel shirt that missed the lowest two buttons. Barefoot, lean, lanky, beautiful. Aroused and making a point of conveying the message. The vision seemed almost unreal. He stared until he felt the world recede, until they seemed to be captured in a transparent bubble together; then he forced himself to look away.

        Skinner looked back at the object in his hands, stroked it with an almost loving gesture. "It seems a bit big..." He was quiet again, lost to the world. Then he suddenly put the dildo down and got up, saying, "However, I do think you forgot something."

        Mulder now looked at the floor, feigning innocence, but coloring slightly.

        His blush, more than anything else, made Skinner realize they were already crossing the line between real and make-believe. He smiled a victorious smile. "Fortunately, I've known you for a while, so I picked up some disposable enema bags at the drugstore." He retrieved a rumpled brown bag from behind a chair and added it to the small pile on the floor. "Of course, I can't let this pass unnoticed. But you knew that, didn't you?" He smiled up benignly at Mulder, who seemed to waver between laughter and chagrin. Then he got up again and moved behind his lover.

        "Don't move," he whispered, reaching around and running his hand over Mulder's chest, then dropping it to his fly. Using his hips, he pushed Mulder's pelvis against his hand, and rubbed, until he felt a twitch in response. "You are so unbelievably beautiful," he said softly, opening Mulder's jeans with one hand, pinning him to his chest with the other. He pushed the jeans and boxers down over Mulder's straining erection, just far enough to free it. Taking it in his hand, he slowly stroked it with his thumb.

        Mulder leaned back heavily, his head resting against Skinner's chin, then sliding to the side and coming to rest on his shoulder. There it turned and nuzzled the side of his neck.

        "Should we continue this, I wonder? I think it might take the edge off the rest? I'd really better stop," Skinner drawled, smiling when Mulder made a little noise against his neck. He pushed the other away and said, "Why don't you take your clothes off, Mulder?"

        Mulder nodded, pulled up his jeans, and started in the direction of the bedroom.

        "Stay here."

        He turned around, looked at the large windows facing the street, began, "But..."

        "There's a fair amount of lawn in front of the house, Mulder. Besides, there's never anyone in the street. Undress."

        Mulder looked at him hesitantly; then he slowly began to undress.

        Skinner looked on, motionless, until he was done, then picked up his rumpled brown bag from the pile on the floor and said, "Wait here."

        When he came back with the filled bag, Mulder sat on the couch, the only place in the room that was invisible from the street, hunched over, hugging himself as if he was cold, even though the fire had warmed the room to an almost tropical temperature.

        "Kneel on the rug, facing the fire."

        Mulder now looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Do you mean... But... It's like a fucking theater stage!" Equal parts indignation and apprehension.

        Skinner just stared at him.

        Mulder was horrified. Hands gripping the edge of the seat, a posture that revealed his half-erection, he looked at Skinner imploringly. "I can't... I don't think I can do this..."

        "Mulder..." Skinner found with satisfaction that he still could do his menacing tone quite well.

        Mulder got up, very slowly, eyeing the windows again. "Can you at least close the curtains?"

        "Then the neighbors will assume that something untoward is going on here. We don't want to do anything that looks suspicious," Skinner said in a reasonable tone. "Kneel, Mulder. Face the fire. Now."

        His movements a perfect choreography of stage fright, Mulder gingerly stepped onto the woolly rug, looked over his shoulder at the deserted street, and knelt, three feet away from the small stack of toys that Skinner had built.

        Skinner stood behind him, picked up the velvet blindfold, and tied it over his eyes, checking to make sure that he couldn't see. He stroked Mulder's hair for a moment, then commanded, "Put your forehead on the floor."

        With a shaky sigh, Mulder obeyed.

        Skinner placed the enema bag on the fireplace mantel and moved behind Mulder. Kneeling down, he quickly looked over his shoulder to make sure his bluff wouldn't backfire, then gently inserted the nozzle and opened the valve. And stepped back to admire the scene.

        More than half the fun came from Mulder's intense dislike of this procedure; it always generated some resistance, always took a bit of persuasion. It was the first struggle for dominance, Mulder's defeat just serious enough demoralize, to make him more pliable, more receptive to whatever else was coming. The tension was visible in every line, every curve of his body; he never looked more beautiful than when he was struggling.

