By Mik
ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
 

CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: Yeah, Skinner ... remember him?
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is right after 3.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I become king...

Author's notes: Sad Lovers and Giants, the two things hardest to conceal.

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

 ~~~

Sad Lovers and Giants 01/? ­ Sleep is for Everyone

by Mik
 
 

I can’t say I particularly appreciated the pathetic, almost desperate sounds that wall heater was making in an effort to warm my hotel room. But I will say I missed it when it finally surrendered and fell silent. I tried lying still, hoping I’d created an envelope of body heat around me under the thin coverlet and even thinner blanket. I tried not to listen to the sounds of wind whipping snow around outside my window or the scratching of tree branches on the glass. None of it could change the fact that the temperature in that room was dropping rapidly.

I turned my head toward the alarm clock on the bedside table, to gauge how long I had before I froze to death, but it was gone. Well, the red LED lights that made up the digits were gone. Reluctantly, I pulled one hand free and groped for the light. Click, click ... nothing. I rolled back and stared at the blackness above me, thinking words one didn’t use in polite company. Power cut. In a blizzard. Brilliant. Bloody, fucking brilliant.

I drew a deep breath, threw the bedclothes back, and dashed in the general direction of my suitcase. I only tripped once or twice, but I did find it, get it open, find my pocket maglight, and every pair of socks I owned. I was wriggling into a second pair of sweatpants when I heard a knock on the door connecting the room next door. My heart did an extra hard thump. I’d managed to wake the sleeping giant.

Mag clenched in my lips, trying to stand, walk and pull up sweat pants over sweat pants, I stumbled for the door, found the lock and released it. He was filling up the doorframe, in Bureau issue running pants and warm up jacket, his bedclothes folded over one arm. I blinked into his beam of light while he blinked into mine. My sluggish brain started to scramble for a way to break the ice forming in our breath as we stood there and blinked at one another. "Um...are we gonna’ make a fort?" I suggested, looking at the blankets in his arms. "I’ll go ask Mommy if we can have the ironing board."

He moved. He didn’t have to touch me, his intent to enter my room was enough to have me backpedaling. He didn’t look happy. I wasn’t sure what I’d done to incur that lack of happiness, but I was actually trying to figure out how I’d caused the blizzard and or power cut. He looked around the room and dropped the blankets on the side of my bed. "Power’s out," he said, and began to spread my bedclothes back into place. "Doesn’t look like it will be restored before morning."

"No generator?" I asked around the maglight still in my mouth.

"Yes, there is, but it’s being reserved for essentials. I’ve already talked to the hotel personnel." He snapped his blanket over mine in a single, managerial snap. It didn’t dare not fall exactly over mine.

"Essentials." I pulled the torch from my mouth at last. "I suppose heat isn’t considered an essential?"

"The generator isn’t powerful enough to heat this entire hotel, so they’re reserving its power for needs it can meet. It’s called appropriate allocation of resources, Agent." He smoothed the edge of the coverlet and turned around, disappearing into his room for a moment.

"And so you’re sacrificing your blankets so I’ll be warrrrr..." I let the words go when he reappeared, with a pillow in hand, "...mmmmmum...." I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

"We’re going to have to resort to extreme measures to survive, Agent." He paused at the bedside and looked down. "Left or right?"

I don’t know why the idea of him climbing into my bed unnerved me. Oh, sure I do. Putting the normal homophobic sexual concerns aside, there was the fact that he was my boss, and one doesn’t like the idea of one’s boss invading the most private part of the non-working life, i.e., the bed. And besides, of all the bosses I’d ever had, he was the bossiest. It was unthinkable to think of him doing anything human ... like sleeping. And to sleep there. Next to me. "Ek-extreme measures, sir?" Oh, fine ... a stammer and a squeak.

"Sharing resources. Four blankets are warmer than two." He slid in under the blankets and settled himself against the pillow. "And body heat will help." He pulled the edge of the blankets up to his chin. "Get in, Agent. Or do you plan to stand there and shiver the rest of the night?"

"I ..." Well, when you put it like that ...

I moved around to the far side of the bed, which considering that half the bed was full of Walter Skinner, wasn’t that far anymore. I sat down and gingerly slipped in under the blankets, stretching out rigidly, beside him.

He rolled over sharply, and arranged everything up tight around my neck. "Try not to thrash around too much, please," he said firmly as he resumed his position. "I’m a very light sleeper."

If there could be anything less conducive to a good night’s sleep than having two hundred pounds of surliness tell you to lay still, I haven’t discovered it. The wind howling outside didn’t help. The wind just sounded cold. And thinking about the cold made me think about the fact that I was in bed with someone who might kill me if I woke him from the depths of his memories of war.

He was right about the warmth, however. The extra blankets made it almost bearable. I could actually feel my feet and fingers. I will not concede that his body emanated any additional heat. I think I would have been just fine without him there. But at the same time, there was a comforting sense of not being alone in hardship. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it esprit de corps but it just helped not to be alone.

He seemed to find sleep fairly quickly. I envied that but I didn’t quite comprehend it. I always rushed headlong away from my own memories, making sleep and me nodding acquaintances at best. If I had seen and done the things he’d seen and done, there was no way I’d ever get near a pillow.

When I realized that my thoughts were teetering on the edge of admiration for the man next to me, I started a scramble for another topic. The wind sent debris crashing against the window outside as if to suggest I focus on how I’d come to such a state where I would be admiring W. S. Skinner.

Even that wasn’t much mental meat to gnaw upon. A conference in Buffalo, a beer with a couple of the local badges, alcoholic mutterings about an unsolved case, missing a flight because I was tracking down leads, and then an Assistant Director appearing, disgruntled, cold, determined, and did I mention disgruntled? C’mon ... how was I supposed to know someone would actually send an Assistant Director to collar a wayward agent? Okay, okay. I can’t even feign innocence there. I will own a certain ... reputation within the walls of the Bureau. And it has been long held that particular Assistant Director was the only one capable of collaring this particular wayward agent. Hell, I ought to be flattered. But one look at his face when he stepped in from the storm and sent a meaningful glare across the hotel bar, and I knew I’d probably never be flattered by anything, ever again. His expression even gave the bartender sphincter lock.

He didn’t yell at me. Oh, no. That would have been too easy. He brushed snow from the mountains that were his shoulders, and came across the bar to me. "Agent," he said in that death on dry toast voice, "you missed your plane."

"Yes, but we did agree to write," I said before I could stop myself.

He must have made some gesture to the bartender, because a glass appeared next to him, with two fingers of brownness in it, but his eyes never left mine. "You were expected back in Washington twelve hours ago."

I put my beer down, and tried to adopt an appropriately regretful tone. "Well, Sir, as I explained on the phone, I felt the discovery of certain evidence in a cold case here warranted --"

"Have you been deputized by the Buffalo P.D.?" he asked me mildly, reaching for his glass unerringly.

"No, Sir. But I am a sworn officer of the law, and crime is crime --"

"And jurisdictions are jurisdictions, Agent. I do not like getting complaints from the local agencies that you’ve overstepped your bounds again. It’s not as if you don’t have a full caseload in D.C." He paused to sip. "If you’re feeling underutilized there, I’m sure I can --"

"No, thank you, Sir." I reached for my wallet, and started to put money down. "Point taken."

He waved away my money. "Very good. We have a flight at ten am tomorrow. Good night, Agent."

I glanced at my watch. It was only eight o’clock and I was being sent to bed. He was still looking disgruntled so I decided not to fuss. "Good night, Sir." I left the bar, and stood in the lobby for a moment, considering options. Too cold to swim, too dark to run, there was no pay per view porn ... I had two choices; go to bed early, or run away to the circus. I opted for bed. After all, there was always a circus waiting for me in Washington, D.C.

"Something on your mind, Agent?"

I opened my eyes. No, I didn’t dream it. The voice that cut through my thoughts was real and close. "No, Sir," I murmured. What is it, now? I complained silently. Am I breathing too loud?

"Then why aren’t you asleep?" he prompted. There was a shadow of irritation in his voice.

I stared upward into the blackness. "Sleep is not for everyone, Sir."

He was quiet a moment. "Are you too cold to sleep?" he asked.

"No, Sir, I’m fine. I’m sorry if I --"

"Is my presence making you uncomfortable?" he persisted.

That was almost not true. "No, Sir." I shifted carefully, avoiding any contact with him. "I’m sorry. I just don’t sleep well. I’ll try not to --"

I felt him turn onto his side. "Tell me about this case."

I turned my head. He was so close I could almost make out his features, even in the complete darkness. "It ..." It was so tempting. "Just a missing persons case, Sir."

"There is no such thing as ‘just’ a missing persons case, Mulder." He did something with the bedclothes, making a snug seal around us. "Especially for you. Tell me about it."

I drew a deep breath and launched into a swift and skeletal recounting of facts. "Seventeen year old boy. Three years ago. Seemingly snatched out of the family’s rural home in the middle of the night. Doors and windows locked from the inside. No sign of struggle. No missing possessions, no suicide note, although the younger sister reportedly stated to police that her brother had been despondent for a few weeks prior to his disappearance. Some neighbors and travelers on the nearest main road reported a bright light on the hilltop behind the house that night. No ransom demands, no sightings. No body to date."

"And the bright light?"

"Nothing at the site suggested a source," I said carefully.

"Abduction?"

"Nothing to support it or rule it out."

"All that’s known for sure is that he just disappeared."

"Yes, Sir."

"Sounds like a dream come true for a lot of seventeen year old boys," he said thoughtfully.

I nodded into the darkness. When I was seventeen there was nothing I wanted more than to simply vanish out of my life and be someone new.

"What new evidence did you find?"

"Nothing, really," I confessed. "There was one other person who went missing that same night, on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. A thirty five year old appliance salesman. But there was ultimately nothing to connect the two, except my own sense of phenomena."

"No?"

"No." I sighed. "The wife came home from the diner where she waitressed to find the house trashed, a small splatter of his blood on the back door, their car missing. Seven months later his car was found upside down in a muddy riverbed. There was more blood inside the vehicle. No body was ever found. His life insurance did pay off, eventually, after ruling out suicide."

"But you felt there was a connection." It wasn’t a question.

"Yes, but I can’t tell you why. It just ... just said something to me."

"What possible connection could there be between the two?"

I looked back at him. I could feel those dark brown eyes burning into me, the way they did sometimes when he was actually listening to something I said. "The boy had worked two summers for a cousin who lived eleven miles from the salesman."

"And? What did that suggest to you?"

My skin was getting hot. I didn’t know what he’d assume by following my thought processes. "That they had met, or had a common acquaintance," I hedged.

He was quiet for a moment. "Do you think they ran off together?"

I couldn’t answer. How the hell could I? He was in my bed, for Heaven’s sake. What if I inadvertently worded it in a suggestive manner? The whole situation was highly explosive.

"I don’t suppose it would hurt to find out if, when the life insurance company paid off his claim, the wife kept it all."

"It’s reaching, Sir," I admitted.

"Only to someone who has never had opportunity to appreciate your sense of phenomena," he answered. "The way I work it out, Mr. Salesman was deeply closeted, met an underage boy who put the stars back in his eyes. So, he worked out a deal with the longsuffering wife, where she’d be free of him, spared the ignominy of losing her husband to another man, and get a sizeable chunk of cash, and he’d get the underage boy without legal repercussions, not to mention a little pocket money from his life insurance policy."

"Yes, Sir," I agreed with just a hint of awe. "That’s pretty much how the phenomena went."

He rolled back onto his back. "We’ll see about a court order to look at the wife’s finances when we get back to DC. Think you can sleep now, Agent?"

I almost laughed. He made me feel as if Daddy had checked under the bed for monsters, and now it was safe to close my eyes. "I’ll do my best," I promised.

The wind was the only sound in the blackness for one of those unquantifiable periods that are longer than a heartbeat and not quite eternity. Then he spoke. "When I was seventeen, I wished for someone to take me away from where I was. No one came. So..." I could hear him rustling bedclothes, "... I went to war. At least then I was fighting an outside enemy, not one within."

I stayed still. I didn’t even breathe. My sense of phenomena was in overdrive. Did he just tell me what I think he just told me? "Did you ..." How could I put it? "Did you ever conquer that enemy within?"

"Conquer? No." He actually chuckled. "Just evaded him for thirty years."

‘Him’. A significant remark. A telling one. He was telling me. I flicked a nervous tongue over my lower lip. Then I sighed, let the rigor drain from me. Surrendered. "When I was seventeen, I didn’t understand it. I knew it was there, but I didn’t know how or why." I was feeling cold again. And empty. "It didn’t seem fair. Why that on top of everything else that had happened to me?"

His face turned to me again. I could feel his eyes again. Feel his breath rush over my cheek and neck. "Do you understand now?"

I swallowed and blinked back unexpected emotion. "No." After a moment, I got my voice under control and added, "I gave up trying years ago."

"Agent Scully --"

I shook my head. "No."

"Your wife --"

"No!" I realized I’d shouted and I stopped. "Excuse me. No, Sir. And that’s all I want to say about that." I didn’t want to discuss one of the most humiliating mistakes I’d ever made.

I felt him draw in all the oxygen in the room, with a single breath. He released it slowly. "So here we are. A common problem and neither of us has addressed it."

A simple flick of a switch and I went from cold back to hot. I could feel my heart race and my breath slow. I didn’t ... I couldn’t possibly ... not him. I tried to swallow but my mouth was nothing but sand.

"Do you suppose, Agent Mulder," he paused, shifting toward me, "that’s why you have such trouble sleeping?"

I wanted to be flip, to make it all go away with a joke, perform my legendary verbal sleight of hand, but nothing came. I felt as helpless and dumb as a schoolboy with his first crush. "I don’t know, Sssssssir."

There are reasons why some men are born to lead, to direct, to command. And Walter Skinner was one of those men. He leaned toward me. His hand brushed my cheek. He gauged my reaction, which was nothing more than a shiver, and then he pulled me into an embrace. And he kissed me.

Four simple words. A phrase that was about to change my entire life.

The room didn’t fill with rockets’ red glare, and no one broke into a chorus from Handel’s Messiah, but I was melted down to my essence and reformed by that kiss. Conventional wisdom - in this case gay porn - said that gay men wanted sex, not romance, and that kissing should be the raw, raunchy spit swap that touched nothing more than tongues and lips. This was not conventional. This was insinuating, demanding, seeking, and at the same soothing and caressing. I couldn’t do anything but kiss back.

Encouraged by my lack of protest, he shifted, moving his body over mine. There were several layers of clothing between us, but there was still something unspeakable and amazing about his body against me. He fixed his mouth under my chin and I was doing more than shivering.

It was over quickly, that first coupling. But when you set a blowtorch to dry grass you can’t expect a lingering flame. There was nothing lingering about it. We kissed hard and rutted against one another ‘til we were both gasping and moaning and bathed in our own sweat and cum.

Then he laughed. He wrapped those machine gun arms of his around me, and with his brow against my shoulder, let loose a long, heartfelt, joyful laugh. I didn’t laugh with him. Not because I didn’t share the intensity of the moment, or feel the relief and pleasure of release, I was too busy floating ... feeling free and warm and drowsy.

I was vaguely aware of him getting out of the bed and bringing towels, but I ignored them. I curled up, sighed, and slept.

