Proof of Ownership

by Lyrica
 

"If he's yours... Then prove it to me." The voice was low, rasping, as smoke ruined as its owners was corrupt.

Fox Mulder struggled, twisting from side to side against the weight of the two burly men who held him, bent, flat on his stomach, his arms pinned to Walter Skinner's desk. He'd thought only to spend a couple of hours of his Sunday evening working on a backlog of paperwork. The refrain that kept running through his mind, winding faster and faster like a tape recorder set on fast-forward, was 'How did I wind up here?'

"What do you mean, if he's mine." Walter Skinner, standing just out of Mulder's range of vision, snapped back at the cigarette voice.

Something about not being able to see either man amplified the tones of their voices, made them surreal. Skinner sounded for all the world like a gruff, growling bear. The other one slithered like a snake.

"Prove to me he's yours, Mr. Skinner. And then, of course, I would never touch him."

At the thought of being touched again by *him*, those stained, rough fingers moving over his skin, Mulder struggled harder. He could still feel the scald of the first touch, right after he'd been man-handled into the room. The hand crawling up inside the back of his shirt, touching the base of his spine. He kicked back with his legs, was rewarded by a hard grunt as the heel of his shoe connected with the leg of one of his captors.

The man kicked back at him, missed his flailing leg, and stopped when someone, probably Skinner, stepped closer.

"Prove it?" Skinner's voice was closer now, just to his right, still behind him.

But the Smoking One moved into sight, smiling as he did so, enjoying the anger that the sight of him provoked. He rolled the tip of his cigarette between his thumb and index finger. "Take him," his said softly, but he didn't look at the man to whom he was speaking. He looked right at Mulder. The light reflected in his dark eyes was as hot and red as brimstone and fire.

Mulder went absolutely still. For a moment, the only sounds in the room were his own gasps and the slow, hated draw on the cigarette. And the painful, angry, fearful thunder of his own heartbeat.

Then Skinner broke the silence quietly, angrily, "You're crazy."

"Perhaps," the rasping voice responded, just as quietly but without the emotion. "But that's your choice. Prove he belongs to you, and I won't touch him." He smiled at Mulder once again, puffed a cloud of smoke into the clean air and moved away.

Mulder twisted, bending at the waist until he could see Skinner's face. It was grim, his lips drawn into such a tight line they were almost straight. Hot, bright spots of color stained his face.

Of the Smoking Man, only the cigarette, held lightly, casually between stained fingers, was visible now. He had retreated into the shadows until his face was hidden. But Mulder knew he was still smiling, lips drawn back like something feral, the weathered skin around his lips creased.

"I don't do performances," Skinner ground out.

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, praying that the other didn't hear the desperation he could identify in Skinner's voice.

"Then you can watch," came the easy reply. "I do."

The hands of the two goons descended on him again. Tugging at his shirt. Knuckles digging into his back as his pants were yanked down around his hips.

He kicked out, flailing with his arms. The punishing weight of two bodies descended, pinning him. He struggled with less force, panting. He could feel cool air on the small of his back, his waist. Hot, sweaty hands on his bare hips, on the back of his neck.

"Stop it."

The two men obeyed the sharp command in Skinner's voice. Mulder did, too. He froze as if it was he who was trying to strip another man in the Assistant Director's office.

Gasping for breath, his gaze met Skinner's. The bigger man stared at him, nostrils flaring with every breath, mouth pursed into something hard and unforgiving, eyes glinting like gun metal. And he was waiting for Mulder to tell him what to do.

Mulder swallowed, felt tears of rage and impotence welling up in his throat. He tested the strength of the grip on his wrists, was rewarded with a soft, mocking laughter from his captors. He couldn't get free. The hot fingers on his hips slid up inside his shirt to his ribs.

Mulder shied away from the touch. Shuddered in horror at the thought of yellow, nicotine stained hands on his skin. Skinner had saved him from something his mind wouldn't even contemplate by walking in a few minutes ago. By barging into his own office and demanding that Mulder be released, that the other one back away from him. But how far would he extend that steely-eyed protection? Mulder caught Skinner's gaze with his own. "Don't let him touch me."

Skinner's eyes closed, for just the briefest second. Drawing a deep breath, he jerked his head in brusque agreement.