        "Don't move until I'm back. I'm going to do something about dinner." 'Doing something' would consist of placing the steaming pan on the stove, but there was no need to be more specific.

        Mulder made a small noise. Raising his head, he swallowed and said, "No. Please..." When he turned his unseeing face toward at Skinner, it was flushed red; his voice was almost a whisper.

        "It won't take long. Relax and wait it out, Mulder." He didn't await further pleas.

        The kitchen also faced the street. After half-closing the door to the living room, he cast another quick look at the street to make sure it was still deserted; then he filled the steamer with water, placed the Dim Sum he had prepared earlier inside, and put it on the slow burner. After pottering around for another minute, he went back.

        To his satisfaction, Mulder had not visibly moved. From the way his shoulders slumped and his head rested heavily on the floor, it was clear that he had given up on the battle, at least for the moment.

        Skinner checked the street again, silently laughing at himself because he was getting entangled in Mulder's fears, the fears that he had so carefully orchestrated himself.

        The enema bag was about three-quarters empty. Dropping down on the rug beside Mulder, he began to stroke his back with long, even strokes.

        Mulder shivered, moved slightly to push his back up against the caress, and asked in a hoarse voice, "Is there anyone outside?"

        "Of course not," Skinner replied in a long-suffering tone. It was clear that Mulder barely believed him.

        When the enema bag was empty, Skinner unwrapped the smallest of the three butt plugs and lubed it. Taking out the nozzle, he quickly inserted the plug. Mulder gasped softly but remained still, forehead on the ground, arms by his sides. In spite of the heat, he was trembling.

        On a whim, Skinner took the hand that was closest to him and held it. He looked at the prostrate figure with wonder. What would make anyone submit himself to this? What pleasure did people derive from it? It was mystifying, baffling, and very intriguing. The amount of external control that Mulder was willing to accept always awed him, and it moved him beyond words. He looked on as the trembling became stronger and Mulder's back became shiny with sweat. He stroked the fingers of the hand he was holding, and counted his blessings.

        After several minutes, he got up on his knees, leaned over Mulder and removed the blindfold. "You can go now," he said softly.

        Mulder blinked a few times, then got up slowly, stiffly, and went.

        In his absence, Skinner looked again at the wooden dildo. The dark wood shone. The smooth, glossy surface invited touching. He ran one finger over its length. Its beauty made it inviting, belying the harm it could cause. Before, it had seemed outrageous, a bluff, a whim. But now he didn't think it was. It represented the very approach/avoid dynamic that was the driving force in Mulder, and it seemed very typical that he would choose it. He had bought it because he was attracted to it; not to be shown off, but to be used.

        Mulder stepped back into the room, naked, but looking fairly composed. His first glance was at the windows. He had apparently taken a hasty shower: some drops of water still clung to his skin.

        "Fetch a towel," Skinner told him. When he returned with it, Skinner took it, positioned Mulder in the center of the rug, facing the window, and carefully rubbed him dry, watching his cock rise slowly in the process. He ran his index finger through the crack of his ass, and found that Mulder had re-inserted the plug. He pulled it out, lubed up the middle-sized one, and gently pushed it in. Placing his other hand against Mulder's stomach to counterbalance him, he twisted the plug. There was a sharp intake of breath, and Mulder's cock pushed against the back of his hand.

        Skinner moved to stand beside Mulder, facing him. "Put your left foot between my legs," he instructed. Mulder obediently stepped out, hanging on to him for balance. "Farther," urging Mulder on until his legs were spread more than 90 degrees apart. His shoulder rested against Skinner's chest, his arm was around Skinner's waist, hand clasping his side.

        Skinner reached for the plug again with his right hand, and dropped his left hand to cup Mulder's balls, pushing his wrist against Mulder's thigh to keep him from falling forward. He pushed the plug in a bit and pulled it back again.

        Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed.

        Fondling Mulder's balls with his left hand, manipulating the plug with his right, Skinner observed him as his arousal grew.