~~~
 

Despite my long tenure in law enforcement, and my years of association with the X Files, or perhaps because of those things, it was unusual for me to be surprised by anything. But a Friday morning recently altered the curve for me. It was a surprising morning all the way round. I was in Buffalo, New York, against my wishes, with a drift of paperwork on my desk back in DC to rival anything outside my hotel window. And yet, I was standing in the connecting door of my room, my hands full, looking down at the bed in the other room, and smiling.

He was curled up at the edge of the bed, both hands fisted against his mouth, that incorrigible hair drifting across his brow. He looked surprisingly cute. Surprisingly, I was actually thinking with terms like ‘cute’. Surprisingly, despite the blizzard raging outside, I woke up to bird songs and sunshine. All because of a few desperate kisses and clumsy mutual masturbation.

I should have been riddled with guilt; someone knew my secret, and that someone was a male subordinate. But I decided somewhere between coming that night and the coming of the day, to leave the angst to Mulder. He was much better at it. I was going to enjoy it as long as I could.

Leaving part of my burden on the nearest table, I moved across the room to nudge his side of the bed with my knee and waited for him to brush impatiently at the air. "Hey," I called, with a foreign softness to my voice. "Remember those resource allocations we were discussing last night?"

"Smf?" He twisted and wiggled but did not open his eyes.

I smiled. No, I believe I actually beamed. Kneeling on the floor next to him, I carefully pried a plastic disc away from the object in my hand and waved said object near Mulder’s nose. "Remember?"

His eyes flickered open, widened to focus on me, then shut again tightly. "It wasn’t a dream," he croaked.

"Well," I rocked back on my heels, "at least you didn’t say nightmare."

He screwed his eyes tighter then opened them again. "Oh, no." His voice was soft yet husky from sleep. He pulled a hand free from the tangle of blankets and reached awkwardly for my forearm. "Not at all."

"Hmm." I decided not to ask for more than that before his morning caffeine. I waved the cup at him again. "They used the generator to make coffee this morning."

The smell had an almost levitating effect. He shifted, wriggled and squirmed until he was upright in bed and reached for the cup. "Thank God for resource allocation," he said with feeling. "I need this fix." He sipped and sighed. "As you might have noted ..." he paused to rub one eye with the heel of his hand, "... I am not at my most gracious first thing in the morning."

I didn’t bother to contain my smile. "Which is why," I said, nodding toward the table on what had become ‘my’ side of the bed, "I commandeered two cups for you."

He took a loud slurp. "If you commandeered doughnuts, there might be a Medal of Honor in it for you."

"No doughnuts. From what I was able to gather, there will be some attempt at preparing at least one meal, but it will be some time from now. However ..." I struggled to my feet and moved to the window, "there appears to be a convenience store across the highway. I’m wondering if the owner could be persuaded to open his doors."

He squinted at the blackened sky I revealed when I pushed the drapes away. "You’re not thinking about one of us going out in that." It wasn’t a question.

His tone surprised, and on another level, pleased me. It seemed to suggest he felt a little more than obligation to me. "Oh, I managed worse than this when I was a kid," I answered breezily.

"Yeah, and I walked barefoot in snow, uphill both ways, myself." He pushed the bedclothes back and came to the window, cupping his coffee against him like a holy chalice. "I’ll go with you."

"There’s no need for both of us getting snowed on," I countered. "Get back in bed. Enjoy your coffee while it’s hot."

He lowered his eyes to the cup in his hands. Then he looked out the window. For a moment I thought he was going to make one more obligatory protest, but that’s not Mulder’s style. "Will you bring back some sunflower seeds?"

"I wouldn’t think of making you forego your only source of nourishment," I chuckled. "Anything else?"

He was already climbing back into bed. "Maybe some magazines ... crosswords, whatever." He punched pillows. "And candles." He tugged at the bedclothes. "And slim jims ...." He shrugged. "Whatever looks good."

"I’ll use my judgment." I went back through the connecting door for a gulp of my coffee and to pick up my wallet and topcoat. Returning to the door, I announced, "I’ll be back as quickly as I can."

He frowned at me as I slid into my coat. I paused, mid-slide. "What is it?"

His eyes were fixed just above mine. "Don’t you have a scarf or a cap or something? Seventy percent of body heat is lost through the head." He put his coffee down and crawled over the bed. In another moment he was crouched and rifling his bag. He came up with a black knit ski cap with a rolled brim. "Here. This will help." Without warning or permission he reached up and tugged it firmly over my scalp, his expression full of intent.

Suddenly, he froze, aware of me watching him. "Ummm ..." he pulled his hands away, "that should help," he repeated in a mumble. He backed up to the bed, looking anywhere but at me.

That was the second indication of discomfort. I’d never known Mulder to avert his eyes from anything. This was a man who would watch the bullet leaving the gun as it raced toward his head. "Are you all right?" I asked, trying not to release the swelling of anxiety behind my dam of exterior calm.

He nodded, still not looking at me. "That was just ..." he rubbed at that nose, "... weird."

Having never been in a situation of this nature before, I wasn’t sure if there were rules I might break if I actually acknowledged we’d begun some sort of ex cathedra relationship. So, a bit helplessly, I asked the first thing that occurred to me. "Bad weird?"

He cracked a smile. "No." He let his eyes come back to mine, and the smile remained. "Just weird." He rubbed his nose again. "Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you? I could be dressed in --"

"No." I did a very brave thing. I reached out and patted his cheek. In all the world, only Mulder and I would know how brave a thing that was. "I’ll be back soon."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The lobby looked like a scene from an alien abduction movie; total darkness broken only by the eerie glow of emergency exit lights. A few people, mostly stranded night shift employees, wandered around, silent and agitated. The wind railed against the glass pneumatic doors like some giant, angry ghost demanding entrance.

I was pulling on my Gortex gloves as I passed through, and I caught the eye of the desk clerk I had consulted the night before. "Is there another way out?"
 

"You’re not thinking of going out there," he protested. His tone was quite different from Mulder's; not proprietary at all, merely incredulous.

I nodded.

"No way, man. You’ll be frozen in ten steps."

"I’m not going far," I promised confidently. "Is there a door that doesn’t require electricity to open?"

"That one doesn’t." He pointed at the rattling glass. "They’re made so you can push them open when power is cut." Of course," he added as I turned away, "once it is opened, I doubt we’ll be able to close it again, against that wind."

I gave him an Assistant Director eye. "Is there a door that will be less calamitous to open?"

He eyed me back. I thought perhaps he didn’t comprehend my meaning, but no, he was just considering options. "The one at the end of the right wing." He pointed the direction I’d come. "But be careful. That door opens about twenty feet from the road. If any idiot is out trying to drive ..."

"I’ll be careful," I promised. "How can I get back in?"

"I could post someone by the door to wait ..." he stopped, shaking his head. "Hell, you’re FBI. If I can’t trust you ..." He shoved a fist into his pocket and produced a set of keys and selected one. "Here."

"How did you know I was with the FBI?" I demanded.

He pointed over my head.

I turned to the mirror over the front desk. The cap Mulder had loaned me said FBI in big white letters across the brim. I chuckled to myself as I accepted the key. "I’d forgotten about that. Thanks."

I groped my way back down the corridor to the alien green light of the exit sign. Bracing myself for the cold, I put my shoulder to the door and suddenly found myself outside in the icy opposite of hell.

I’ve been in whiteout conditions before. But this wasn’t the blinding whiteness I was accustomed to. Above the whirling white, the sky was an ominous black as if the sun had gone out. There was an unsettling desolation above the raging wind and snow. Putting a hand to my mouth to protect my nose and lips, and to reduce the amount of ice-cold air going to my lungs, I leaned back against the door to get my bearings. By the night clerk’s reckoning, the road was twenty paces ahead of me. The convenience store should be about fifty paces and slightly to the left. I turned my head and looked. I could see intermittent spots of red through the snow, which would be the roof of the store I had seen. I heaved forward, away from the door, and started plowing my way in that direction.

Once I got started, it really wasn’t hard going. I just needed something to focus on aside the numbing cold. I had the perfect subject. He was back in the hotel room, drinking coffee and feeling ‘weird’. For the first time in twelve hours, I let myself consider what we had done. Well, what I had done. For all I knew, Mulder had gone along for fear of reprisal from a superior officer.

Maybe I was being naive, maybe I was being stubborn, but I didn’t think so. After being attracted to him for so long, hearing him confess his own sexual confusion had been like a homecoming brass band to me. I’m still not sure when I first realized that attraction: probably from the beginning. Nor was I sure what it was that caused the attraction. Nothing about him suggested he’d be open to my interest, and we seemed to be in constant conflict (though, no doubt the psychologist Mulder would have a few choice words about that). I can’t even say that he was my ‘type’, assuming that I had allowed myself enough freedom to observe and catalogue men into ‘types’. He just was there. And there were times when wanting him was unbearable. I knew he was in love with his quest, and Agent Scully was just the fair damsel to be rescued on the road to that quest. He was a knight exemplar. Unapproachable. Untouchable. I didn’t even allow him into my fantasies.

There was a brief, crushing moment when I thought he had been attracted to that Russian double agent, Krycek. In truth, there had been a moment when I had been. Krycek was the poster boy for deniable lust. Wicked, wanton and totally heartless, a beautiful package holding an ugly promise. Of course, I never acted on that desire, but I spent one or two agonizing nights imaging what it would be like if Mulder had.

Krycek would love this weather, I thought grimly, slipping a little as I reached the opposite side of the road. I resented his intrusion into my thoughts. I wanted to stay focused on Mulder, the taste of his kisses, the sounds he made, the way his body moved against mine. I wanted more of him than the tantalizing tease I’d gotten the night before. But would I?

I sighed against the wind. We had avoided any words that acknowledged the line we’d crossed. But we had to discuss it. We had to agree it was right and good and should continue, or to never speak about it again. It was my responsibility to start that conversation, just as I had started the encounter. Mulder never would. I knew that much about him. He would perhaps, at night, accept my advances and in daylight pretend nothing had changed.

I found the store and, as expected, it was locked and dark. I cupped a hand around my eyes and peered in. No sign of life. I knocked. I pressed the bell even though I knew there was no power to make it sound wherever people might hear it. I knocked a little harder. Then I backed up to make a rear assault. I’d seen a car parked on the side, and what appeared to be a small house behind the store. It was likely that this was a family run business, and someone must be at home.

I didn’t have to find out. The door opened just as I was fighting the wind to get around the corner of the building. It opened just enough for someone to shout, "Are you out of your mind? It’s a blizzard, for crying out loud."

I turned around and stumbled and staggered back to him. "Yes, I know it. I’m stuck in the hotel across the street. I was wondering if I could --"

"Mister, I’m just as shut down as they are," he cut me off. I couldn’t see him, really. He was dressed, head to foot in black and well bundled against cold. He was tall, I could see that, but fat or thin, young or old, Caucasian, Black or Martian, it was all hidden beneath layers of shirts and jackets and scarves.

"I can pay cash," I promised him.

"I still ..." he stopped. "Oh, all right, all right. Come in." I think it was the idea of getting the door shut again, more than the promise of making any sort of money on a day like this that tempered his decision. He backed up just enough to let me squeeze inside the store.

"Thanks." I stepped in, expecting it to be warmer inside. It was not. It even felt as if the wind had followed us in.