Mulder shuddered again, closing his eyes, too. A second shudder ran through him, almost painful. He wasn't sure he could bear it, no matter who was touching him. But the next touch on him was a gentle warmth on his shoulder.

"Let go of him," Skinner ordered. He brushed the two men aside as if they were pesky ants as he circled the desk and came to stand behind Mulder. Skinner drew him up, pulled him back against his chest the way he would have held a woman.

Mulder tensed at the feel of a man against him. Hard chest, hard thighs, hard arms encircling him.

Skinner pulled him back tighter, bent his head to Mulder's neck as if he was nuzzling him, except that his mouth didn't quite make contact with Mulder's skin. Only his breath touched. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Mulder shivered as Skinner's ragged, humid whisper curled around his throat. Across the room, the blue haze of cigarette smoke caressed the yellowed fingers, owner disembodied in the shadows. Bile rose in Mulder's throat, and he grasped the thick forearm across his chest. Squeezed tight, hoping that he could impart some of his panic, his horror, into its owner.

He turned his head, put his lips against Skinner's ear. He could smell Skinner--not cologne, just the scent that was peculiarly him--part soap, part freshly laundered shirt, part masculine skin. Part fear. Clean and pleasant and threatening in some vague way Mulder couldn't define. "Don't let him touch me. I don't care what you have do to me. Just don't let him touch me."

The Smoking Man chuckled.

The sound sent revulsion rushing down his spine.

Against the side of his face, Skinner nodded. Still shaky. Still unsure. But his hand came up, went across Mulder's face as if it was the sweetest caress. Tipped Mulder's head to the side. "If he thinks for a minute that we're faking..." he warned in a whisper.

Lips, then teeth touched his neck. Mulder stiffened. Forced himself to drop his head further to the side, exposing his throat. This was for show. This was for the goons, standing so close. For their leering, hot eyes. For the monster hiding in the shadows.

Skinner looked up from his nuzzling, indicated the two with a jerk of his chin. "Get them out of here."

When there was no response from the shadows, he repeated the command. Added, "This is not a peep show. If you have to have proof, then I'll do it. But they don't have to be here."

Mulder held his breath, too afraid to hope it would work. It was a good move on Skinner's part, to get the two out of the room. Then they would be two against one.

After a long moment, the cigarette waggled in the air. Ashes thumped to the carpet. "If you guarantee the good behavior of your...agent."

Skinner still held him against his chest. He brought his hand up, spread the whole broad width of it across Mulder's throat. His fingers were gentle but threatening just the same. "He'll do what I say."

Mulder swallowed, feeling his throat move against the massive hand. He had never felt so vulnerable as he did at that moment, with the hand of a man he was forced to trust wrapped around his neck.

There was movement in the shadow. Nothing Mulder could discern, but apparently the goons could. Without protest, they left the room, closing the door behind them.

Skinner let him go. He almost fell with the suddenness of it. Grabbed for his precariously balanced pants and poked the button through the band.

"Go to the conference table," Skinner told him. His voice was quiet, assured, commanding. So accustomed to being obeyed.

Mulder was halfway across the room before he realized he'd obeyed it. His step faltered. He glanced back to see Skinner closing a drawer of his desk. Then he moved to the door and turn out the light. The room settled into gloom, illuminated only by thin, dim bars of streetlight that barely shone through the blinds that lined one wall.

Now even the cigarette was in darkness. Only the glowing orange tip of it was visible. "Leave the lights on." The smoker's voice was commanding, too, but not with the power of Skinner's.

"I'm not going to make it easy for any cameras you have in here," Skinner retorted
sarcastically.

Mulder's heart did a clumsy cartwheel. Cameras? His gaze darted around the room. He half expecting to see the red winking light of a video camera pointed at him, the snickering faces of a camera crew watching him, like a scene from a sordid, grade B porn film.

"There aren't any cameras," the Cancer Man said smoothly.

"You'll be able to see what you need to see." Sarcasm overflowing in Skinner's gruff voice.

The tone was a blinding contrast to the gentle hand laid on Mulder's shoulder as he was guided the last few steps. At the edge of the table, he allowed himself to be turned by the light pressure on his shoulder. He looked up into the shadow that was Skinner's face, but Skinner wasn't looking at him. He was leaning past him to lay something on the table.