        Mulder's hips moved slightly against the plug in his rectum. He leaned against Skinner, then turned his head and pushed it against Skinner's shoulder to stifle his moans. He knew he wouldn't be allowed to come yet. The knowledge made it no easier to still his hips. It turned his growing excitement into a slow, exquisite torture. He fastened his teeth on Skinner's shoulder through the cotton of his shirt and stood as still as he could, panting hard.

        Finally the unbearable movement in his ass stopped and his balls were exposed to the air that now felt chilly. He let go of Skinner's shoulder and stood, swaying.

        "I think this is a good time for your punishment," Skinner announced.

        Mulder, still breathing hard, looked at him out of the corner of his eye and nodded assent. He held out his wrists in front of him to be locked in the soft leather cuffs and tied together, and stood still while Skinner knelt before him to fasten the ankle cuffs. His ankles were tied together as well, allowing only very small steps.

        "Kneel down here," Skinner said, indicating the chair facing the window, "and put your chest on the seat."

        Again that God-damned window. Mulder looked outside again and saw a deserted street; he couldn't shake the feeling that dozens of leering faces would appear inside the frames of the windows as soon as he turned his back. He looked at Skinner pleadingly, but there was no sympathy, only impatience.

        Feeling like a fool, he looked outside again to try to warn any spectators off, sighed, and turned to kneel in front of the chair.

        "Bend over," Skinner urged him on.

        He bent, face sideways on the seat, his view confined to the brown ribcord of the upholstered armrest. To his horror, he already felt his throat constrict, tears rising, threatening to fill his eyes. He swallowed, blinked, and breathed deeply; after a moment, it was easier.

        "How many do you think you deserve?" Skinner asked.

        This was a ritual question; he didn't know if what he said had any influence on the number of lashes he would get, but he wasn't sure it didn't. Getting it right suddenly seemed very important. How many? He had willfully left out the enema bags, to emphasize his resentment, to assert his independence, to stress that his cooperation was an essential part of this game. And maybe hoping to escape the hated ritual for once. Intentional sabotage, defiance, disobedience...

        He cleared his throat and said, "Fifteen, Sir."

        "Fifteen. Hmmm. All right, we'll see."

        He heard Skinner step away and pick something up, presumably the paddle. He didn't raise his head to look. He felt the air move when Skinner knelt down beside him, heard the rustle of his clothes when he raised his arm, and clenched the muscles in his buttocks.

        The sound was as bad as the stinging, burning pain. It was very loud, and it would have made him flinch even if it had been someone else's flesh. The blow pushed the anal plug deeper inside, producing a jolt of arousal that seemed to make the pain more acute. He gasped, clenched his fists, bunched his shoulders, and it took some time before he could make himself form the words. "One, Sir."

        He had barely finished the words before the second slap hit him, making him whimper. He had no defense against this pain. Was he out of practice, was it really so much worse, or had something changed inside him? His persistent erection pressed against the front of the chair. His arms were clamped against his chest, his hands balled into fists. He forced himself to breathe slowly, to wait until the roar in his ears quieted somewhat, before he said, "Two, Sir." His voice sounded brittle.

        The pain got worse as the flesh on his buttocks heated. The tender, hot flush spread over all his body and his face. The third slap made him wonder if he could take all fifteen; it seemed impossible. He would break down, cry, grovel, beg for it to stop. Would that make it stop? He didn't know. He raised his torso slightly, moved his bound hands between his thighs, shielding his maddeningly erect cock between his forearms, and lay down again. "Three, Sir," he managed weakly.

        The fourth blow was worse than all the previous ones. It made him cry out and bury his face against the armrest. In the store, he had tested the paddle on his hand, and it hadn't seemed very bad then. Now the pain threatened to overcome him. Swallowing back his tears, he moved his lower jaws to release the tense muscles. His thigh muscles trembled and his buttocks were on fire. He badly wanted to run his hands over his backside to feel how much damage had been done, but it was impossible with his cuffed hands, and anyway, Skinner wouldn't allow it. His breath was shaky as he whispered, "Four, Sir."