"Sorry, I don’t have backup lights in here," he said, feeling his way to the counter. "You’re on your own to find things."

"Not a problem." I hunted my pockets for my maglight and began to prowl the aisles. It was clear this was a sort of last post of civilization up here, for the shelves stocked everything from Coke to cleaning supplies to an impressive selection of condoms. It was tempting. I did show restraint even though I wanted to shower him with treats to make him amenable to me. I wanted to woo him. I got him his sunflower seeds and slim jims. I picked up a couple of magazines with word games. I got candles and pretzels and a couple of rather mealy looking apples. I got cookies, meat paste, bagels, and juice. I hovered over condoms and lubricant ... but the deeply closeted middle-aged man that I was in wouldn’t let me face the knowing smirk that would be hiding behind the bundling of black behind the register. I did risk a jar of petroleum jelly. He could always assume I was afraid of chapped lips.

I brought my collection back to his counter and added disposable lighters, chocolate kisses and chewing gum to the pile.

He looked it over ... started to bang out prices on his register ... frowned, rolled his eyes, and hunted around under the counter for a pad of paper. While he was copying prices he jerked a thumb toward the darkened case at the back of the store. "You want some milk or beer? I’m going to lose it soon, anyway. Take it, no charge."

I hesitated a moment ... then went back to the refrigerated locker. Pulling it open, I encountered yet another surprise. It was actually warmer in there than in the rest of the store. I pulled a quart of milk from the shelf, and then glanced at the beer. Oh, what the hell. I pulled a six-pack of Coronas from the next shelf. Not that I could imagine drinking beer in subzero weather, but one never knows ...

I brought them back to the counter and announced, "I’ll pay for the beer."

He looked up ... and resumed the task of frowning over numbers. "Whatever, Mister." A moment later he threw the pen down in disgust. "I got an electronic register so I wouldn’t have to deal with math." He shot a glance out the window. "Just take it."

"No." I sent my eyes over the haul and dug for my wallet. "Here." I put three twenties on the counter.

"Oh, no, man, that’s too much --"

"For the courtesy of opening for me." I cut him off. For making a seduction possible. I resisted an urge to put a hundred down.

He looked at the money a full ten seconds before snatching it and shoving it into his pocket. "Whatever, man." He started packing things into a paper bag.

I considered the bag and then the raging storm outside. "Do you think I could borrow one of these shopping baskets if I promise to return it before I leaved?" I indicated the red, handled baskets stacked next to the register.

He surprised me. He pulled one from the stack and put the rest of my purchases in it. "Take it, with my compliments."

"Thanks. And good luck to you." I took my supplies and drew a lungful of icy air before reaching for the door.

"Hey, Mister, wait." I heard him move from around the counter. "Take these. They never sell, anyway." He pushed some bright yellow plastic packages into my hands.

I looked down at the added merchandise. Chemically activated heat sticks. "Thanks." Juggling the basket and the packages, I stuffed extras into my pockets, pushed the door open, and broke the seal on one of the sticks. The warmth that unfolded into my hands reminded me of Mulder, and I was actually eager to battle the swirling snow and icy wind with the prospect of him, in bed, on the other side of the battle.

I suppose I should have been ashamed that sex was such a priority for me. It should have been more important to establish if we had a relationship or if the events of the night before had been merely an aberration brought on by extraordinary circumstances. Sex was easier to deal with, think about. And what I could think about was having that body next to me, under me. I didn’t want to talk about what happened. I just wanted to do it again. I suspect I was afraid if we did talk about it, we’d talk ourselves out of it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The door was much harder to open from the outside than from the hallway, but I was a man on a hormone driven mission at that point, and I don’t think the Great Wall would have kept me out of that hotel. Once inside, I kept moving, panting and wet, down the corridor. I briefly considered going on to the lobby and returning the key, but decided to deliver my bounty to the room, and perhaps collect some prize from Mulder. I’m not sure what I considered a prize ... I think even surprise and approval would be enough.

I opened my door, trying to brush away snow, and pull off gloves, and still maintain my grip on the basket. I opened my mouth to call out something silly, something on the line of ‘Honey, I’m hooo-ooome’, when I heard a murmur from the other room. I strained my ears as I carefully settled basket and gloves on the table, and tugged the FBI cap from my head. Moving toward the connecting door, which was only slightly ajar, I could make out that he was having a conversation with someone … a one sided conversation. He was on his mobile. And I suspected, given the slightly softened and familiar tone he used, that Agent Scully was on the other side.

What was he telling her? Did he tell her what had happened? Did he tell her about me? Was he seeking advice? Complaining? Laughing? I felt my face become unnaturally hot as I imagined the two of them laughing over the idea that their boss was a fairy, a pansy, a fag.

I got close enough that I could see him. As usual, he was pacing. Draped in one of the blankets, his phone cupped tight to his ear, he was moving idly back and forth at the foot of the bed. His voice was low and soft, and tinged with laughter. I couldn’t hear any of the words, but his manner and laughter filled me with a sense of betrayal. I turned away sharply, dug out the key the clerk had loaned me, and left the room, not caring that the door jerked from my fingers and slammed behind me.

The desk clerk was sitting on the counter, legs dangling, talking to a couple of female staff. They all seemed tired but excited by the great adventure. He saw me approach and he gave me a double take. "Hey, you survived." He slid from the counter and smoothed back his hair. "We figured you weren’t going to show up ‘til the thaw."

The girls giggled. I gave them all the smile I could manage, but I know from experience that that forced effort is more frightening than humorous. I gave it up and held out the key. "Thank you. Any word on the power?"

The clerk shook his head. "No word on anything. The kitchen staff is going to try to put together some kind of boxed lunch in a couple of hours, though. Check back."