Mulder followed the movement of the square hand, zeroing in on the items left on the table. A small bottle and a small foil packet. He gulped. Reality and unreality sinking in. He was about to be... By his boss... Lubricant and a condom? From the desk?! What was Skinner doing with lubricant and a condom in his Bureau desk?

Then Skinner's hands came from out of the shadows and unfastened the two remaining buttons on his shirt. All rational thought skittered, like leaves scattering across a sidewalk, from his mind. A man was about to touch him. What would he do? What would Skinner do to prove his ownership? His mind flitted from one lurid vision to another to another, twisting and turning.
Panicking as each seemed more horrible than the last. More unbearable, more provoking. No air to breathe. He glanced left, then right, searching for escape. Muscles bunching for flight.

Skinner's hands stopped him. As abruptly as if his brain had been disconnected from his muscles. Skinner lifted each of his hands gently in turn, undid the buttons on his cuffs, fingers brushing his knuckles. The images, the fear, the surroundings, blanked.

All he could hear, see, feel, all that connected him to the room, were hands. Fingers. Resting on his shoulders again, turning him. Catching the edges of his open shirt and drawing it back. Brushing his chest, his shoulders, his back, as his shirt was pulled away. His skin shivered, an entity apart from the underlying muscle, trying to disconnect from his nerves as his brain had detached from his muscles. Then Skinner left him standing there, alone, shivering. Blind and numb. Trying to feel his own skin wrapped around him, holding his bones in place.

He could tell by the movements behind him, the silk slithering of cloth on cloth, that Skinner was taking off his tie. Opening his shirt. He could hear the soft pop of each button as it slid through the buttonhole, monotonous and frightening in the otherwise silent room. By the time he heard the shirt slide to the floor, he was ready to run again. Muscles strung taut as piano wire. Teeth chattering as if he was freezing. He rose up on the balls of his feet.
 
The weight of Skinner's hand brought him down. The heat of warm fingers on his bare skin suffused outward, downward.

"Do you want me to handcuff you?"

He knew the question was solicitous. Yet it sounded more like a threat. He sucked in his breath, held it there for a long moment. More images, flooding his mind. It would make it easier, wouldn't it? To not be able to move... To have no responsibility... To allow the offer to sound like a threat he could not refuse. "No." He shook his head. "No." If Skinner could stand it, then he could stand it.

Skinner caught him again, as he had before, in his bear hug of a grip, drew Mulder back against his chest. The warmth of Skinner's hand had done nothing to prepare him for the heat of a man's body against his. The alien hardness of a man's muscles, bare chest against his back.

Skinner half turned him, one big hand anchoring him to the floor with its weight on his ribs, one splayed across his jaw, tipping his face back. Skinner's mouth descended.

Mulder gasped, drawing in the taste of another man, trying to shut his senses down again, but this time they stayed awake and aware. Hand firmly clamped on his jaw, fingers spanning the thrumming pulse at his jugular, preventing him from wriggling free. Slick, sweet like candy pressure against his lips, threatening to invade. He retreated from the assault, and was pursued. The tongue penetrated him, rummaged in his mouth. Explored his teeth, his gums. Not a kiss. A claiming.

And that was exactly what it had to appear to the man watching them. Suddenly realizing what Skinner was doing, he went limp, acquiescing to the pressure on his lips, the demand on his tongue. The moment he did, Skinner drew back, releasing his tight grip, head dipping down to his neck. "Don't let me hurt you," he whispered.

Mulder nodded. Despite the sweet slickness Skinner had left behind in his mouth, his throat was too dry to speak.

Breath again, warm on his throat. And teeth. He gasped. Just when he thought he'd regained his equilibrium, it skittered away from him again. He strained against Skinner's arms. Teeth nipped at his neck. Skinner's warm, wet tongue trailed across the stretched taut tendon. Cold air trailed behind, marking the path. Palms, warm and rough, slid across his ribs. Fingers delved
into his navel. His nipples tightened as rough, masculine fingers slipped across them. Something warm and sluggish awakened low in his belly, where he should be numb and repulsed. Agitation radiated down into his balls. He shied backwards from the dancing fingers, away from the awakening sensations, back into a body as hard, as unforgiving as stone.

"Be still," Skinner growled in his ear.