        Upon the fifth, his whole body jerked. A strangled cry escaped and was mercifully muffled by the armrest. His chest heaved as he tried to control his breathing. The roar in his ears was deafening, he was dizzy, and he felt he might faint. He gasped, "I can't bear it, Sir. Please."

        Skinner moved behind him and ran a cool, tender hand over his right buttock, then his left. "I'll give you a moment," he conceded, stroking Mulder's ass and the back of his thighs, a cool, dry touch against the burning skin. "The first few are always the worst." He lifted Mulder up slightly and touched his cock, still painfully erect. Withdrawing one hand, he spread Mulder's buttocks and twisted the plug inside him. The response of his cock was strong. He pulled back his other hand and inserted his thumbs in the crack, opening it, and ran his tongue through the cleft. Mulder shuddered and moaned. He certainly didn't seem to be in any physical trouble. He moved back and said, "Resume the count, Mulder."

        Mulder wanted crawl away, to curl up in a tight little ball. He was almost desperate, but he knew that counting was his only chance of controlling the tempo of the beating; if he didn't count, Skinner would set his own pace. He took a few deep breaths and said, "Five, Sir."

        The sixth blow almost unbalanced him, but the pain strangely was more bearable. The plug in his rectum seemed much bigger now. "Six, Sir."

        It was becoming easier. His ass felt raw and overheated, but it was slightly numb. He now remembered that that was the way it always was; just when the pain seemed too much to bear, it receded a bit, and the arousal became stronger. He clenched his teeth for the seventh blow, and when it fell, he concentrated on the intense sensation in his rectum. He didn't even notice that his hips were moving, thrusting his erection against the chair. "Seven, Sir," he announced, slightly light-headed.

        "Mulder."

        The voice took some time to register. He lifted his head.

        "Straighten up and turn around."

        Turning on his knees, breathless, he wondered what had happened.

        Skinner held the soft harness he had bought, and proceeded to put it on, careful to touch Mulder's straining erection as little as he could. He pulled the straps painfully tight, and Mulder winced at the rough treatment.

        "You should have thought of that before," Skinner admonished.

        Before? Before what?

        "You were rubbing yourself against the chair, Mulder. I don't know why you thought I wouldn't notice. Turn back. And you don't have to count anymore."

        That was punishment, and he felt his heart lurch at the unexpected snub. He turned and assumed his position again, still wondering, the straps of the cock harness cutting into his flesh uncomfortably, and more so after the next stinging blow sent another lightning bolt up his spine. He shifted around, trying with growing desperation to find a better position as the blows fell faster. The searing shocks from his prostate made his cock jump painfully against the restricting harness. His mind shrunk, his whole awareness was concentrated in his ass, his rectum, his cock, blow after blow intensifying all sensations until the world began to disappear.

        When it stopped, his mind was blank. He lay in the chair, panting, motionless, unthinking, until Skinner touched him.

        "Get up."

        He tried, but couldn't. Skinner helped him up and lay him face-down on the floor, his torso beside his bound hands. Those same cool hands were on his buttocks again, soothing, caressing. Something cold - he could smell the herbal fragrance - was massaged into his burning flesh. It felt so unbelievably good, Mulder wanted to stretch out, to croon, to close his eyes and float and never come back.

        The plug was removed, and replaced with the third one. This one was big - big enough to stretch his sphincter uncomfortably. He shifted a bit as Skinner pushed it in slowly, then shifted more, then groaned as he was opened wider. The plug was pulled back a little, then in again, even more slowly. He breathed deep, slow breaths until the thing was finally in place and the burning began to subside.

        "That dildo is still bigger," Skinner warned him.

        He had almost forgotten about the dildo. In the shop, he had hesitated for a long time about it, decided against it, but gone back again because he was fascinated. Its beauty was enchanting; it seemed to be calling to him like a Siren. He stood with the thing in his hands and could almost feel it being forced inside him. It would hurt, badly, but it would be so intense, so overpowering... He had put it back again and made for the exit, then returned once more to stare at it. The smoothness, the heavy balance, the delicate shape - he had dropped it into the basket with the rest and rushed out, before he'd change his mind again.

        It appeared that Skinner couldn't resist it either. So it was going to be tonight. His heart pounded - arousal, anxiety, anticipation. It would hurt.