"I’ll do that." I passed the key and turned away. I wasn’t that eager to get back to my room, now.

~~~
 

I heard a door slam shut somewhere behind me. "I have to go," I muttered into the receiver and folded the phone against my chest as I crept to the connecting door. I don’t know why I was so jumpy. I had been extensively trained for handling all manner of incidents in the field, so I should be able to take care of myself in a hotel room with only my boss next door. But this had not exactly been a routine field assignment, even for me. After what had happened last night, there was no way to prepare for what could be coming next.

All I could say was that this field assignment had been full of exceptions.

I certainly didn’t expect to find out that my own personal man among men played for the other team. And I never, ever expected him to want to play with me. The only thing I could assume was that after I left the bar the night before, he had stayed and lubricated his libido to the point that even a Galapagos turtle might have some allure. And I, being the closest thing he had to a turtle of any nationality, was the lucky recipient of that slippery lust.

That was a great theory except he showed no signs of alcoholic impairment when he appeared at my door. He seemed to know what he was doing, why he was doing it, and in no frame of mind to brook resistance. I must say on my own behalf that, for a change, he did not encounter any from me.

I don’t think he came looking for sex, though. Why would he? How could he? Except for some sort of clueless fumbling in the back of a friend’s car in high school, and one really disastrous date with a chem lab assistant at Oxford, I’d kept my yearning for male flesh to myself. I doubt even Scully knew. And now he knew. Boy, did he know. And this morning, instead of killing me, he woke me with the Elixir of Life, and offered to brave the extreme possibilities of weather to bring me food. Ahhh, my great big Hunter/Gatherer.

Except ... he wasn’t back yet. And that door slammed in his room.

The door between our rooms was just open enough for me to take a cautious peek. I could see his bed, stripped of all the essentials, and a corner of the dresser opposite the bed. No sign of him, but there was a wet mark on the floor. And what might be muddy snow.

I pulled the door open an inch more. I could just take in the small round table in the corner. I could see orange, weatherproofed gloves, my black toque, and something large and red. I could not see Assistant Director Skinner. I backed up and groped around ‘til I found my bag, and with some further groping, my gun. Dropping the blanket I’d been wearing like a cape against the iciness of the room, I moved back to the door, and nudged it wider. Now I had the whole room in view. The red plastic thing was one of those baskets one finds in markets and it had a paper bag and an assortment of unbagged items in it. Beer? Who would drink beer in this weather?

I moved toward the table, gun still in hand, and poked around the purchases. Geesh, the man thought of everything. Even those portable heat packs hunters take with them so they don’t freeze to death while the ducks sit on the other side of the pond making fun of their calls and decoys. From the look of things, Skinner had come in, dumped his haul and left again. But --

The door pushed open. He looked at me. I looked back. We both looked at my gun. Sheepishly, I pushed the safety into place and tucked it into the waistband of my sweats. "This is quite a haul. How long are you expecting us to stay here?" I asked, gesturing toward the basket.

He shrugged out of his coat before answering, shaking it thoroughly so that melted snow could fly and almost refreeze on the way down. "Not a moment longer than necessary," he answered grimly. He paused to scowl at something I couldn’t see. Then he shook himself out of whatever was freezing his feelings and turned to look at the table. "Find something in there you can live with?" He draped the coat over the back of the chair. "If not, there’s a rumor going around that there will be food from the kitchen in a couple of hours. I have no idea what or exactly when." He reached in and scooped out packages. "We will be advised."

I had one of my feelings for phenomena. He had regrets. Ohhhhhkay, Mulder, time to exit, stage left. "Well, that’s ... uh ... great." I poked into the basket. "Sunflower seeds. Great. Thanks." I wondered if I might be safer pulling my weapon and backing out of the room, but I squared my shoulders and marched toward the connecting door. I didn’t know if I should shut it or let it be. I decided he was the boss, so he could decide.

Tossing the bag of seeds on the bed, I returned my gun to its case and put my bag away. I have, in my life, felt lower, but it was a tough call to say when. Stuck in a blizzard, no porn, no books, no case, and the mantle of guilt spread thickly and evenly over both of us. Why should I feel guilty, damn it? He started it.

That was no good as an argument. I had to accept some of the blame. I picked up the blanket I’d dumped on the floor and attempted to fold it. It became giant origami, and resembled something more like a swan with a broken neck, than a blanket. I dumped it on the bed, wadded it up with his bedcover, and carried both back to the connecting door. "Do you want ..."

There were candles everywhere. Some of them were the sort of stubby white utilitarian candles that were designed for just this sort of situation. Some were the sort meant for Catholic churches and roadside shrines. And some were the kind Scully had in her bathroom to keep the place smelling like an orange grove. But they filled the room with a suggestion of warmth and intimacy.

He was lighting the last of them as I appeared, and he killed the flame of the lighter and looked at me. "I brought some magazines and word games."

"Oh ... great." I looked down at the mass of blankets in my arms. "I brought your blankets. I didn’t know if you ... I ..." I thought of a word that my mother hated me to use, and thus I had used to excess in my teens. I did not repeat it aloud. "I left my seeds in the other room." I dumped the blankets on his bed and went back to my room.

When I returned he had put out some magazines on the table and made a little citadel of candles in the middle, to cast more light. He was eating a sandwich made of bagel and something brown and squishy, and was cutting apple slices. He looked up and nodded toward a chair for me. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Are you trying to be funny?" I blurted. How could I be comfortable? It was about twenty degrees Fahrenheit in that room, I was going to attempt to read by candlelight, and I’d had sex with my boss the night before. I was never going to be comfortable again.

He looked up at me and shook his head. "No," he answered evenly. He took a bite of apple and opened a newspaper.

I decided to quit while I was only five or six furlongs behind. I drew out a chair, flipped open a magazine, and pulled open my bag of seeds.

We sat in relative silence for a long time. The only sounds were the wind outside, the rustle of pages, the rattle of the bag each time I reached in, and the thudding of my heart. What was going on in his mind? Could he really make a confession like that? Could he make a confession like that and then act on that? Could he make a confession like that, act on that, and then act like that? I couldn’t. I would need to have it all talked out, understand what was going on, define parameters, come to agreements and work out details. I guess that’s why I’ll never be an assistant director of anything. I haven’t got the brass for it.

"Stuck on a word?"

I looked up. He was frowning at me over the edge of his newspaper. "Huh?"

"You’ve been staring at that puzzle for thirty minutes and haven’t answered a single clue," he explained.

"Well, you haven’t turned a page on that newspaper in at least twenty," I countered defensively.

He folded the paper with great deliberateness, and it did not resemble any sort of swan when he was through.

Sensing that he was about to launch into a speech, I broke in quickly with mocking admiration. "I’ll bet you are a genius with road maps."

He gave me that impatient little scowl I was familiar with. "Mulder."

That was the tone that said look at me and listen or die. I looked. "Yes, Sir?"

"We have to talk."
 

I swallowed, hard. Here it comes. "Oh, no, we don’t really have to, do we? We’re both grown-ups. We both know --"

There was a knock at his door. I stuttered into silence and he rose and went. There were murmurings from the hallway. He returned to the table. "Let’s go."

"Go?" I gaped at him. "Where is there to go? We’re in the middle of --"

"They have food for us." He was extinguishing candles with his fingertips. "Let’s go take advantage of it. We might not be so lucky tomorrow."

I can’t say that food held any interest to me at that point whatsoever, but conceding that the situation might change over the next few hours, I rose and began blowing out candles with him. "Yes, Sir." I caught a glimpse of myself in the shadows of the mirror over his bureau. "I should probably change ..."

He sent an assessing eye over me. "Are you warm enough?"

I looked down at my two pairs of sweats and my University of Virginia sweatshirt. "Reasonably so."

"Then you’re fine." He tucked his keycard into the pocket of his own sweats. "Let’s go."

"Do you think we’ll still be here tomorrow?" I asked, as we stepped into the hall.

"If you’d been outside with me, you wouldn’t be asking that question," he answered with that unconscious loftiness of a man who knows more than you do just because he does. "Even if the blizzard stopped this minute, it would still take at least forty-eight hours to dig us out."

Forty-eight more hours here ... I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

The restaurant had been opened up, and a few tables had been pushed together against one of the walls to make a buffet. There weren’t many people in there ... maybe twenty-five, and most of them were wearing all or part of rumpled hotel uniforms. As Skinner and I waited in line, I took in what I could see in the dimly lit room. The curtains had been drawn back at the windows, but that didn’t add any light to the situation, even though it was nearly noon. Snow was piled and packed high on the glass, and beyond that was a swirl of wind driven snow against black sky. I gave Skinner’s back another look, feeling a little bit of awe for his ability to defy those conditions to bring back supplies. I wondered if he would have gone to such lengths if he’d been here on his own.

The food was more than I expected. Hot eggs and bacon and potatoes, cold fruit, pasta salad, pickles and olives, and cheesecake. There were also six big Thermoses of coffee. I shot Skinner a look. "They were holding out on us in the resource allocations."

"The stoves are probably gas and don’t require an electric ignition like the heaters," he answered. "And the refrigeration units are probably going to warm up to the point that the food in them will be rendered inedible soon."

The few guests who hadn’t gotten out the night before congregated at one of the larger tables and we decided to add to the party and join them. Like us, they were dressed for function more than presentation. I guess we all looked more like escapees from a work program than stranded businessmen, and one very harassed looking businesswoman.

Names were exchanged around the table, and I let Skinner do the introductions. I didn’t like talking with my mouth full. People were impressed that we were with the Bureau, and there were the requisite Hoover-in-a-dress jokes. We laughed politely, and conversation shifted back to finding a way to blame the current Administration for the weather.

The harassed business female did occasionally flick a glance my way and smile. I noticed it because every time she did, Skinner seemed to stiffen next to me. I kept my smile to myself. He was jealous! Of course, he might have been jealous that she was favoring me with her all too rare smiles instead of him, but I’d like to think he was jealous because she was smiling at someone he was interested in.

She did have a nice smile for all that. My taste in women runs toward tiny redheads with dead aim logic. But that didn’t preclude appreciating a friendly face in inhospitable circumstances. I returned her smile occasionally and that seemed to ease some of the harassment from her face. It was uncertain whether or not it eased whatever put the harassment there to begin with, and I wasn’t all that interested in pursuing the matter. It was just nice to see one less scowl at the table.

Skinner seemed inclined to make all the necessary contributions to the conversation for us, which weren’t many, so I concentrated on eating, smiling when it was called for, and getting up and bringing a Thermos to the table and filling coffee cups. As I was taught, I filled her cup first, even though it meant walking to the far side of the table to do so. She smiled her thanks at me, and I felt Skinner’s glower raise the ambient temperature at least five degrees.

Despite his accusations later in the day, I was not trying to make him jealous. I was merely making eye contact with someone who didn’t view me as a problem. And regardless what had happened in my bed the night before, I was and would always be some sort of problem for Walter Skinner.

Once I returned the Thermos to the buffet and came back to my chair, I was surprised when Skinner put a firm hand on my knee for a moment. It was not a gesture of affection.

I’m sure that in the darkness of the dining room no one could have seen the gesture, but my startled response might have been apparent to anyone paying attention, like the businesswoman. Her eyes went from my arched brows of surprise to his furrowed brow of displeasure and her own eyes narrowed in a mix of comprehension and disapproval. Well, so much for a friendly face.

Skinner didn’t say a word as we went back to our rooms. One of the clerks who evidently had prior dealings with Skinner, based on his familiar attitude, followed us partway, cheerfully discussing alternately how lucky we were to be on the first floor where we were not inconvenienced by the lack of elevator or lighting in the stairwells, and that there was going to be another meal later in the day, but all bets were off for anything beyond that.

Since Skinner saw fit to contribute short nods and noncommittal grunts, I decided to keep to myself my observation that there were plenty of empty rooms around us, so it would be fairly simple to move other guests downstairs for the duration. I rather got the impression my observations were not welcomed by either of them. The kid parted ways with us in front of the gym, and we kept going.

Since I had left with Skinner, I had to return with him. My keycard was still in my room. So I stopped at his door with him and waited, fidgeting, while he passed the card through the reader a couple of times, grunted in exasperation and gave the door a shove. There was going to be a confrontation. It was inevitable. He had begun a speech before the dinner bell sounded and now, after that fit in the dining room (well, it was a fit for Walter Skinner), there was no getting out of it. We were going to have to ... talk.

He let me in, still silent. Not knowing what else to do, I went back to his table and attempted to tidy the mess I always left when eating seeds. He remained silent. And still. That just made me fidget all the more. I picked up a trashcan by the dresser and swept the mess into it. I stacked the magazines. Still nothing from him. I drummed my fingers on the table. Waited a breath or two. "Well, okay, then ... I’ll just be in my room ..." I started moving.

I was on my back, on his bed, before I even saw him moving. He was on top of me, his heavy breathing a sirocco against my cold skin. It was a familiar situation. Except this time I wasn’t drugged or seeing monsters no one else could see. This time I was just on his bed, and he was on top of me.

Of course, he was angry. His hands were on my shoulders, pushing them almost painfully into the bed. "What kind of games are you playing, Mulder?" he rasped. "I don’t like game players. I never have." He gave me a little shake for emphasis. "Got that?"

I was struggling for breath, but I didn’t quite realize it yet. All I could do was sort of gasp, "No games. Got it."

Evidently, that was all he had to say. He looked down at me for a moment, and then rolled away.

I didn’t move. For one thing, I was a bit winded, and for another, this had to be addressed, now. I pressed a hand to my chest, as if to stimulate breathing again. "No games," I repeated.

His voice softened, but was still deep and full of feeling. "Did you mean what you told me last night, or was that a game?"

I twisted my neck to look at him. "I meant it." Oh, God, that face. The last thing I’d ever expect, that my boss’s face could twist something inside me, twist it hard. "I meant it last night and I mean it now." It was hard to get the words out, with the breathlessness and the twisting going on with several of my vital organs.

"That woman just now ..."

It was jealousy. Unfortunately, I was too wrung out to be smug. "I was just being ... you know ..." with effort, I rolled to my side to look at him, "... discreet. She was attractive, and she was being politely friendly. Wouldn’t it have been a little suspicious if I’d ignored her?"

Okay, it was a pretty lame effort, but it seemed to work for him. He reached out and cupped my chin. But if I was anticipating some profound or romantic statement from him, I was to be disappointed. His eyes went over me as if searching a road map. "Where are we going with this?"

"You’re asking me?" I eased his hand away from me and sat up. "How the hell do I know? You hold all the cards."

"The cards?" he echoed, sounding both bewildered and irritated. "What cards could I possibly be holding?"

"The whole deck." I got up. I realized suddenly I’d turned control over to him ... him, the he who had too much control over my life already. I flicked a hand backward toward him. "You’re the one who gets to decide if this goes back to Washington." I felt inexplicably hurt. Hell, it wasn’t any big deal ... we’d exchanged bodily fluids, not vows. And yet, I could already anticipate his speech, explaining how he wouldn’t even consider having a homosexual relationship in the halls of domestic security and masculine insecurity, and even though it was way things really had to be, it hurt. "Why should I expect to ..." I paused to get my voice back under control, "... expect to have any say in this?"

"No, that’s not true." I heard him get up but I didn’t look at him. "I think you have a say in this decision, as well. In fact, maybe more so than I. You’re the one out there in the field. Being gay out there is far more hazardous than being gay on the fifth floor."

"Well, no one needs to know." I could feel my shoulders slumping and I forced myself to sit up straight. I forced myself to laugh a little. "After all, it wasn’t any big deal. It was just --"

"Mulder."

I stopped, licked my lips. Waited.

He moved around to face me. "To me it wasn’t ‘just’ anything. It was the most exhilarating, freeing thing I’ve ever done. It was ..." he paused and a smile flashed over his features for just moment, but I saw it, "... a very big deal."

I swallowed. My mouth, my throat, my tongue, my entire being was dry. "Then what do you want to do?"

He didn’t have an immediate response. But I liked that. It meant he was going to give me an honest and thoughtful answer. "Everything."

~~~
 

Those skeptically squinted eyes widened. "Everything?" he repeated.

I knew the eternal sneer of skepticism was a pose. Perhaps the first thing to attract my attention all those years ago was the hopeful wonder and willingness to believe that couldn’t quite be disguised by a restless gait and downsloped shoulders. I smiled nostalgically. "Yes." I wanted to kiss him to punctuate my sincerity, but it didn’t feel welcome. "Everything."

His fists pressed into the bed on either side of his hips, he shifted. "Okay." He licked nervously at his lower lip. Another endearing trait, but this was laced with eroticism. "I haven’t had a lot of experience with all this," he began. "Just some ... ah ... masturbation and ..."

"I wasn’t speaking sexually, Agent," I broke in crisply, probably as embarrassed as he was. "And if you’ve had any experience, you’ve had more than I."

His eyes narrowed again. "You mean, you’ve never --"

"Never," I cut him off. "That is, until last night."

His protest derailed, I could see him review the previous night’s events. And smile. And blush. "You’re a quick study."

"Thank you." There was nothing else to say, really. I reached out hesitantly, and let my hands rest on his shoulders. There was so much I wanted to convey to him, and no amount of field experience, administrative training, or commendations was going to help me convey it.

He seemed to miss the cue to give me some direction. "Then ... why are we doing this?" His voice was shaking slightly, as if he was struggling, perhaps even frightened by the moment. "I m-mean, if you’ve never acted on it before ... how do you know you really want to act on it now?"

That was an easy answer. "Because I’ve always wanted it ... and ..." well, perhaps not that easy.

He waited a beat and looked up at me. "And?" he prompted.

The answer seemed almost too trite, too treacly ... but there is only one moment in life where trite and treacly are not only acceptable, they are the order of the day. "And I’ve always wanted you."

He reacted physically, as if the words had struck him like my fist. His head snapped back, exposing a column of throat at the roundness of his sweatshirt collar, and the tiniest wisp of dark hair. His lips parted, his eyes shut. A soft sound came from somewhere deep in him; not a moan, not a cry, just a sound.

I took that as some direction to proceed. My fingers tightened on his shoulders as if I felt I had to hold him up. I lifted him just enough that I could set my teeth against that throat. I didn’t bite. Well, not hard. I just needed to mark him, brand him while he was vulnerable.

He squirmed slightly. "Ah, no ... not there ... ahhh," he added as I followed his advice and moved upward, under his right ear. "No, no ... no." He was actually shaking in my hands. "Sk-Skinner ... no ... listen ... listen!" He backed away from me. Smiled, sheepishly. "You don’t want to start this now. I ..." he made another sound, it might have been laughter. "I haven’t had a shower in twenty four hours, and after our gymnastics last night ... I’m a little ripe."

"Really?" I pulled him back within range. "The perfect time to eat you."

He might have put up more protest, or he might have surrendered. We’ll never know. There was a loud knock on my door.

We broke apart and looked at each other. Suddenly he was on his feet. "I’ll be in my room," he whispered, and darted toward the door.

"Agent, no, I --" There was another knock. I looked to the source of the knocking and when I looked back, Mulder was pulling the connecting door to. Damn it, did I just call him ‘Agent’? With a huff of frustration I turned and went to the hall door and yanked it open. "Yes?"

It was the desk clerk. He was cradling a large thermal air pot the way the Renaldo would clutch the World Cup. But his eyes were darting beyond me, as if searching for something. "I ..."

"Yes?" I repeated impatiently.

"There was a pot of coffee left after lunch. I thought ..." he shoved it at me. "Here."

I accepted the pot, feeling only slightly contrite. "Thank you." The situation required more diplomacy. "How are you holding up?"

He forced a smile. "Oh, fine. Great."

"You’ve done a yeoman’s job the last few days. I hope you get some recognition for it." I backed up a step. "Could you use a cup of this?"

The smile seemed as if it was near crumbling. "Oh, man ... no, I don’t want to interrupt."

"Interrupt what?" I stepped back all the way. "Let me invite my agent in, do you mind? He’s got a serious addiction, but I don’t feel like doing need intervention ‘til we’re back in DC and he can be put in full restraints." I put the pot down and went to the connecting door. I rapped sharply. "Agent? The desk clerk brought us some coffee. Would you like a cup?"

He came to the door a moment later. His eyes were hot, but his face was composed. "When have I ever not wanted a cup?" he replied. He managed a very genuine smile for the clerk, or maybe it was the paper cup in the clerk’s hands. He reached for it. "Thanks." He held out his free hand. "Mulder. Nice to meet you."

The clerk’s hand shot out eagerly. "Stanton. Danny. Nice to meet you." He took the chair Mulder had been sitting in

Mulder eased down at the foot of the bed, cradling the paper cup in both hands. "Hot coffee today is a modern day miracle. The person responsible should be canonized." He was so deliberately not looking at me even a blind man could see it.