That voice of command again. So rough, so strong. Making him hard and breathless. He rolled forward without protest, boneless, as Skinner guided him down, draping him over the table. The surface was cold against his chest, his belly. He could see the big table in his mind, polished to a mirrored shine, gleaming in the morning sunlight. He quivered. Breathed a soft 'no,' so soft he was sure no one heard. Wriggled in protest, as if he could escape. As if he wanted to.

Skinner's hands quieted him. Petted him and soothed him as if he was a skittish colt. Hands, warm as sunshine, practiced as a masseuse's, started at his shoulders and caressed, kneaded the length of his back.

Without conscious volition, he arched up into the touch. Like a cat stretching. He thought cats were whores. Always rubbing and stretching towards someone's hands. Not caring whose hands, only that the hands were caressing and stroking. Only that the hands felt unbelievably good.

Skinner's hands slid down his ribs, filled the space between him and the table. The fingers pinched his nipples, played across his belly. He writhed beneath the touch, stretching away from it, yearning towards it. Skinner's fingers teased over him again, slipping inside the waistband of his pants to toy with the one button holding them on. Dancing away again. Across his ribs, down his thigh. Mulder could feel the heat of each finger through his pants.

He was ready. He was crazy. He reached to unfasten the button himself, and the strong hands stopped him. Pinned his wrists to the cold table.

Skinner leaned forward, covering him, caught his head gently in both his big hands, turned his face away from the window. Away from the other. "Turn your face this way. So I can see you," he whispered, voice rough and rasping, unsteady.

Something rippled through him. Something he refused to define. It was just a flutter, a jolt of fear. His muscles spasming. There was no excitement skidding through him at the thought of kinner watching his face reflect all these *things* that he was feeling. There was no excitement at thinking that Skinner wanted to see him. Skinner only meant *so the other one can't see you.* That was what he meant.

Heated skin brushed against his back. Crinkly mat of hair, scratching him, tickling him. Hard thighs against the backs of his legs. Alien hardness pressing against his ass. That heat, too, he could feel through his pants. He shied away from it, then pressed back. Fascinated. Repelled. Enticed. Repulsed. Another flutter richocheted into the stream of confused sensations already careening through his nerves.

Skinner caught Mulder's hips and pulled him back tight against the curve of his body, held him there, not moving. Forcing him to acknowledge Skinner's arousal. To accept it. To want it. To define the sensations.

When Skinner finally reached, undid the button holding his trousers on, pushed his hand inside, Mulder was ready. Swollen. Trembling. He moaned softly at the heat, the rough touch. Thrust into the encircling fingers. Wanton. Beyond caring. His pants slid down. Cold air caressed his ass, the rough wool of Skinner's pants chafed against him--neither was what he wanted. He
reached back blindly, groping. Found a hardness like, and so unlike, his own.

Skinner allowed the groping caress for only a moment, then pushed his hands away, pushed him back down on the table.

The sound of a zipper opening. Foil ripping. He arched. A cat in heat, stretching up, up. He pushed his feet as far apart as the cloth bunched around them would allow.

Skinner came back to him. Warm along his side. Hand reaching beneath him to reestablish the stroking tempo that had been lost.

He muffled a moan against the polished surface of the table. A finger slipped and slid along the crease of his ass. Cold. Slick. Caressing. Finding a spot he had not known existed. A place of lightning and fire. He hissed. Surprised. Pleased. Disapproving. The finger probed at him. Trying to invade. He froze. Lost some of the pulsing insanity that had gripped him. He bucked, tried to break free.

Skinner came down on him, holding him. Tongue and teeth and lips across the back of his neck. Hand stroking. Insistent. Knowing. Slipping lower and lower. Warmth engulfed his balls. Squeezed gently. Stroked.

And he opened. Flowered. Skinner's finger slipped inside him. Stretched him. Two fingers, moving gently. Lightning and fire again. He gasped. Shook his head, denying the fire. And rose up on tiptoe to meet it.

Skinner caught him, lifted him half up off the table, lowered himself halfway down, so that they were touching from shoulder to calf as he positioned himself to enter.

"Don't let me hurt you," he whispered. He pushed forward gently, slowly.

But it did hurt and Mulder gasped aloud before he could stop himself. He'd never thought of pain as a savior. He'd never thought of pain as sanity. He snatched at the sharpness, the only rational thing in a whirling, red blaze of insanity and sensation. But it was too near pleasure. He couldn't hold onto it. The pain swirled away, danced across his nerve endings as the hand danced on his cock, became lightning and electricity and ecstasy.

