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EXISTENCE

by Blue Mohairbear

November, 1999

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"Ah - uh - sorry, Mister!"

The dog yelped, and the kid looked rather terrified himself. Mulder wasn't sure which of them he had kicked in the collision.

"'s okay," he said, huddling deeper into his jacket. "It was my mistake, I wasn't paying attention. Sorry. You ok?"

The boy smiled up at him, gratified and visibly baffled by the fact that there were adults in this world who didn't feel too superior to apologize to a kid.

"Yeah, Mister, I'm ok." He looked down to his little black mongrel dog who stared glumly into the miserable weather.

"You ok, too, Diefenbaker?" the boy asked earnestly. The dog waved its tail once, then made clear it wanted to get out of the snowy rain and the stinging cold wind. Mulder grinned while he turned the collar of his jacket up.

"Diefenbaker, huh?"

"Yeah." The kid beamed proudly. "He's as clever as that Mountie's wolf. You know him? The Mountie?"

"Sure," Mulder nodded. Damn attractive guy, that Mountie. Beautiful. Sexy. Although not nearly as sexy as -- he shook his head briefly, patted the kid's shoulder and said goodbye. He really shouldn't be fantasizing all the time. The only problem was that the object of his fantasies had its own mind and kept coming back like a boomerang. Ah, no... not *its* own mind. *His.* Mulder sighed.

As he passed by a Starbucks, the door opened and a young couple came out, staggering under a truckload of bags and parcels. Only four weeks until Christmas, and every Saturday the city was now dangerously crowded with people who seemed to believe Washington had been threatened with a siege. They were buying stuff like crazy.

The voice of Sarah Brightman drifted out of the Starbucks, and suddenly a hot drink seemed very enticing. Mulder entered and looked around. Good. Not as crowded as he had expected. While he waited, his thoughts began wandering again.

Strong hands. Deep, rich voice. Broad, mountain-like shoulders. Big, muscular chest. Wonderful, hard pecs. Dark fur on that chest, mixed with grey fluff. Lean hips. Nice, big cock, as far as he had seen in the shower of the gym. He thought of how much he'd love to make that cock grow even bigger, hard and throbbing, preferably in his mouth, licking and sucking and-

"May I help you, sir?"

Blushing, he ordered Chai Tea Latte and two Vanilla Almond Biscotti, hoping that nobody would notice the bulge in his pants, and tried not to lose the bag with his newly acquired books while he looked around for a free chair.

There - a fat lady with a poodle was just leaving her place. And it was not only a chair, it was one of those deep, soft armchairs. Mulder cheered inwardly and quickly steered over. He sat cup and plate on the desk that was spotted with coffee stains and cluttered with parts of the Washington Post and some books, and flopped down into the armchair.

Sighing with relief, he took a big sip of the hot, spicy tea. Looked briefly over to the guy who was occupying the other armchair, leafing through a book.

Mulder gasped.

Choked on his tea.

Wanted to die.

From over the book, a pair of dark brown eyes watched him calmly. Well, not *that* calmly. But slighty amused. Oh shit. *Very* amused.

"Mulder," the man nodded. One corner of his mouth went slightly upwards.

Mulder stared.

"Sir," he croaked, desperately trying to look normal while coughing the tea out of his windpipe.

His boss. The very object of his rampant erotic fantasies. And he looked so... oh Jesus. Not at all like Walter Skinner. And it wasn't just the brown, well-worn bomber jacket, padded with lambskin, that made Mulder swallow and almost lick his lips. Not the jeans, either. The unfamiliar jeans, covering long, *long* legs, which led to lean hips and from there over a slim waist to a formidable chest and wide shoulders. No - it was the eyes, Mulder realized. God, those beautiful eyes.

No glasses. Skinner wasn't wearing his glasses.

'He should wear contacts more often,' Mulder thought. 'He looks great. So young.'

And he understood why Skinner *did* wear the glasses at the office. They provided a barrier between Skinner The Boss and his - well, the rest of the world. They reflected, hid his eyes, and made him appear unattainable, distant and stern.

With contacts, his face appeared open, much softer and younger. And handsome, Mulder realized. Not just hot and dead sexy, like he found Skinner looked in the gym. But really, really handsome.

Skinner was still watching him wordlessly, with an unreadable look, the book now in his lap. Oh yes, he still could do unreadable, even without glasses. Mulder struggled for something to say.

"You, uhm, have ransacked Hansen's, too, I see," he said, pointing to the blue-white-red bag from the same bookstore he had just left when he had ran into the kid and his dog.

"Yeah," Skinner said and nodded to the books on the table. "I'm planning my next vacation."