I felt that jolt of jealousy again. I wanted Danny Stanton gone, and I wanted Mulder back in my arms, where we could finish the conversation we’d begun. More than a conversation, it was a whole new way of life. But there they were, two personable, attractive young men, discussing the merits of coffee and clerics and, even though Danny had made certain that coffee was poured and delivered to me, I felt left out.

I wasn’t sure if the desk clerk was attracted to Mulder, and I could tell Mulder was not interested in him as anything more than the bearer of his lifeblood, but still that jealousy roiled within me. I didn’t want anyone or anything to possess Mulder’s attention. And this was a bad thing. How could I stand him working with Agent Scully, his personal morning and evening star? How could I tolerate his complete absorption by any case he undertook? How could I allow him any more freedom than the path from my bed to my coffeemaker? I had to get myself under control and right now.

I emptied my coffee in a gulp and checked the pocket of my sweats for my card key and mini torch. "While you two are putting the petition together for the local diocese, I’m going to walk off lunch." I patted my stomach as if I’d overindulged in something other than the forbidden fruit of fellow man. "Thank you for bringing the coffee, Danny." I gestured toward Mulder who was still not looking at me. "If he’d gone into withdrawal later, I might have had to shoot him." And I left.

I really didn’t know where I was going ... I didn’t want another nature stroll through the blizzard, and I didn’t bring ice skates so the swimming pool was out. I saw the emergency light over the gym and remembered Danny had disappeared through that door earlier. I pushed it open and went in.

I would have been pleasantly surprised by the extensive amount of equipment available if there had been any electricity to utilize them. No less than ten stationary bikes, six joggers, an impressive assortment of free weights, training bags, and resistance machines. The room had the sharp smell of recent cleaning still haunted by the sweat of more than one body seriously taxed in recent days. The sweat reminded me of Mulder and I felt part of my anatomy dance a little in protest. Sitting down heavily on a weight bench, I closed my eyes and tried to picture him on his back between my legs. Waiting, needing, as hungry for me as I was for him. Impossible. I opened my eyes and sighed. The whole thing’s impossible.

Mulder could have any man or woman he wanted. Why would he want me? If his protests of sexual ignorance were true, and why should I doubt him, then he’s never wanted anyone. So ... what did he want? There had to be an answer. Had to be. And I had to be the one to give it to him. Had to be.

"Hey."

I looked up sharply. He was pushing the door closed behind him. It looked as if he’d taken time to comb his hair and change into a clean long sleeved tee shirt. "Why did you abandon me? You broke poor Danny’s heart." He was smiling as he moved through the equipment.

"Me?" I don’t know how the word got out, I didn’t think I was capable of saying anything, and foolish protest would be the last thing I meant to say. "No, Agent, I believe --"

"Yeah, I know what you believe." He straddled the bench in front of me, and sat, his knees touching mine. "And you’re out of your mind."

That close, even in the near darkness of the room I could see the green flecks in his eyes. Like oxidation in a flame. "Mulder, I ..." I didn’t know what else to say. I leaned forward and kissed his parted lips. God, I want you, my mind was screaming. But that I could not say.

I felt a little ripple run through him. His fingertips rested on my thighs as he moved into the kiss. I wanted to push him back and take him right there on that weight bench. I could feel my muscles lock in my struggle not to grab him, and not to betray myself with trembling.

He broke the kiss finally and sat back, panting a little. "I haven’t been with a guy since Oxford," he said huskily. "And even then we never ..." he paused, and I think he was starting to blush. His eyes came back to mine and he began to gather himself together. "If you weren’t speaking sexually, what did you mean?"

It took me a moment to catch up with his memory. I rubbed a hand over my brow and then back over my scalp. "I meant ..." How could I explain that I wanted to consume him, physically, emotionally, spiritually? That I wanted to be him and let him be me? That I wanted us one in every aspect of our lives? That in twenty-four hours I had gone from a pleasantly unrequited longing to a deep and ever thirsting passion? "I meant ... everything."

"You want ..." he paused, licked his lips, "to ... fuck me," he concluded.

No, at that moment I wanted to slap him. "No. Well, yes, I do, but ..." now I was blushing. "Love, Mulder. I want to love you. I want to have a relationship, a lover, a partner, a mate."

"Me?" He sounded exactly as I had only moments before. "You want all that from me?"

I shook my head at his incredulous tone. "Is that so fantastic to you? That someone could love you and want you to love them?"

"No," he countered, "just that you do. I always thought ..." he glanced away and back again, a nervous habit I had never noted in him before. "I always thought you didn’t like me."

I felt a fission of feeling within me; compassion, affection, guilt and that paternal need to ‘fix it’ for him. This was a side of Fox William Mulder I had never seen. While I had known it was there, he had always hidden his vulnerability behind obsessive conviction, and wisecracks. For him to make this confession, he had stripped himself to his emotional bones, and offered to let me pick him apart like a Thanksgiving turkey on Saturday morning. "Oh, Mulder." I reached up and slid my hand through that mop of thick, dark hair. "I went beyond ‘liking’ you a long time ago." My fingers knotted in his hair and I pulled him forward. This time my kiss was not restrained. I invaded him almost violently.

One hand tangled in his hair, the other pushing at his chest, I got him backward on the bench. He didn’t fight me. In fact, except for his tongue, which was dancing on the most delicate synapses of my brain, he remained still and compliant. I shoved and pulled at him until I had his shirt up under his chin and his chest and belly bared to my hands, and then my mouth.

He moaned and twitched as I discovered sensitive places on his body that he didn’t even know about. I felt like Magellan, Columbus and Armstrong all in one, with a new world spread before me. Working one hand under his sweatpants I found his cock, already thick and hot, not quite stiff, and my fingers sliding around it elicited a sound from Mulder that was almost inhuman. His back arched off the weight bench and his hands, balled into fists came up, pressed against my sides and fell. I lost all reserve then and started to yank his pants down. I was going to fuck him right there in the weight room of a hotel in Buffalo, New York.

And I would have done so, if not for the sound of voices in the hallway just outside the door. I looked up, saw shadows passing in the hallway. I knew they couldn’t see us, unless they actually came in, with torches, and looked around, and that wasn’t very likely. But I wasn’t going to take any more chances. I looked down at Mulder, who was watching me for cues. "Don’t move," I whispered huskily. I swung myself off the bench and off Mulder’s body, and went to the door. I did a quick peek out and saw the hallway was clear. I flicked the small steel lock into place and turned around. And realized that Mulder was half naked in front of a full wall of glass looking out over the garden and lobby.

I flicked my maglite off and marched toward him. "Get up," I commanded. "Get dressed."

He gaped at me. "I ... but ... wha ..."

I grabbed his face roughly and turned it ninety degrees to his left and held it there ‘til reality registered. "Let’s go."

His face went hot in my hands, even as his hands went scrambling for the sweatpants I’d left around his knees. Yet the bastard was chuckling as he retied the drawstring and followed me back to the door. "Well, if Danny thought he had a chance with you before ..."

"Shut up."

He was still chuckling. "Yes, Sir."

Life fell back into perspective in that moment. I opened the door, almost wishing I had a gun. I checked the hall and looked at him. "Wait a couple of minutes before you follow."

He nodded, but even in that light I could see amusement in his eyes. He wasn’t embarrassed by the possibility that we’d been putting on a show for two-dozen bored employees and stranded guests.

I slipped out the door, tried to adopt a nonchalant demeanor and strolled toward my room. I couldn’t help being grateful that the security cameras in the hall were unable to record my flushed expression and sweaty hands. I almost fucked a male subordinate, in public. I had to get this under control.

I dragged the key card through the slot out of habit, even thought it was a useless gesture. The electronic lock was disabled still. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, leaning back against the door. If it had not been for the blackness of the sky hiding our indiscretions the way a glove hides fingerprints, I could have easily ruined both our careers in one careless, desperate indulgence of my own lusts.

The obvious answer was to end this now. End the sexual advances. Dismiss the declarations of love I’d already made. Deny myself all access to him. Leave him alone. Leave him, alone.

I could hear him come into his room. I did not go to the connecting door, even though I wanted to. I drew a deep breath. I couldn’t end it like that. I couldn’t hurt him. I couldn’t hold out an offer of love and jerk it back just as he was reaching across the chasm for it. I couldn’t send him spinning down into nothingness. But I wouldn’t hold it out any further. I would make no more advances, no more declarations. If he wanted this, he would have to cross the valley to me. And he wouldn’t. I knew him that well. He’d stay on his side and wait.

I made myself sit down with a newspaper, my torchlight flickering over the pages because my hands were shaking. I tried not to listen to his restless movements just beyond my door. I tried not to remember the expressions that had played over his face throughout the day. I tried not to feel the needs contained within me; the need to feel him, the need to heal him, and to feel him heal me.

The minutes passed. They became an hour. I could close my eyes and see him silhouetted against an eternal sunset on a distant cliff, waiting for me to reach for him. I did not.

The hour brought another, then another. The sounds from his room faded. But the echoes of laughter and pleasure remained. I tried to tell myself that this level of angst was worthy of daytime dramas and teenaged girls, and unworthy of a man of my years and human experience. But there are times when you are placed in the middle of a hurricane, and you have no choice but to experience the dizzying wind and duck the flying cows.

Word came, in the form of a giggly girl I’d seen in the restaurant earlier, that there would be food ready in about fifteen minutes. I thought about knocking on his door, thinking it was a good safe reason to speak to him, but as I levered myself from my chair, I could hear that the giggly girl had already made her way to his door and informed him.

I watched the minutes tick by on the face of my watch and got up, slowly, carefully, listening for some sound from his room, but there had been no sound since he’d closed his door on the giggly girl. Reluctantly, I went out, alone ... wishing he’d follow.

The food was a little less lavish this time. Tinned soups, frozen burger patties that obviously had thawed prematurely and were therefore overcooked for our safety. Muffins and other pastries left over from the last meal. Cartons of once frozen juices, and really bad coffee. Bags of chips. Still, it was there, it was food, and itwas a chance to see Mulder. But he never came.