He bucked back to meet his invader, engulfed the hardness probing at him, was rewarded with a hiss of pleasure from Skinner. Spangles of light danced in the shadows as he stilled, waiting for his body to adjust the invasion. To welcome it.

Skinner was trembling against his back, his thighs. He moved experimentally. "Okay?" One hand flexed across Mulder's chest, the other on his hip, drawing him back tighter.

Mulder closed his eyes. The spangles of light danced behind his eyelids, along his nerves. So full. Stretched to the breaking point. Friction. Pleasure, like music, like electric fireflies, rippling along his nerves. Sparkling.

Skinner moved further this time, move of a withdrawal, more of a thrust home. He repeated the slow, agonizing, slick withdrawal and thrust.

It wasn't enough.

"Okay?" Skinner whispered in his ear. His breathing was ragged, his voice strained.

Mulder's answer was to move, to roll his hips from side to side, back and forth.

Skinner hissed, "Oh, yes." Gusted hot breath across his back.

The thrust this time was rougher, deeper. Closer to what he wanted.

Skinner's fingers tightened on him. "You like this..."

The words were ambiguous, one third question/two thirds command. *Do you like it? I'll make you like it.*

Then a demand for guidance. "You like this?"

*Or this. Or this. I'll make you like it.* "Yes," Mulder groaned. *Yesyesyes. Yes to it all. To anything you want to do to me.*

"Tell me." Hissed demand.

Mulder's answer was to grasp Skinner's hand, to guide it down his belly, close the thick fingers around his cock. Show him the pace he wanted. Needed. Had to have.

Skinner moaned against his shoulder. Fingers, hips tightened reflexively. "Oh, god, Fox..."

The sudden deep thrust, the never used name whispered in a voice hoarse with pleasure, fanned the flame of an explosion that had been burning, hot and healthy, since Skinner entered him. Sparkles swelled into ripples into waves into thunder as his orgasm poured through him, out of him.

Stuffing his wrist against his mouth, he stifled sounds that wanted to be screams of pleasure. Rocked and twisted and drove himself back to be met by a lunge that matched his own need. He felt, for only a couple of thrusts, what they would have been like together, had they been alone, had they not been holding back. What Skinner would have been like, riding him. Savage
and wild. Commanding. Owning him.

Skinner thrust deep, went rigid against him, arms and thighs straining, shuddering. He gasped, once, loudly, before clamping down on the sound.

Feeling Skinner's orgasm sent another shock of pleasure through Mulder. A second, dry, shivering orgasm. One he relaxed into, savored, as the man who held him also slowly relaxed, drooping down over him. Still encircling him. Still covering him.

Skinner's body was lax, hot, sweat-plastered against him. Resting on him. Skinner moved slowly, gently, still half hard.

Aftershocks, sparkling not so diamond bright now, rippled along Mulder's nerves. His muscles spasmed, but with little power, and Skinner shivered against him, in unison with him.

Then Skinner pulled away, as slowly, as gently as he had begun.

Where Mulder had been warmed by another body, cold air rushed in to claim his flesh. Where he had been filled, he was now empty. It was an odd, deprived, relieved sensation. As he slowly gathered himself to stand, he heard the rasp of a zipper, the jingle of Skinner's belt.

Then Skinner said, "Satisfied?" Smug, hateful tone.

Jeering at him for wanting something he should not have. For liking it. Then reality hit him in the belly, a missile dropped from a thousand feet. Skinner wasn't talking to him.

He stiff-armed himself up and saw that Skinner was standing in front of him, shielding him from the view of the other. The hated, forgotten enemy.

"Well..." The lazy voice rumbled, self important, superior, "Not so satisfied as you, I'm sure. But..." Begrudging. "He's yours. I won't touch him."

Mulder yanked up his pants, not caring that he was sticky and messy. Only that he fasten them as quickly as possible. Did he imagine regret in the hated voice? Jealousy? The hair on his arms and neck stood up. His stomach did a slow, sick rollover at the thought.

"Good night, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder glanced at Skinner's broad back, but didn't look around him. The door opened, closed, and it seemed the air in the room changed, became lighter, cleaner. He breathed it in deeply, cleansing his lungs, his blood, of the taint of cigarette smoke. And it's owner.