        The stroking of his backside stopped, and he lazily opened his eyes. It was late twilight now, and Skinner was (finally, finally...) closing the curtains, and went on to throw some logs on the fire. It was now the only source of light in the room.

        "Can you sit up yet?"

        He tried, and could, although he was a still bit wobbly.

        Skinner undressed (the cowardly bastard...) and sat down in the chair, beckoning Mulder over. "Suck me. And do your best."

        Mulder moved over on his knees, knelt in front of the chair, and bent over Skinner's lap. He knew he was good at this, and relished his temporary control. He could set the tempo and the tone, and he knew exactly what Skinner liked.

        Within minutes, he had Skinner almost incoherent, fingers entwined in Mulder's hair but not really trying to influence his movements, just feeling, passive for a few minutes, being tossed around by Mulder's mouth, his unbelievable, incredible mouth. His breath came in short bursts, his voice didn't work properly anymore, it only produced ridiculous, whimpering noises, and when Mulder finally deep-throated him, his hips wanted to rise up from the chair, but he didn't even have the brain capacity left to coordinate that movement. He just writhed, moaned, and then begged for release, only to be strung along for another eternity before it finally came, explosively, a starburst.

        It took some time before he could speak again, and all that time he was aware, vaguely at first, then more acutely, of Mulder's smug face, his triumphant smile.

        "Was that your best?" Skinner asked him.

        "Was it satisfactory?" Mulder countered, grinning.

        "It was... quite satisfactory," Skinner replied, smiling himself. He sat up in the chair, organizing his thoughts, forming a plan. "I want you on your back."

        Mulder lay back, his still bound wrists modestly covering his crotch, long legs stretched out on the rug. Skinner pushed up his legs a bit, spreading his knees. Then he reconsidered. "Pull up your knees, and wrap your arms around them." He unfastened the strap that held the ankle cuffs together, pulled it through the ring on one of the wrist cuffs, and re-tied it.

        Mulder tried to move his legs, and found to his horror that he was as good as immobilized on his back, like a tortoise. "You're not going to make me stay like this, are you?"

        "I don't know yet, Mulder. We'll see. Are you comfortable?"

        Mulder mentally checked and found that nothing hurt yet, but that probably wouldn't last long. The posture was very undignified, and he resented it.

        Skinner went about his work. First he unstrapped the cock-and-ball harness, evoking a sigh of relief from Mulder. He now had very easy access to the plug in Mulder's ass, and he worked it a bit, noting the reactions. Mulder never was so easily aroused as when he was slightly upset. He erection was as strong as ever. Pushing the plug in, he watched the anal muscle close on it, trying to keep it out. He turned it a half-circle, and heard Mulder hiss. He shifted position to watch Mulder's face. It was visibly flushed, even in the yellow half-light of the fire. He twisted the plug again, and saw Mulder close his eyes, arch his back, and bite back a moan.

        He slowly took out the plug and reached for the lube. Covering his fingers and knuckles with the jelly, he kneeled next to Mulder's thigh. He wanted to be able to watch his face; sounds of pain and pleasure were hard to distinguish by ear alone. He started with three fingers, and found they were no problem. He pulled out and added a fourth, feeling slight resistance at the first joint, then stronger resistance at the second. Carefully fucking the tight hole with four fingers, he didn't push on until the muscles began to yield.

        Mulder lay incapacitated, unable to decide whether to focus on his residual indignation, his increasing arousal, or the pain that went with it. His head was thrown back, his mouth open to catch any breath he could. His spine was arched in a futile attempt to relieve the relentless pressure in his ass. The sounds he occasionally made sounded barely human to him. The hand inside him was gentle, patient, persistent, and he wanted, desperately wanted to give in to its persuasive motions. He felt its slow progress in his whole body, felt his muscles gripping it, his pulse beating against it.

        Skinner began to push inside again with a bit more force, and felt the muscle give, accepting his hand, opening without much resistance as he slid inside up to his knuckles. He pulled back, then forward again, and it was easy. He sat still, breathless, his gut hollow with renewed arousal, and watched half his hand slowly disappearing inside Mulder, listening to the strangled noises his movement evoked. He held it in place for a moment and felt the overworked muscles slowly clamp down on him.