We did have some additions to our little party, however. Two state troopers, like triumphant heroes arrived just as we were working our way through the buffet. Their announcement that the weather front seemed to be breaking up and roads could be cleared by the next morning were met with resounding cheers. I managed to put on a hearty smile and clasped the hand of the nearest trooper in a congratulatory manner, even though something inside was sinking in disappointment. God had heard me. It was over.

~~~
 
 

He didn’t look back at me before he pushed into his room. He didn’t have to. We’d both gotten a good dose of snow-covered reality. We nearly fucked up ... literally. The rigid line of his shoulders as he left ahead of me told me he was pulling himself back inside, tucking up all the unexpected and magnificent emotions he had spread open for me to view, like a jeweler laying out diamond rings before a nervous groom to be and then snatching them up and shoving them back in the vault before anyone could accept the precious offering.

I can’t say I was surprised. That behavior was much more in keeping with the Walter Skinner, A.D. that I knew. The tender, passionate man I’d met this weekend was a stranger, a stranger who left me off balance and bewildered. But I hated to see the back of him so soon.

I also can’t say I blamed him for packing it in so quickly. We were embarking on something unprecedented and dangerous. Not so much for what we would encounter out there, but what we might find within ourselves. I was already alarmed to find out there was a part of me still capable of being open to romantic love, and to being wounded by it. Romantic love. Now there’s a notion. What’s romantic about being so hot you’re ready to give it up without even thinking that you were about to become Saturday matinee? Shame has never been a driver for me. Guilt, yes, but rarely shame. I was ashamed of myself. I slunk past his door without even glancing at it.

My room was colder than the corridor, and the sweat of arousal was now just a cloak of clamminess wrapped around my body. I felt a shiver run through me and I dived for the rumpled bed and rolled up in a blanket. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I strained to hear sounds from his room, tried to imagine I heard his footsteps coming to the door between us. No sounds came. It was as if he no longer existed.

I’m not really sure how long I sat there. I even have some vague impression of getting up and pacing around the room. But I know I didn’t actually do anything. I didn’t even turn my mind loose to chase the trails of logic that had put me in that gym, gyrating and sweating for another guy. I just know time passed and nothing mattered. And I sank another stone into the wall of my own self-loathing.

A girl came. She offered food in the restaurant. For a moment I was ready to leap at the chance to see him, even in public. But no. If anyone had seen us, if anyone revealed our stupidity with an ill concealed smirk or outright laugh, then he’d turn on me. His silence was better than that. I stayed in my room.

My watch told me it was evening. I had consumed the last of the sunflower seeds and scooped icy water from the tap up to my lips, more for the shock of the cold than to quench my thirst. I paced the room. I checked my mobile to see if it was still receiving a signal. I looked out the window and even imagined that the storm was lessening. But I kept coming back to the bed. I kept coming back to him.

I would have liked to think I was about more than sex to him. It was more than sex with him. I wanted him. I wanted his strength, his ability to be so open, so honest. I wanted his approval. I wanted his history, his present, his future. I wanted his truth. But I couldn’t deny that I also wanted sex with him. Even thinking about his hand on me made my cock snap to attention. Without even consciously giving my hand the order, it was working its way under my sweats to relieve the swelling.

My fingers were cold and stiff but it didn’t dampen the fire between my legs. No pornography had ever inflamed me like the memory of Skinner’s mouth, or smell or touch. I took my time, letting the heat of my genitals warm my fingers and letting my fingers retrace the familiar path there. Shutting my eyes, I sought images of Skinner and found hundreds; all of them in crisp white shirts pulled taut over his chest. I could even imagine him fucking me, the cool cotton of his shirt rubbing over my skin with every thrust. The idea made me groan and I turned my face into the pillow.

My fingers began to work a little faster. I knew what his body felt like on mine. I knew his kisses, I knew the power of his body. I knew the skill of his hands. I wanted to know so much more.

I let my hands be his hands. Shut my eyes and gave myself over to the idea of him touching me possessively. I let myself slide under his body, be held down by his weight, claimed almost brutally by his mouth and hands. I even spread my legs as if inviting him to take everything.

I was sweating and rocking my hips, thrusting into my hand as if it was his mouth. I couldn’t stop my body any more than I could silence those sounds of desperation. I needed this. Needed him.

I could imagine him tearing my clothes off, not caring about the cold. Not caring whether or not I was willing. I could feel his body pin mine to the bed. His impatient hands, demanding mouth, determined ... determined ... ohhhh, fuck ...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My cheek hurt. Felt bruised. I must have banged my head against the bedside table in the course of thrashing around like a man possessed. It had been a long time since I’d come so hard I passed out. Sweat had again cooled on my skin. I felt sticky and chilled and my thighs were twitchy and plaintive. I’d given myself quite a workout.

The front of my sweats were wet and I eased my hand out of them, grimacing. I must have been out more than a few seconds because the semen was cold on my hand and groin. I wiped my hand against the roughness of the blanket I had been tangled in, and struggled to sit up. Something felt wrong, strange, out of place. I couldn’t see anything in the complete blackness of the room, but I could feel it.

I rubbed my tender cheek for a moment, and managed to make it to my feet. It wasn’t ‘til I was rearranging my sweats and pulling the blanket around my shoulders that I found what was so out of place. The door between us was slightly ajar. He had heard me. He had watched me. I felt myself go so hot all over that I dropped the blanket and stood still, letting effects of embarrassment wash over me.

"Are you all right?"

I jerked toward the sound of that quiet concern. He was leaning against the wall. I could barely make him out in the darkness. His arms were folded over his chest. His posture was one of calm power. "Yeah," I answered in a strangely weak voice. That irritated me and the irritation rescued me. "You might have told me you were into watching." I bent and gathered the blanket around me. "I’d have given you a better performance."

"That one was fine." He moved then. I flinched, thinking he was coming toward me, but he just shifted position. "You hit your head. Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Fine." I touched it gingerly. It was going to be an interesting bruise. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

"I heard you. You sounded as if you were in pain. I ..." his confidence dipped. "I was concerned."

"You were there long enough to figure out I wasn’t," I snarled, fumbling around for the box of tissues I could swear were somewhere nearby.

"Yes." He turned away from me and went into the bathroom.

I heard a metallic crash and he returned, having ripped the box out of the holder next to the sink. He dropped the box on the end of the bed.

I grabbed them and put distance between us again before I started wiping stickiness off my hand. "So, why didn’t you do the decent thing and sneak out again, instead of sneaking further in?"

"I didn’t want to."

"Oh, of course." I pulled the blanket together around me and held it with my teeth, so I could wipe my cock with some measure of privacy.

"In fact, I wanted to join you," he added quietly.

I looked up sharply. "You made your position very clear," I hissed around the blanket.

"Did I?" He sounded as bewildered as I had felt. "Could you enlighten me?" He felt for and sat on the end of the bed. "Because I sure as hell don’t know what it is."

"Okay, I’ll tell you." I wadded up the tissue, and glanced around for a wastebasket. "You used me to experiment. You liked it. Your generation believes if you fuck with a girl you tell her you love her. So you felt you had to --"

"My generation?" he protested.

"Peddle the wounded vanity somewhere else," I snapped, clenching my fist around the tissue. "So you got a little taste of manlove, but the first time you thought about the consequences that go with it, you went all delicate about it and shoved me off as if I was ... was ..." I threw the tissue at him. I must have thrown hard, because it hit him in the face, "... garbage."

"Mulder, I ..." He stopped so I didn’t have to tell him to shut up.

I maneuvered around him and pulled the door open. "Get out of here." I waited a beat. "Now."

He did that moving without being seen thing again, and suddenly I was slammed up against the door, his fingers in knots in my hair. "Listen to me," he rasped. "I want you. Damn it, I do. But we can’t do this. Not here. Not ever." He jerked his hands and my head banged against the door. "Do you understand me?"

I nodded slightly. "Which is why I just asked you to leave my room," I reminded him in a whisper. Damn it ... he was all over me and the smell of sex was so strong. I had to bite my lip and twist my face away from his before I lost it completely and kissed him. "So, if you’ll just --"

He twisted my face back roughly, and he did the kissing. A very thorough job. By the time he was through he was holding me up because my knees were giving up under me. "God, Mulder," he groaned and moved his mouth to my neck. Oh, no, not there.

"Ssssssir, we’ve got to ... oh, shit, that tickles ... we’ve got to stop. Now." I was squirming under him. I couldn’t help it. I was even starting to feel arousal again.

"I don’t want to stop," he told me, his hands starting to move down my body. "We’ve only got one more night. Let’s use it." He was pushing my sweats down roughly. "Just this once. No regrets."

I wanted to. God help me, I wanted to. But I couldn’t. The idea that he’d turn his back on me down in Washington the way he’d turned his back on me out in the corridor was sufficient to reinstate reason in my fevered brain. I put my hands on his wrists as he tried to pull my hips to his. "No." I pushed. "No regrets."

He misunderstood me. His grip tightened on my flesh and he ground himself against me.

I was breathing funny ... my breath kept hitching up in my chest. I could feel the heaviness in my balls again. I was giving in. I had to stop it before I got any further out on that tightrope and tumbled off. I moved my hands between us and shoved. "I said, no."

He staggered back a little. Not far, just enough for me to get my sweats back into place. There was something disturbing about his stance. I couldn’t read his eyes in that impossible lack of light, but I could see the ragged way his shoulders rose and fell, and the slightly disbelieving tip of his head. His hands came up sharply, and the next thing I knew I was twisted away from the door and tumbling back to the bed. "And I said yes," he growled.

I wasn’t sure if he was going to hit me or jump on me, but I didn’t plan to lie there and find out. I rolled to my side and off the bed. I got to my feet and started for the door but my foot caught in the blanket I’d left on the floor and down I went, my cheek hitting the carpet over concrete and, for a moment, white lights glittered in my eyes, and then the darkness was back, and complete.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I was out a little longer this time. Long enough to wake up back in the bed, with my head on a pillow, and a few candles lit on the bedside table casting a shrine-like glow over me. He was sitting on the side of the bed looking grim and washing my face with water so cold I knew the Geneva Convention was being violated.

I flinched at the cloth being held against my cheek, and brushed it away. "What the ..."

"Easy. Easy." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Lie still."

My head hurt too much to argue with him. But I gave him a good glare. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" I demanded thickly.

He looked mildly indignant, even as he continued to torture me with that wet cloth. "I was going to ask you the same thing." When I jerked away from his ministrations, he sat back. "Can you sit still for a minute? I want to go down to the front desk. You were out at least four minutes. Please don’t try walking unassisted."

Wait a minute ... you just assaulted me and you’re acting as if this is my fault? I didn’t voice my opinion, however. I just gave him a very small nod. For some reason my body didn’t seem to agree with any inclination I might have to get vertical.

"I’ll be right back." He stood and looked down at me. "I want to make one thing very clear."

"You’ve made things clear enough," I answered. My mouth felt wrong, as if my lip or tongue was swollen.

"I did not hit you," he said.

I just looked back at him. I didn’t think he had. I had a feeling he might though.

"I wanted to," he added. "I might have done, even. But I didn’t." He turned away and slipped into the darkness beyond the candle glow.

What a comforting thought. My boss had a momentary urge to hit me ... and I think he would have done even more. There was something beyond disturbing about that. I’m used to inspiring violence in people ... hell, even Scully’s been moved to shoot me. But sexual violence? Yet, it didn’t surprise me. Skinner, king of the buttoned down people, was even more repressed than I was. If someone pushed him hard enough, he was going to explode. I pushed him almost hard enough.

He was back, cradling a small metal bowl in his hands. I could see steam rising. I turned my head quizzically, but received a warning shot from my brain to lie still, so I just watched warily as he drew back the blanket over me, and reached again for my sweats. "Be still," he commanded as I moved my hands in protest. "I told them you had tripped and might have sprained your ankle, so they heated water for me to make a hot compress," he explained, unfolding another white, hotel towel and dipping it into the water. "I thought you’d rest more comfortably if you cleaned up." He began to dab around my genitals.

I don’t know which embarrassed me more; that he was washing my dick, or that he seemed so disinterested while he did it. Or maybe it was the fact that my dick, without permission from me, was responding to his clinical touch.

He dipped the towel in water again and worked between my legs. "It’s a complicated situation, Mulder," he mused. "Reason tells me to leave you alone. It flies in the face of everything we know to be right."

I had my eyes shut tight, but I opened them again. "Right?"

He shrugged. "All right, practical." He glanced my way for approval. I gave it with a very tentative nod. "But the fact that I am attracted to you on so many levels is undeniable. I don’t just want your s-sex ..." he paused.

I opened my eyes again. He was blushing. I could see it, even in candlelight.

He overcame it. "I want a relationship with you." He shook his head, and worked my sweats down further. "I don’t see how we could possibly arrange it, or if you are even open to it, but it’s what I want." He put the towel down, and sighed. "It’s impossible." He worked the sweats off my feet and tossed them on the floor. "I’m sorry I’ve behaved badly." He pulled the blanket back over me. "I’m sorry that I hurt you."

He rose and reached for the bowl. "I’m going to take this back to the kitchen. They were boiling coffee, I’ll see if I can get you some."

Son of a bitch! No wonder he was an Assistant Director. He just laid out all the facts, and was leaving me to make the decision without any overt pressure. There was pressure all right, but it was between my legs.

I drew a deep breath and tipped my head back into the pillows. Okay, Dr. Mulder. Think. Think your brain instead of your balls. You can do it. You’ve been doing it for years. That’s the problem ... it has been years. Okay ... so we fuck tonight ... what’s the worst that could happen? We’ll be embarrassed in the morning. If we both get into this bed knowing it will never happen again then it will be all right, won’t it?

No. Because we both have expressed a desire for something more, and crossing this line is just going to make the rest of it unbearable. We will get to the point where the disappointment will turn to bitterness and we won’t be able to stand the sight of one another. And if he can’t stand the sight of me, he’s got the power to find me an office even deeper than the basement. Not a good career move.

I heard him come through the outer door, and a moment later he was bringing two paper cups to the bedside. "Can you sit up?" he asked, setting them down.

"Yeah. I’m okay ... I just hit ... that floor’s hard." I laughed weakly while he arranged pillows and helped me move upward.

"You hit it hard," he agreed, arranging the blanket around me. "Maybe we should take you to see a doctor as soon as possible."

I watched him pry the lid off one cup and hand it to me carefully. "Yeah," I agreed under my breath. "I need my head examined." I made a face. "Shit, who made this? Me?"

He chuckled and reached for his own up. "You’re going to be fine."

I licked burnt coffee from my lips. "Ummm ... why did you say that there was only tonight?"

He was gathering trash together and putting it in the wastebasket I couldn’t find. "Didn’t I tell you? Two state troopers made it through while I was in the restaurant. The storm should be moving through tonight, and despite my earlier assessment about how long it would take to dig us out, they believe they’ll have roads cleared tomorrow."

"Hmm ..." I looked down into the coffee. "I do need my head examined." I pushed the blanket back and looked at him. "Then spend this night with me."

~~~

He frightens me. I think, in one way or another, he always has. He’s not fearless, but he’s sometimes blind to the things that should frighten him. His politically precarious position in the Bureau has never concerned him. He’s made decisions that were potentially fatal to his career, and possibly to him, without even a mental flinch because he believed they were the right decisions to make. He can be one of the most focused and driven men I’ve ever known. But on that particular night, his focus was on me, and that was almost terrifying.

It wasn’t that he was any physical threat to me. Unless it was that he engendered an almost violent physical reaction in me. After all, I nearly raped him. I know there was a moment when I was prepared to. The sight of him writhing on his bed in complete sexual abandon had aroused a desire in me that had drowned all reason. Holding him, kissing him, smelling the perfume of sex on him, drove me to a point where I would abandon every ounce of humanity and morality within me to throw him on the bed and take him, by force if required.

It wouldn’t have been easy. Mulder doesn’t give in. And he didn’t. He tried fighting, saw that it was impossible, and chose flight. It wasn’t cowardice; he just wasn’t giving in. But even in doing the wise thing, he was his usual impetuous, careless self, and tripped over something left on the floor.

That moment will live for me, in stop action, frame-by-frame horror, forever. His eyes, wide with realization, coming to me, as he lurched forward and landed, with a bone-crunching thud, on the impossibly hard floor. For a moment, his eyes stayed on me. Then they closed and he was still.