Mulder tilted his head to read the titles on the backs. 'The Complete Guidebook to Yosemite National Park'. '50 Best Short Hikes in Yosemite and Sequoia Kings Canyon'. 'Guide to Yosemite High Sierra Trails'. 'All Roads Lead to Yosemite'. Mulder suppressed a grin. That was so Skinner. Thorough.

Then he frowned. The book at the bottom looked familiar. On the wine-red back, he deciphered the words 'The Essential Rumi'. Skinner read *Rumi*? Rumi, the Persian poet, who had written the most wonderful poems - for the man he had loved more than anyone else?

A sudden jolt of hot jealousy flared through Mulder as he realized that Skinner might well have bought that book for... for a... *lover*.

"Rumi, sir?" Mulder raised his eyebrows at his boss, noting with satisfaction that his voice kept steady. Skinner shrugged, but held his gaze. Mulder tried to ignore the flickering flame in his stomach as he looked into those dark chocolate pools.

"A friend recommended him to me," Skinner said. "He loves Rumi and said I had to read him. I won't get to that one until Christmas, though, I'm afraid."

Mulder nodded. A *friend*, huh. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. He took a deep swallow of the Chai and bit into one of his biscotti.

"So, this friend of yours...," he said lightly, "how did he get to know Rumi? I mean, Rumi is not so widely known."

This time, both corners of Skinner's mouth curled lightly upwards. Mulder had the very uncomfortable feeling that the man could read his thoughts. He felt himself blushing, and the feeling made him even more uncomfortable and seemed to deepen his blush. Skinner drank from his coffee, his eyes never leaving Mulder's. The younger man felt sweat breaking out on his neck.

And he suddenly was sure that he had never been so much in love with his boss as at this very moment. He watched Skinner's eyes growing wide. Watched the big man's expression becoming serious. Then Skinner took a deep breath and looked away.

"His wife introduced him to Rumi," he said, his voice a notch deeper than before. Mulder shuddered at the growling tone.

"My friend was an Ambassador in Iran. He met and married his wife there. They both live here in Washington now."

Mulder felt himself melting back against the armchair with relief. No lover, then. That was good. And... what he just had seen in his boss' eyes... could he...? He took a deep breath and decided just to go for it.

"May I, sir?" he asked, pointing to the book. Skinner wordlessly lifted the travel guides and let Mulder pull the Rumi out from under them. Suddenly sweating in his thick leather jacket, Mulder felt Skinner watching him as he leafed through it.

There. Mulder didn't really have to search for the poem. He knew exactly where to find it. Page 131. Since the first time he had read it, the four short lines had been screaming Skinner's name at him.

Carefully, he unfolded the inner leaf of the front cover and tucked it in between the pages where the poem was. Closed the book, and laid it back on the stack of travel guides. Busied himself with his tea and his biscotto.

From the corner of his eye, he watched as his boss slowly reached for the book. Skinner opened it where the coverleaf stuck. Read. Mulder was painfully aware that he was biting his lip, but couldn't stop. His heart thundered in his chest, and suddenly everything was too much, the smell of coffee and wet clothes in the air, the people, the chattering. He was close to panicking.

'I went too far. God, I fucked up. How could I do that, how could I? This is so stupid.'

Skinner slowly closed the book. Without looking at Mulder, he packed it back into the bag, then grabbed the travel guides and stuffed them in as well.

'Oh shit. Ohshitohshitohshit. I better not go to work on Monday. He's gonna kill me. Oh shit oh please-- '

"You know, Mulder," Skinner said, his face completely unreadable again, his voice steady. Steady, yes, but... husky. The tone didn't bother to make the detour through Mulder's ears, it went straight to his groin."My friend's wife gave me some interesting recipes. I've just decided to cook some Persian food tonight. Would you like to come and try? Eight, my place?"

He looked at Mulder, and his eyes were deep and dark and hypnotic, and Mulder had to remind himself that they were in public, in a fucking coffee shop, damn - or he would have fallen into Skinner's lap right now. Provided he'd been able to move.

He was trembling, and sweating, and his heart was a jackhammer in his chest, and Skinner still looked at him and damn, how could he be so... calm, so collected? But then, he was Skinner, wasn't he? Big, strong, always-in-charge Skinner, and he looked so damn hot and sexy in that bomber jacket, and Mulder was dizzy with love and desire, and Skinner smiled at him. A real smile.

"Fine, then. Eight," Skinner said, without waiting for an answer. He got up, nodded at Mulder, and then he was gone.

I AM FILLED WITH YOU.
SKIN, BLOOD, BONE, BRAIN, AND SOUL.
THERE'S NO ROOM FOR LACK OF TRUST, OR TRUST.
NOTHING IN THIS EXISTENCE BUT THAT EXISTENCE.

- Rumi

****THE END***

The book is "The Essential Rumi", Castle Books 1997, translations by Coleman Barks, who is said to be *the* expert on Rumi. Thank you again, Merri-Todd!