        He had to withdraw and use both hands to lube the dildo. Resuming his place, he gently pushed it against Mulder's ass, felt it open again, willingly, and slid it in until he met some resistance. His mouth was dry, he was fully erect again, and he wondered if he would actually come once more from this slow, persistent fucking.

        The dildo went about a third of the way in, and Mulder moaned again, softly. Skinner looked at him, and released the strap that held his legs up.

        "I'm not... I'm OK," Mulder panted.

        "I know, but it's just too beautiful. You have to be there," Skinner replied, aware that he wasn't making much sense.

        Mulder stretched his legs gingerly, keeping his knees slightly bent. Shadows from the firelight played on his skin. His eyes seemed black again. The dark curve of the dildo protruded from his anus, its thickened end almost touching the floor, moving slightly when he moved his legs.

        Skinner began to feel a bit nervous about the abuse. "Can you take more?" he asked softly.

        There was a nod, barely visible. "Slow." The voice was almost inaudible.

        Skinner took the end in his slippery fingers and pulled it out slightly, then back in, very slowly, exerting only the slightest pressure. That seemed to work: after every retraction, it slid in a little further.

        He looked at Mulder's face, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, turning to look at the fire, then back again. His hands, still bound, lay on his belly, relaxed, unnoticed. His breath came in shallow gasps. He had lost his erection; there seemed to be nothing left except the desperate desire to take the dildo, to cajole or force his body into accepting the intrusion.

        With very slight increments, it could be pushed in further and further. Kneeling between Mulder's legs, Skinner worked with intense concentration. It was now a challenge for both of them; he was part of it as much as Mulder. He could almost feel the stretching, the pain in his own ass. His erection was throbbing, but he barely noticed it, intent on working the dildo in without causing any damage, with as little pain as he could. Finally he stopped, and looked at his work, exultant.

        He stroked Mulder's thigh, his hip, in appreciation, in awe. "It's in," he whispered.

        Mulder lay very still, panting. He moved his leg slightly, experimentally. Then he raised his head and said, "I want to see it."

        Skinner looked at him, wide-eyed. He tried to determine what he felt at that statement, and took a second before he realized he was shocked. But he got up, went to the bedroom and took down the three-quarter-length mirror. In the living room, he set it down between Mulder's legs and held it, adjusting the angle. And when he looked again at the figure lying supine before him, legs spread and slightly bent, colored amber by the fire, ass stretched open by the now almost invisible dildo, he could see Mulder's point. It was absolutely breathtaking.

        Mulder lifted his head and studied himself. His penis twitched, and his erection began to come back. He smiled, a strange, twisted smile. Even his facial muscles seemed stretched, exhausted. "Do you like it?"

        Skinner could barely find his voice. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

        "I want you to fuck me with it. And I want to watch you."

        Skinner swiveled the chair around and leaned the mirror against the back. Its oblique angle would let him sit between Mulder's legs without getting into his line of vision. The bottom of the mirror was held in place with a heavy book from the bookcase. As he adjusted the tilt, he felt light-headed, elated, and deliciously perverse.

        Resuming his place between Mulder's legs, he gripped the end of the dildo tightly and pulled on it. It slowly slid out, about half an inch. He pushed it back in, and heard Mulder moan. After a few seconds' rest, he resumed, pulling out slowly, then pushing back in. The moans became louder. Mulder's erection grew stronger, and an angry pulse on the underside of his cock threw a rhythmic shadow on the skin of his hip. He moved his hips slightly in time with the thrusts.

        "Are you OK?" Skinner inquired, although there was no reason to assume he wasn't.

        Mulder was gasping. He ground out, "I'm... I'm very OK... Deeper..."

        The amplitude was now at least four inches. Skinner hesitantly pulled the dildo out further, pushed it back. It slid smoothly both ways, and Mulder began to whimper.

        "Oh God, Walter, please... Harder... It's so unbelievably... unbelievably..."