I know the procedures. I know I shouldn’t have moved him, but at that moment instinct was still overriding wisdom, and I knelt beside him and turned him over gently, calling his name. He was out. There was no doubt. His face was like that of a doll’s; human in form but devoid of animation. But he was breathing normally, and didn’t appear to be bleeding anywhere.

Getting him to the bed without causing more injury, to either of us, was a challenge. He might appear to be fairly slight of frame, but he was still a full-grown man, and limp as a hundred seventy pounds of noodles. I had hoped that the process of moving him would be sufficient to rouse him, but he was still unconscious as I arranged pillows and blankets around him.

It was after he woke, however, that he truly frightened me. I had his naked flesh in my hands, and I was forcing myself to remain removed, and clinical, even while I felt the beginning of an erection within my grasp. I was trying to say all the right things, explain why it was impossible for us to continue, that it was madness and we had to stop, even though he had done nothing except be in my arms while I kissed him and tried to do more.

And then, he pushed the bedclothes aside, seemingly inviting me into his bed, and asked me to stay the night.

Even then, I hesitated: a wisp of straw whirling in place, needing to go, wanting to stay. "What did you say?"

He looked up, slightly startled, as if he hadn’t spoken and was alarmed that I was hearing voices. "I ... asked ... oh, never mind." He grabbed at the blanket he’d pushed away, trying to cover himself.

I moved quickly, to still his hand. "No, before that. You said something else, first."

"Did I?" He kept licking his lip ... didn’t he understand how that inflamed me? "I ... don’t remember," he lied. He pulled his hand free. "Look, you’re right, it’s a bad idea. I’m sorry I said anything."

"But you meant it, didn’t you?" I implored.

His eyes flicked up to me, and away. "Yes," he said, and gulped coffee. "But just because I --"

I put my hand on those lips. "Shut up, Mulder." I touched his face carefully. "Just shut up before you ruin it." I leaned in and kissed his mouth, felt him dissolve a little under me. "Do you have any idea how much I want you," I whispered against him, "and how crazy this is?"

He pushed away from me, spilling coffee on both of us. "Stop it. Just stop it. Either you’re going to do this or you aren’t. But stop preaching. Don’t start fires and stamp them out in the same breath." He caught the neck of my sweatshirt and tugged me nose to nose with him. "Get off the fence, Skinner. Just once in your life, get off that fucking fence." He let me go.

I got off. I reached out and eased the paper cup from his hand. Then I pushed him back into the pillows and kissed him, hard, ignoring the sharp sound of protest as I encountered his bruised cheek. I forced my hands under his sweatshirt and sought, found and teased two very small, very hard nipples.

That had a surprising effect on him. His body arched up under mine, so sharply that he actually lifted me with him. I increased pressure in my fingers and he began to curse my ancestors and descendants. I moved my mouth to his neck, my tongue pressing against a pounding pulse there, and sucked, still twisting and tormenting his nipples. There was no doubt about his level of arousal; despite his impressive orgasm less than an hour before, and the injuries he’d just sustained, I could feel his erection growing against my belly.

When I was sure of him, when I knew I could have him without further protest, I backed off him and began to strip, not caring that we could both see our breath, bursting out of us in irregular puffs of white. Dragging the blanket up around my shoulders, I descended once again, shoving his shirt up high enough to get my mouth on one of those rigid nipples. He moaned and twisted and swore under me, his hands groping and clutching at any part of me he could reach, my ear, my shoulder, even what little hair he could find, while he begged me to stop and at the same time, not to stop. He didn’t hurt me with his frantic tugging and tearing. On many levels I was oblivious to it. All I knew at that moment was I was finally going to have my reward.

I licked and bit and sucked my way down his undulating body, only dimly aware of his raspy mutterings. Every part of his torso was sweet with sweat and sensitive to my attentions. Finding myself at the junction of body and limb, I muscled my way down and forced his thighs apart, to get my mouth on his balls.

He let out a deep grunt as my tongue coaxed one into my mouth. His hands stilled ... his body ceased its frenetic movement. His back arched up slightly and fell again. He seemed to be poised for something momentous.

I stopped caring what he was doing. I sucked, laved, nipped and chewed at his sac, the base of his cock, his inner thigh. He smelled hot and needy and faintly of semen and I breathed it all in, burrowing my nose against him. His skin was firm and smooth and tautly drawn over muscle. I’d pull back to admire what little I could see, then swoop in for another mouthful.

I let saliva drip down his balls and worked it into his scrotum with my fingers as I sucked. He was making a sort of chesty whining sound as I rubbed backward, hunting for the ultimate treasure. Even in my state of unbridled bliss, I knew I had no lubricant, no condom, and yet, it didn’t matter. I was beyond caring. I had him. I was going to have him.

I pushed his legs farther apart, and forced my finger deeper, spreading his cheeks, searching for entry. His thighs were quivering but his body was otherwise motionless. I could still hear that sound coming from somewhere deep within him. It hummed in my ears.

At last I found my goal, a tight, hot pucker of flesh and I pushed my wet fingertip against it, gently.

The whine seemed to rise in pitch, and his body began to shake. I pushed a little more and was surprised that he was actively resisting me. I pushed again, this time almost warningly. His response was a full body twitch and a soft cry ... it didn’t even sound as if it came from him. I lifted my head, murmuring, "Relax, I’m not going to hurt you," as I worked up enough saliva to better wet my way in. I twisted my hand to get a better angle on him and pushed again.

I might have made entry, I’m not sure. He howled, trying to twist away from me. I shifted up on my elbows, irritated. "Do you want this or not? You’re the one who said get off the fence."

He was whispering something and trying to pull his legs together around my neck. Wresting my hand free, I forced his legs down and apart, hovering over him menacingly. "Will you just relax?" I commanded. "You’re the one who started this. But I sure as hell am going to --"

That’s when he clawed me. Raked one hand over my face and began to fight. His entire body was dedicated to the purpose of getting from under my body. Furious, I put my weight on him, grabbed his hands and held them down. "You little fucker," I hissed. "Don’t think you’re going to play this with ..."

I stopped because I could hear him. Or rather, I could hear the sounds coming from his body. They weren’t his. They sounded desperate, and almost childlike. Soft, frantic pleading. "I’ll be good. I swear. I’ll be good this time."

I scrambled away from him, probably more afraid of him than he was of me at that moment. He slid off the bed and backed away from it ‘til he reached the wall, and slumped down, wrapping his arms around his bare legs, his head ducking into them. He was still whispering.

I couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. I wasn’t exactly sure what he was playing at, but the entire situation made me highly uncomfortable. I grabbed my clothes, and left him, shutting the door behind me.

I dressed and settled down on the edge of my bed. Just this afternoon, on this very bed, I’d confessed everything to him, what I felt, how much I wanted him. I thought he felt the same way. Oh, Mulder, I sighed heavily. What the hell is going on in that brilliantly twisted brain of yours?

Fumbling my way into my bathroom, I splashed frigid water on my face, surprised at how much it could sting. I returned to the room, and paced, sat, paced and sat. I poured myself a glass of milk and found that, even though it had been sitting out at room temperature all day, room temperature was evidently a little cooler than the average refrigerator. I rummaged among the things I’d brought back from the convenience store, found a piece of chocolate and ate it with the rest of my milk, then resumed my pacing and sitting routine.

I was still angry with him ... no, I was still enraged. But something else was starting to nudge its way into my thought processes. Mulder wasn’t a stupid man. He wouldn’t have willfully invited that encounter only to fight me off. I know Mulder could be accused of many foolish stunts, but I could not believe he would deliberately egg me on to a situation where I would have violated him against his will, especially after I’d come so close to doing it on my own just hours before.

And then there was the way he looked, the way he sounded ... I had to know what was going on.

I knocked on the door between us, and opened it when I heard his mumbled, "Come in." He was seated on the edge of the bed, back in his cum-stained sweats, his hair straight up in all directions as if it had been clenched and pulled violently. I wondered briefly if I had done that.

"Are you all right?" I asked, trying to keep my voice level and non-threatening.

He twisted to look at me, and even in the almost nonexistent light of the room, I could see tear tracks on his face. Yet his expression seemed composed, even bemused. "Yeah, I’m fine. I ..." he paused, looking around the room as if in search of something. "I have this terrific headache, though. That must have been one hell of a fall I took." He gave me a rueful smile. "I don’t suppose, in all your bounty this morning, you thought to pick up some aspirins?"

Fall? What fall did he mean? The one he took two hours ago? Could he be suffering from amnesia? No ... to my knowledge, amnesia is not retroactive. "I have some in my bag," I said, blankly, still watching him search the darkness. Now I was more confused than ever.

He turned in my direction long enough to nod. "Oh, yeah," he agreed, rubbing his forehead. "That would be great."

I started for the door, and stopped. "Mulder, what just happened?"

He frowned at me. I could hear it in his voice. "Well, I’m not sure. We must have ... I mean ... I guess we got a little too carried away. But don’t worry," he added abruptly. "I won’t say anything. I know we can’t pursue this, so it won’t go any farther than this room."

"No, Mulder, I ..." I stopped. I still didn’t understand what was going on. If this was some elaborate game on his part, it was too much for me. "Now I have a headache." I left him.

Back in my room, with the aid of my maglight, I hunted down aspirins from my dopp kit in the bathroom, poured out three for myself and dry swallowed them. I then took the bottle back to him.

He was exactly as I had left him, right down to the hand idly rubbing his brow. With a light on his face, he looked much worse. The left side of his face was starting to darken with a bruise, his mouth was starting to swell on that side as well. His eyes looked almost vacant. He almost appeared to be running on habit.

He smiled his thanks for the aspirins, hobbled past me into the bathroom and gulped water, then hobbled back to the bed, shivering. "Fifteen thousand years from now, some Boy Scout troop is going to stumble across our bodies, frozen in our beds, under tons of snow, and they’ll determine that we were from a lost tribe in the Geekazoic Period." He tugged at the meager blanket, pulling it over his body as he gingerly settled into bed. "If my laptop worked, I’d leave a note to those boys, explaining how my kind paved the way for them to sit at home on their butts, eating cheese doodles, and still take a virtual hike in the wilderness of Buffalo."

I didn’t laugh. I just couldn’t manage it. I looked over the bed at him as he settled in gingerly. "How are you feeling?"

He gave me that plastic smile again, the one I had seen so many times in the halls of the Bureau. "Oh, I’m fine. Cold, but fine."

I scanned the room with the light. His mobile was on the bed table nearest the door. I bent and collected the coverlet that he’d left on the floor and smoothed it over him. "This should help," I promised him. "I’ll see you in the morning," I added casually, flicking off the light and moving carefully toward the door. I feigned a little cough to mask any sound I made when collecting his phone, and slipped into my room, pulling the door firmly behind me.

I turned on the light again, flashed it over the face of the phone, and studied his call log. Who had he called while I was out fighting the elements for him? To my further irritation, his call log appeared to be empty. According to that, he had made no calls. I kept pushing buttons, trying to find some glimmer of information. He had made no calls...but he had received one. I didn’t immediately recognize the number, but I knew the area code. Annapolis. Agent Scully had called him. For one moment, I was tempted to press the Redial button, and try to find out what they had discussed. But it was only a moment. I reminded myself of who I am and my position of authority over both of them. And when that failed, I reminded myself that she would know I was using Mulder’s phone, and would want to know why.

Once I’d overcome my jealous need to know whom he had called the moment my back was turned, I was faced with the unenviable prospect of getting the phone back into his room, before he noticed it missing. I didn’t think I could offer to share blankets again, not after the day we’d been through. But there had to be some way to get back in that room. I flashed my light around the room, searching for something, any excuse. The light landed on the carton of milk.

I got up and picked it up. Then looked into the shopping basket next to it. The light flickered over the yellow wrappers of the heat sticks. I scooped up two of them and went back to the door and knocked.

I could hear him groan and answer me softly.

"How are you doing?" I asked, keeping the light on his face so that he couldn’t see me feel around, looking for the top of the bedside table, and return the phone to the place where I’d found it.

"Great," he mumbled, putting his hand to his eyes. "Except for this blinding headache."

"Sorry." With the phone in place, I switched the beam to another area of the bed. "Here, I brought something that might help you warm up enough to get to sleep." I broke the seal on one, and tucked it under the bedclothes, on the side nearest me. Then I moved around the bed and broke the other seal.

He tried not to flinch as I slipped it under the blanket next to his body, I know he tried. But I still felt it. "Are you sure you’re okay?"

He nodded. "Fine," he promised. "And thanks." He shifted. "Yeah, that does help. You do have a couple for yourself, don’t you?" he added belatedly.

"No, I’ll be all right." I started back to the door. "Sleep well, Mulder."

"Wait." The word was almost torn from him. I heard the swish of bedclothes. "Might as well share the resources while we’ve got them, right?" His laugh was feeble. I didn’t have to see his face to know that was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do.

"No, it’s okay, Mulder. I’ll be just fine." I wasn’t deliberately trying to sound stoic. I just wanted out of that room. "Get some sleep, okay?"

I could hear him shifting around under the blankets. "I mean, Ski ... um ... Walter. I mean it, Walter. Sleep here. We’ll both stand a better chance of staying warm." He put a cajoling little note in his voice. "You said so yourself. Extreme circumstances call for extreme measures."

I frowned into the darkness. "I’m not sure I like being considered an extreme measure," I muttered.