He had left a sticky mess on the shining table, and the sight of it brought heat to his face. He stepped over two pools of white on the floor, his shirt and Skinner's, and found his jacket where it had been tossed under a chair. Found the wadded handful of tissue in the pocket.

Skinner handed him his shirt as he passed, then turned his back, walked away, as Mulder cleaned the table. By the time he'd finished and slipped his shirt on, Skinner had his shirt and his tie on. He was standing behind his desk, looking out the window.

As he watched, Skinner opened his pants and tucked the tail of his shirt in neatly. He wanted to look away, but couldn't. Incredible that something so innocent should seem so intimate, after what they had just done. Mulder's skin tingled as he thought of Skinner's hands, sliding on his hips, his belly, his ass. Strange, but that thought didn't turn his stomach. He forced his gaze away, unwilling to examine yet what it did do to him.

Clothes fastened and tucked neatly back into place, Skinner twisted the plastic rod that opened one set of blinds. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets, stood staring out the window. That stonefaced, noncommittal expression was back in place. Even his shirt looked dry and smooth and unwrinkled across his broad chest, as if not even his clothes were allowed to give
away any hint of what he'd done. He looked as if the last few minutes had never even happened.

Until Mulder spoke. Until the question he could no longer contain popped out into the room. "Why did you do that?"

Skinner's brow furrowed. "What?" He took his hands out of his pockets, folded them across his chest.

Mulder hesitated so long that Skinner glanced at him. "Why did you...?" *What?* Mulder struggled for the right words. What was he trying to ask? *Why did you make it so damned good?* "I didn't expect..."

Skinner almost smiled. Understanding. Too understanding. The expression was as wicked, as avid, as anything Mulder had ever seen on the face of the other one. "Did you want me to hurt you?"

The response was not the explanation he had wanted. It, and that almost smile, so quickly wiped away, brought up more questions than it answered. "No. It's not that... It's just... How did you know?"

Skinner turned and faced him squarely, eyes boring into him.

Mulder felt the gaze from the roots of his hair to the soles of his shoes. It made him tingle all over. It threatened to sparkle.

"Come here."

That voice again. The voice of someone who expected to be obeyed without hesitation. And Mulder obeyed it without hesitation, walking across the room to stand in front of Skinner. Even standing so close, his eyes a fraction of an inch higher, Skinner seemed taller. How could someone who was actually shorter appear to tower over him?

"It's just that it felt too good. Is that it?"

Mulder nodded. Wordless. Heat crawling up from under his collar. Yes, exactly. Too good. So good. So good, he wanted-- He squelched the thought before he could hear it, wish it, then stood there, lost, wondering what it was he wanted. Wishing he'd let the thought form before he'd banished it. So at least, he would know.

"Would you have rather been raped? Would you rather I hadn't done it at all? Let him do it?" Rough voice. Angry voice.

Mulder shivered. His stomach shimmied, threatened to flipflop, this time with repulsion. "No. I can't stand the thought of him touching me." The heat retreated as the blood left his face, his lips. The shiver traveled back up his body, threatening to ricochet again.

Skinner reached out, touched his jaw, changed the shiver into something else. Something warm.
Reassuring touch. Gentle touch. Proprietary. "It's all right. He won't touch you. You're mine
now."

Skinner's gaze held his, penetrating his skin, his defenses. Reminding him, even more strongly than words that he'd been in Skinner's arms, in his protection. That he'd been his. Was his.

The burn of Skinner's fingers sent a rush of electricity along his nerves.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. He'd only done it because it was the lesser of two evils. He'd only done it because anything was preferable to the other one touching him. Hadn't he? So why, now, that it was over, did the tingling threaten to become sparkles behind his eyelids? Why did he yearn to lean into the touch of Skinner's fingers on his face?

Skinner smiled. As if he knew the effect of his touch. Even with the arrogance marring it, the smile was awe-inspiring. It changed his face.

And Mulder realized he would do anything for the man who wore that expression. Anything... It put images, possibilities, in his head, of things he didn't want to examine. He shuffled away nervously, edging toward the door. He had to talk to Scully about this. She would understand. She would help him understand. Something had changed. Something important...and he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Couldn't *let* himself understand. Not yet.

Skinner let him go.