        Ignoring his misgivings, Skinner obeyed. The writhing body below his hands was clouding his mind, his brain felt like it was on a nitrogen high, and he realized he would probably come as soon as Mulder did. He looked at the dildo, stretching the flesh on its way in, sliding smoothly out, slick with lubricant, ethereally beautiful as it ruthlessly fucked Mulder, evoking gasps and twitches and the racing, raging pulse...

        He pulled it all the way out, waited a second, and thrust it in again forcefully, then again, and again, slightly unnerved by the brutal action, but too aroused to care.

        At the third thrust, Mulder cried out and went over the edge, flailing, convulsing, his semen illuminated by the fire, flying in glittering parabolic arcs and landing on his chest.

        Skinner watched him come, his heart pounding so hard it seemed to make his eyes bulge. He touched himself and immediately came, almost doubled over, his head touching Mulder's abdomen as he emptied himself, too dazed to even hear his own animal grunts. He dimly realized that he couldn't drop his weight on Mulder, shifted his weight and dropped next to Mulder.

        When he woke up, Mulder lay on his side, facing the fire and away from him. The dildo was still deeply lodged in his rectum. Skinner wondered briefly if he should pull it out, but he was too sleepy. When he moved behind Mulder, he accidentally brushed against the protruding end of the dildo, making Mulder flinch in his sleep. He carefully pulled up his other leg and lay it over Mulder's hip, protecting him from further collisions, and fell asleep again.

        Mulder's brusque movements woke him up what seemed an instant later.

        "Walter, get that thing out of me." He sounded agitated.

        He blinked, shook his head to clear it, and half sat, remembering in the same instant that he had neglected to untie Mulder's hands. "Shit. I'm sorry." He got up on his knees and gingerly took hold of the protruding end of the dildo.

        Mulder winced, then said, "Wait... wait. Untie my hands."

        Skinner leaned over him and untied the strap that held the cuffs together, then took of the cuffs.

        Mulder carefully rolled over on his stomach and said, "Try again."

        Skinner swallowed, tried not to stare at the smooth, rounded ass that was presented to him. The dark, imposing shape of the dildo visibly stretched the flesh, holding the buttocks apart. Its shaft twitched slightly as the muscle clenched it, working fruitlessly to push it out. He put his left hand on Mulder's lower back and slowly pulled with his right.

        Mulder squirmed, then tensed up, breathing hard. "Oh shit... we should have... Walter, wait..." His back was shiny with sweat again.

        Skinner waited. The dildo was almost halfway out, and the view was incredible. He was ashamed of himself, but was unable to look away, to ignore his arousal. He reached out and caressed Mulder's ass, his back, his thighs, and was very relieved when it actually seemed to relax him.

        "Try again, Walter, slowly..."

        He pulled, and the dildo slid out smoothly. Mulder heaved a heavy sigh of relief. "I thought I had inadvertently married it... How do I look?"

        Skinner stroked his ass some more, then replied, "You look fine. I don't think there's any damage."

        "Good. Christ, it feels even bigger than it looks." He turned his head to Skinner and rested it on his arms. "You know, I really bought it for you."

        "For me? You mean, to use on me? What particular spirit possessed you at that moment?" He stared back in disbelief.

        "It would be good for you. You're too stuck in your role, Walter. You should try something else for a change. What time is it? I'm hungry."

        "Oh shit..." Skinner got up and jogged to the kitchen, full of somber premonitions. At least it didn't smell overheated, and the steaming pan still held some water. The Dim Sum, however, had degenerated into a soggy whitish mass of dough fragments, studded with little gray and green balls of stuffing. He looked at it sadly. "Damn..."

        He threw out the water and waited until the soggy contents had stopped dripping, then dumped them into a bowl. It wasn't even worth taking plates. He went into the living room again, holding the pan before him as if it was a soiled cat box.

        "The esthetics are definitely not what they are supposed to be. I hope the taste is still OK." He set the bowl down before Mulder and lifted the lid to peer inside, shaking his head regretfully. "You'll have to close your eyes and open your mouth. If you were to see what I'm going to feed you I'd have to change you into a toad, or else die of mortification."