I heard him chuckle. "Welcome to my world."

~~~
 

The storm must have passed through in the night. It was still colder than a politician’s heart, but there was a faint greyness posing as light permeating the room. Nothing else had changed. My head still hurt, Skinner was still next to me, there was still an air of disquiet around me.

I know I stayed still like that a long time, trying to understand the feeling of disquiet. I know I’d experienced it before, but I couldn’t remember when. Probably something to do with Skinner. The man always seemed to bring out all the worst in me. Even as a lover, he was proving to be intimidating and impossible to read. First, Ithought he wanted me, then I thought he was ashamed of what he wanted, and then I thought he thought he’d have me and forget me, and then ... ah, now that’s where it gets fuzzy. What then?

My head was pounding, and my instinct was to rub it, but it was too cold to move. I still had an envelope of warm air under the blankets I wasn’t willing to risk. And I didn’t want to wake the man next to me and engage in more emotional shadowboxing. That’s exactly what it felt like ... boxing with shadows. Somewhere, just out of my sight were his true feelings, casting a long, but evanescent mark over me, something I could neither embrace nor shove away.

Then there were my feelings. Unlike his shadows, mine were more of a glue, spilled out on the floor between us, there, obvious and unavoidable, trapping both of us, catching our feet when we tried to turn away from the situation. And that was the real problem. I didn’t think he was wrong or unreasonable to want to stop this before it actually got started. I completely understood his rationale for saying ‘Stop!’ even while he was reaching for me. The real problem was ... I didn’t care. At least not as much as he did. And right or wrong, stay or go, we had to be in agreement about the course we were going to take.

I even understood his vacillation. When you’re standing in front of the candy counter, it’s a little hard to remember you’re on a diet. Sometimes, no matter how good you’re trying to be, your hand is going to reach for that big, gooey piece of uh-uh ... and you have to pull your hand back at the last moment in a rush of fortitude. Of course, even that won’t stop you from looking back at it, or keep your mouth from watering in desire. And that’s what I was to him, the ultimate uh-uh.

That, right there, has always been the fundamental difference between us: his fortitude at the candy counter. That, and his fundament sat behind a massive desk, in an expensive chair, in front of a bank of big windows, and my fundament, when not being stalked, chewed out or shot at, sat in a rickety chair that was some secretary’s cast off, in a hole in the Hoover basement. And also that I still basically believed in my job, even -- to the extent that anyone can enjoy failure -- liked my job. Skinner just appeared to endure his.

I know he must have liked his job once, though, to have risen to the position he held at his age. He’d been an Assistant Director as long as I’d been in the Bureau, so he’d gotten his fundament into that chair at an age when most of us are still in the field. He obviously knew how to get the job done, including knowing which other fundaments needed kissing. And maybe that’s when he stopped liking the job ... when it stopped being about getting it done and started being about kissing ass. I was starting to feel both proud of him, and sorry for him.

Odd to feel sorry for him, after all this time. I’d never thought of him as being a man who merited pity or envy. He just was. That’s all I knew. All I cared to know. I didn’t know much more about him, did I? I had been stunned to find out he was married. In fact, I didn’t find out ‘til he was almost unmarried. I’d heard rumors throughout the years that he’d once been a cop in Houston, New York City, Mars ... take your pick. I’d heard he’d killed a man, two men, an entire drug cartel. I knew he liked to box, that he kept himself fit, that he’d actually baked a cake once for some bring your own party on his floor, and no one died from eating it.

I’d heard music in his office occasionally, but it always seemed to be different, and usually played just to cover sub rosa conversations. There was a picture in a yearbook, of him dancing at a Christmas party. I didn’t recognize him, myself. Scully pointed it out. He was smiling ... and had hair. And someone told me once he had a dog. I don’t know if it was pedigree or mongrel, if it ever had a name, or if he still existed. Or if he ever existed. The idea of Walter Skinner being anything more than my migraine maker seemed unthinkable.

But the unthinkable seemed to have happened. He was in my bed. He had as recently as yesterday professed feeling for me. Deep feeling. More than mere desire. Possessive, needful feeling. He’d actually been jealous of strangers making eye contact or small talk with me. That was totally out of my ken. I loved Dana Scully, with a passion that speared my brain sometimes, but never my heart. I had never been inclined to write sonnets for her, or smother her in kisses and rose petals. I think she has been inclined, on occasion, to smother me with a sofa pillow, but that’s another argument, for another time. The only jealousy I’ve ever felt for her, is on the odd occurrence when her personal life took her out of my immediate reach, so that I could not call on her in the middle of the night to expound theories, or make her do secret, emergency autopsies. But there was no romantic jealousy there. The truth is, I would love to see her married and happy, as long as her husband didn’t mind me sleeping on their sofa all the time.

As for Diana, I was only jealous of her professionally. She baited me every way she could. But she knew me too well to think that cheating on me would matter to me except in that prehistoric male ego way. Although I can’t even imagine having the inclination to club her and drag her back to my cave by her hair.

I don’t know ... maybe I’m not capable of that kind of jealousy. I tried to imagine being jealous of Skinner if someone else caught his eye. Nope. The only emotion that came to mind was sad surrender.

My head was pounding. I had to stop thinking. Ignoring the cold, I pulled a hand free, rubbed my brow and groaned.

I felt him shift beside me. He lifted his head slightly and looked at me. "Are you all right?"

"What the hell happened to you?" I blurted. I couldn’t help it. He looked as if he’d been attacked by a Bengal tiger. He had three long gashes and one fainter abrasion, from eye to chin.

He touched his face. He looked surprised. Then he frowned at me. "You don’t look much better." He brushed those same fingers over my cheek, making me flinch. "How’s your head this morning?"

I brushed his hand away. "It hurts." I twisted around ‘til I could sit up. "Seriously, what happened to you?"

He fell back on the pillow and looked up at me. "You don’t remember?"

"I don’t remember a pack of wild animals running through here, no." I fumbled for my flashlight on the bedside table and flicked it over his face. "My God, that looks awful. Have you seen it?" I resisted an urge to touch, because I knew something in that color scheme had to hurt, and if I touched it, he might hurt me. But with my hand hovering between us, I noticed something. The spacing of the gashes looked like ... "Are you saying I did that?"

"I’m not saying it, Mulder. I’m stating it." He rolled to his side and then out of the bed, lurching toward my bathroom. He flicked the light switch several times, grunted, returned to me and snatched the maglite from my fingers. He went back to the mirror over the sink and gave his reflection thorough study.

I watched him, trying not to be amused that even he would insist on trying the light switch more than once, and wondering when the hell I’d taken a whack at him. It must have been before I fell, I decided, although I didn’t remember him being close enough to me that I could inflict that kind of damage. "I’m sorry," I called over the sound of running water, and then the sound of his cursing.

He came back into the bedroom and tossed my flashlight on the bed. "You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?"

I shook my head. I didn’t even remember doing it.

"Then don’t worry about it." He stretched, arching his body forward, emphasizing his chest, his belly, his groin. It was a display of maleness almost equal to animalist mating rituals. All he lacked was brilliant plumage or a cockscomb. It didn’t matter. He had my attention. He straightened abruptly and frowned down at me. "Do you need something for your head?"

Spell broken, I refocused. "Yeah, an ax would do nicely." I made myself rise. The entire left side of my body felt bruised. I considered the floor and made a mental note to never, ever fall face down on concrete.

He frowned at me again. "I’ll get you aspirins." He left me.

I wandered into the bathroom and gave myself a quick once over. He was right about my face. I didn’t need more light to see I had a dark bruise under my left eye. I had one on my shoulder and shin as well. Anyone seeing us together would think we’d had a hell of a fight. Which in point of fact, we did, but I don’t think either of us intended to inflict this level of injury on the other.

I emptied my bladder, rinsed my face, and very gingerly dabbed a towel over it. Next door I could hear him flush and run the tap. I didn’t feel like hunting down my comb and shaving with that mess on my face was right out, so I worked my fingers through my hair to imitate some semblance of grooming skills, rinsed my mouth and returned to the bedroom.

He brought me aspirins and water a moment later. "I’m going to go see what the chances are for coffee this morning," he told me stiffly.

I answered with a nod, while I collected bedding and tried to work it into place on the bed. It was a fairly safe bet that, on the day I lost my job at the Bureau, I would have no future as a chambermaid.

He waited a moment. "Failing that, there’s still some juice in my room. And bagels."

I nodded again. I don’t know why I felt shy about meeting his eyes just then, but I did. It was disturbing to me that we’d managed to do visible damage to one another. I was a little afraid of what he would do to me, or worse, not do to me, if someone was ungracious enough to comment.

He must have heard something in his room, because he looked back over his shoulder. "Excuse me," he said politely and disappeared, shutting the connecting door behind him.

Just then someone knocked at my outer door. I opened it eagerly, praying it was a coffee fairy.

It was, sort of. It was Danny Stanton. "Hey, great news, we finally got the water heaters going again, and -- what the hell happened to you?"

I smiled with half my face. "I’ve been getting that a lot lately." I touched my cheek gingerly. "Actually, I tripped in the dark. Make a complaint to your manager for me, will you? Your floors could be lethal."

He looked alarmed.

"Don’t worry," I promised with an almost airy wave. "I’m not going to sue you for my big feet. What were you saying? I heard water and heat in the same sentence and lost track."

"We’ve got the water heaters working." His eyes stayed on my face. "We could have enough hot water for bathing soon."

The connecting door opened. "I thought I heard someone at my ..." Skinner stopped behind me.

That’s how bad his injuries were, I realized, when Danny could see them from the darkened hallway. His eyes went over my shoulder and back over my face. "Tripped?" he repeated.

I scowled, despite the pain. "Thanks for letting me know about the water," I replied, and shut the door in his face. I turned around slowly, waiting to see if Skinner would explode, or just slap me and leave.

He did neither. He frowned again. "What was that all about?"

I sighed. "I think we’ve been outed. At least as combatants." I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. "I had told him I tripped in the dark, and --"

"Which was true," he inserted.

"Yeah, but then you came along, Black Eyed Susan, and he put one and one together and came up with ten rounds, no knock out." I eyed him. Up close it looked even worse. "I think, after seeing you, he gave me the win on points. That really does look bad. Are you sure I did that to you?"

He backed up a step. "Quite."

"Huh. Well, again, I’m sorry. But I sure don’t remember it." I inched around him. He was looking at me oddly. A mixture of speculation and incredulity. It made me uncomfortable.

He turned as I passed him, still watching me. "You don’t remember." It wasn’t a question. It was said with just a little less conviction than the original ‘Eureka!’ "You actually don’t."

His tone intrigued me. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He looked at me then my bed, and then at me just a moment longer. "Nothing."

It was my turn to look at the bed. "Did I ... did I have some kind of nightmare?" I could feel my face starting to burn again. Oh, brilliant, Mulder. Have a patented, full color, complete with score somnatic event in front of not just my potential lover, but my once and always boss.

"Yes," he said after a moment of consideration. "I must have ... disturbed you in some way." He was moving toward the connecting door. He was leaving. He was retreating. He was abandoning me.

"No," I said quickly. "You didn’t do anything. This happens all the time." Stupid. "Well, not all the time ... sometimes. You know ..." come on, Mulder, dig yourself a little deeper, "now and again. I mean ..." I fumbled to a stop as he reached the door. "You didn’t do anything."

"Don’t worry about it, Agent," he said in what could almost be described as a soothing voice, only it wasn’t. "It looks much worse than it is." He made his face smile even though it had to hurt. "Did I hear something about hot water?"

"Uh ... yeah." I gestured at the outer door again. "They got the water heaters started. We should have hot water again soon."

"That is good news." He affected that smile again. "I think I’ll go get ready to take advantage of it." He pulled the door open, and for a moment there was heaviness in the air while he tried to think of something inane and noncommittal to add. "I’ll see you later."
 

I dropped down on the side of the bed as he pulled the door to. "Fuck," I said with feeling.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I took a shower myself, after a while. But first I spent quite a lot of time trying to remember the nightmare I must have had. Something happened. There was no doubt of that. I think I knew it before I saw the irrefutable evidence on his face. I woke up with that familiar sense of something gone wrong. But I had no lingering images of whatever horrors had caused me to lash out at an innocently sleeping man. And that was unusual for me.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. It was bad enough he had always thought I was a loose cannon. I didn’t want him thinking I could actually be a danger to myself or others. It took a lot of courage to knock on that connecting door. It took even more for me to pull the door open without waiting for permission to enter. "Skinner, I want you to know that ..."

Suddenly it was hard to speak. He must have been freezing, fresh from a hot shower, into that freezing room, in nothing but the merest wisps of soft cotton over a portion of his body, but he sat on the edge of his bed, looking relaxed and in control, even with me standing there gaping, and quite possibly, drooling. I wanted some of that. No ... I wanted all of that.

He had socks in his hand, as if preparing to put one on, but they just hung from his fingers as he looked at me. Looking back, it should have struck me odd that he neither looked surprised or angry about my intrusion. He was just looking at me. "Mulder?" he said.

"I ..." I swallowed. I made myself move. "I ..." I got right in front of him. "Do you want me?" I asked.

He still didn’t look surprised or angry. He did, however, look mildly pained. "Mulder, we decided --"

I cut him off with an impulsive and lingering kiss. "Because I want you." I let my gaz