Mulder glanced back just before he slipped out the door, and Skinner was smiling. That superior, knowing smile again. As if to say, *You'll be back.*

* * * * *

Dana Scully darted a glance around Walter Skinner's office, registered quickly Skinner standing in front of his desk, Mulder beside him, the Smoking Man seated on the couch across the room. Her gaze jerked away from him, as if she could see the evil oozing out of him, into the air. As if the sight of him hurt her eyes.

Not what she'd expected, to find Mulder and Skinner there. Her wild eyed, heart pumping fear stabilized in a big, round, hard knot in the pit of her stomach. She'd thought... She'd thought... She couldn't even make her mind go there, to what she'd thought was going to happen, any more than she could force her gaze to stay on *him*.

Her gaze met Mulder's. His eyes were stretched wide. Surprised. Frightened for her. Glinting in the waning sunlight.

"What...?" Skinner closed the file in his hands with a snap, handed it to Mulder without even
glancing at him.

She tore her arms loose from the hands of the two men, rushed across the room and without any hesitation, leaned into Skinner. Protector, champion, savior.

Heart hammering, she buried her face in his chest, burrowed into the clean, white shirt. His chest was hard, unyielding against her cheek. He went so still she wasn't sure he was breathing. She tilted her face up, gazed up at him through a screen of tumbled hair. *Save me,* she wanted to beg. Tried to scream it at him with her eyes and the heat of her body. *Save me the way you saved Mulder.*

For a moment, he only stared at her, his face hard. Little pulse twitching on his jaw. Almost black eyes glittering. *Is this what you want?* they seemed to be asking her.

Then, almost reluctantly, his hand came up, smoothed the hair back out of her eyes. His fingers threaded through the tangled strands, combing it with a gesture as gentle, as sweet, as a lover's. He covered her cheek with one big hand, pressing her head into his chest. With the other, he caught her cuffed wrists, jerked her up against him.

The power behind it made her shiver. The pain made her gasp, made her lean into him even more heavily.

"Don't tell me," the Smoking Man said from across the room. "*She's* yours, too." His voice was filled with disgust.

She knew what was coming. What she would have to do. What Skinner would do. Mulder's crazy story had prepared her for that. Until the two men grabbed her in the basement hall, she had only half believed it. Even after Mulder drank too much and swore he wasn't joking and fell asleep on her couch curled up like a baby, she'd kept waiting for the punch line. Not daring to
believe because if she did, she'd go crazy.

"Mine?"

Scully shivered, feeling the rumble of Skinner's voice through his hands, in the heavy muscles against her face. The command in the way he held her splayed against his body.

She knew what was coming, and he did, too. She could feel the heat of him through her clothes. He was hard. So hard against her belly. Ready to protect her. To make her crazy, the way he'd made Mulder crazy. To make her his. That was the part Mulder still didn't understand. He was the psychologist, and he still hadn't figured it out. That he belonged to Skinner because he believed it in his own mind. Because he chose it, not because he feared what would happen if he didn't.

Skinner's thumb slid back and forth, back and forth along her jaw. He was waiting for her to tell him what to do. She remembered what Mulder had said, about how Skinner had looked at him, waiting for him to make the decision. Like a vampire waiting to be invited in. Waiting for him to say *Make me yours.*

Mulder had cloaked his decision as desperation, as fear. Hers wasn't. She knew what she wanted. She wanted everything Skinner would do to her. Had ached for it since the night Mulder told her. She moved against him, a delicate arching of her spine, a slow, sensual undulation against his cock. "Please," she whispered softly, but there was no question of what the plea was for.

His eyes never left hers as he answered. "Yes. She's mine."

Between her legs, warmth and wetness blossomed.

* * * * *

The cigarette waggled in the air, as if it was waving goodbye. Flicked ash onto the carpet carelessly.

"Well, Mr. Skinner..." The owner of the cigarette paused in the doorway, glanced back. "You got what you wanted. They're both yours now." The voice was oily, avid, greedy, hinting at dark pleasure and even darker gratification.

Skinner raised his gaze to meet that of his enemy, his compatriot. He pushed back away from his desk, spread his legs as wide as the creaking chair would allow, as if the words goaded him into a delicious discomfort. And he smiled. A feral, drawing back of his lips, exposing his teeth and his satisfaction. His eyes glittered, as black as gun metal. "Yes, they're both mine."

Smoke feathered in the gentle flow of air through the door. "I'll be in touch. When I need the favor returned." The door closed softly.

The End