        Mulder grinned and opened his mouth, then exclaimed, "It's delicious!" He raised himself on his elbows and before Skinner had time to react, he looked at the grayish, slimy mass. "Oh... I see." He looked at Skinner, trying to keep a straight face. "It's a bit overcooked, I think."

        Skinner rolled his eyes and wailed, "I *know* it's overcooked! If it hadn't taken me an hour and a half to bring you off, it would have looked as good as it tastes, I hope..." He picked up a morsel and ate it. "The taste is OK. But it's supposed to look... oriental, delicate, fragile, elegant... Close your eyes." He fed Mulder another bite. Stretching out on the floor again and leaning on one elbow to reach the food, he continued, "You're lucky I'm not much of a magician. I suppose I'll die of mortification, sooner or later." He reached for another piece, deposited it into Mulder's open mouth.

        Mulder let his hand roam over Skinner's side, then pulled him closer and languidly stroked his back, eyes closed, chewing and swallowing whenever something was put in his mouth.

        Skinner went on, "I should have thought of this. On the other hand, Dim Sum is about the only thing I can cook decently." He fed another bite, and then he took one himself, closing his eyes as well, half-leaning against Mulder, his skin almost rippling in the wake of the hand's caressing. "I'm really a one-trick pony. As soon as I learn another trick, the first one disappears," he mused. Mulder's hand was slowly stroking his ass, and he arched back against it.

        Mulder grinned. "You sure fooled the Bureau for a while."

        "I really needed only one trick there. Barking. Not many people can bark as loudly as I can, so they were quite happy with me. It worked everywhere. The Bureau is a one-trick place if I ever saw one." He sighed and leaned against Mulder a bit more, his arm on Mulder's other side warmed by the fire. He was going to fall asleep again. Mulder's fingers pushed into the crack of his ass, and he was mildly curious about what was going to happen, but not sure if he'd stay awake long enough to find out.

        "But you're right, sexually you are a one trick pony." Skinner opened one eye, but looked at closed lids. "It's a pity, you know. Not that I mind, but you're really missing something, and you have no idea."

        One finger was pushing against his anus, then moved away, furtively returned again. He swung his leg over Mulder's hip and said, "Go on," then gasped in surprise when Mulder immediately, roughly sank a finger into him. "Oh! Um..."

        "Does it hurt?"

        "No, of course not." He sounded almost indignant. "It's just a bit, eh... unexpected - oh!" Mulder experimentally pushed his finger in a bit further. "Jesus, Mulder, I'm not... Ah!" He was breathing heavily now.

        "That would be your prostate," Mulder explained helpfully.

        "Thanks. I hope you're not aiming for another romp, Mulder, I'm not... Oh God..."

        "I'm just re-establishing my dominant position here, Walter. It's suffered a bit."

        Skinner chuckled. "I see. You can consider it re-established now."

        Mulder stopped moving, but held his finger in place. He felt Skinner slump slightly in his arms, and was suddenly almost overwhelmed with tenderness.

        The fire was dying; it gave off an occasional small hiss and an orange glow, heating only Mulder's back. After a few minutes he slowly pulled his finger out of its new home and stiffly got up. He threw some more logs on the fire and fetched the comforter from the bedroom. Lying down again was more painful than getting up. Wincing, he supported himself on one elbow and pulled the comforter over them both.

        "Walter. Do you mind if I... put my finger back?"

        He watched a slow grin appear on Skinner's face. "Something happen to your dominant position in the bedroom?" He draped his leg over Mulder's hip again to provide access.

        "It just feels so cozy," Mulder replied, feeling a bit sheepish. He carefully pushed his finger back in, thinking that cozy was exactly the right word.

        "How's *your* ass doing?"

        "I don't know. I don't even want to send a query down there to find out. Ignorance is bliss. That dildo came only in this size, you see. Otherwise I might have opted for a slightly less ambitious one."

        "It was interesting though. I'm glad you have this self-destructive streak." Skinner was mumbling, falling asleep.

        "You should be. I don't think I would have put up with you otherwise. And then you'd have turned into the neighborhood's friendly uncle." He moved his finger slightly, waking Skinner from his slumber.

        "Mulder..."

        "Just to remind you that I'm still here. Now you can go to sleep."




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