TITLE: Same Game: Part XVI – The Draft

(Part 1 of 2 parts)

NAME: Mik

E-MAIL: mikdok@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: SRA

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.

SUMMARY: Mulder’s leaving the Bureau?

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully 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.

This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps", and querida Susan, for her brilliant execution of all things beta.

If you like this, there's more at http://homepages.go.com/~frogdoggie/3wstop.html

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

Same Game XVI – The Draft (part 1 of 2)

by Mik

He’s looking at me again. I should have stayed in Fort Lauderdale one more day. Even with the hundred and twenty per cent humidity, it would have been less painful than this.

He’s been looking at me a lot lately; a sort of sad, painful combination of a starving dog watching someone else with a bone and a mother watching a child. Hunger and concern. It makes me fidget.

The trip to New York three weeks ago was an unmitigated disaster. Skinner knows what Sean and I have been up to. He’s internalizing his feelings, and the result has been a major case of what we in behavioral health refer to as ED, or erectile dysfunction, and what we in men’s rooms refer to as LD, or limp dick.

The worst thing about having a partner with ED is that there’s nothing I can do. I mean, I know the things I would recommend if I was seeing him in private practice and he came to me for help. I know what a psychologist should say and do. But, as his partner, I just keep my mouth shut and pretend I don’t notice that he can’t get it up for me anymore.

Okay, no, there is something worse. There is the fact that, even though I have an intellectual understanding of what’s happening to him, I’m still taking it personally. In my head, I know he’s under tremendous stress professionally and privately, in my heart, I’m pissed off that when I snuggle up next to him naked, it doesn’t seem to have the slightest effect. I’ve tried all my best tricks, and a couple I picked up on the Internet and the most I get from him is a kiss and a ‘that’s nice, Mulder’. NICE? Nice is not what I want it to be.

To be fair, he’s been very attentive to me. Suddenly, he’s … talking to me. He touches me a lot. He holds me close when we sleep. He has been extremely generous in the area of oral sex. It should be a fucking dream come true; I’ve got the boss on his knees for ME. But, perversely (if you’ll pardon the expression), the more mind-blowing the blow job, the greater my need to have him inside me.

It’s gotten to the point where I don’t want to initiate sex. I’d rather just have a good book.

And now he’s looking at me.

I got in town early this morning, and he was there, ready to take me home. I had planned to go back to my place, and then pretend to oversleep, and miss that window of opportunity called the Sunday Afternoon Game, which was our excuse to get together should anyone be asking. But he found out I was on that red-eye, and he met me, picked up my bag without a word and took me back to his place.

I guess he wants to spend as much time as he can with me. He’s even been inviting me over in the middle of the week when I’m in town. I keep telling myself it will be easier once I’m gone.

He let me sleep for a while, then woke me to one of his Sunday morning specials. Damn it, how come he knows how to make waffles? We watched the game together, and he gave me a killer backrub. I nearly fell asleep on his living room floor. We read the paper together, sprawled all over the carpet, and he told me about a meeting he’d attended earlier in the week. He’s taken to imitating some of the other A.D.s and who knew the bulldog was such a canny mimic? He had me holding my sides, while he slurred and smacked his way through a speech by one of his colleagues.

Skinner’s sense of humor is deep and dry, and far too rare for my liking. Getting him to laugh is like discovering a diamond just lying on the ground. You can’t believe you found it, and it was so easy, but it isn’t likely there’s another one nearby.

I’m never sure what will elicit a laugh, however. Some of my ‘humorous’ remarks have resulted in a stern, ‘Mulder’. Some very innocuous offhand statements have gotten that wonderful half smile of his, the one that shows the dimples, but not the teeth. When I think about it, some of the most intimate moments we’ve had recently involve laughter. I don’t remember ever laughing with a woman. Not even Scully. In fact, I don’t think Scully gets my humor. Or maybe she just doesn’t laugh.

"Feel like a little red meat for dinner, Fox?"

I rolled over on my back and looked up. He was on his knees, gathering up the newspapers I had scattered around. Playtime was over. "You don’t need to cook for me, Walt. I’ll go home and get out of your …" I stopped. "… way."

He smiled at me, but the laughter was gone. "You’re not in my hair, physically or metaphorically." He stood. "I thought I’d barbecue, if you’re in the mood."

I rapped a fist against my chest. "Ooh, the caveman is back."

He gave me what I call his ‘damn straight, Mulder’ look. "Yes, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll club you and drag you back to my cave later."

‘What for?’ I wondered. I turned back onto my side to avoid his eyes, and said, "Hey, that sounds good."

He was still behind me. Not even the newspapers rustled in his hands. Finally, he asked, "Did you see Sean in Florida?"

‘Why do we always have to talk about Sean?’ I snarled inwardly. Outwardly, I said, "No. I haven’t seen him since the Mets game."

"No?"

I fell back on my back and sought his eyes. "No."

"Mulder, there’s no reason to feel guilty …"

"Good, because I don’t." Not much.

"Fine." He was gone.

I sat up and looked around, wondering if I was making a mistake. Would things be ruined if I left? Did I want everything to stay the same? Ah, shit, I don’t know.

I scrambled to my feet and found him in the pantry, feeding my shorts and socks to the dryer. "You know, I don’t come over here so you’ll do my laundry."

"I know," he said tersely, setting the timer and slamming the door. "But, it makes sense for you to do it while you’re here. Otherwise you’ll have to go to a laundry and stay there for a couple of hours. At least here, you can do other things while you’re waiting."

"We HAVE a laundry room in my apartment building," I reminded him.

"Yeah, and I saw a rat there the last time I was down there."

"It was a mouse."

"Mice don’t generally get over a foot tall, unless their name is Mickey," he retorted.

"Steroids."

He was almost ready to laugh again. Almost.

_____

After dinner we had a beer out on his terrace and watched the girl across the pool prance around her condo, naked, with all the windows open. We had decided there was no gravity in her unit. That was the only explanation for those boobs and that butt.

And we laughed some more.

"I think she’s trying to get your attention, Walter," I observed. "You’ve got the only unit on this side of the pool with a terrace that faces hers."

"She’s wasting her time," he said, and leaned over to grope my thigh.

I gaped at him. "She could see that! Are you out of your mind?"

"No. Just telling her how it is." He tipped his head back and emptied his beer.

"You’re out of your mind," I told him. Still …

"How’s Scully?" he asked a few minutes later.

"She hates Florida. We always end up wet and cold there."

"Mulder, it was one-oh-six in Miami yesterday. I saw that on the Weather Channel."

"Wait ‘til you read our expense reports," I promised him. "The A/C in her room broke down, so I loaned her my room. We had a power surge that blew the fuses on my floor, so we were using candles to finish our report by and that set off the fire sprinklers and then --"

He put his hands in surrender. "Stop. I’ll read it tomorrow. Is she mad?"

"As a wet cat." I snickered at the thought of a well drowned Scully, standing in the middle of my bed, sodden paperwork at her feet, her red hair plastered against her face, screaming at me not to just stand there but do something.

He was still chuckling. "Whose idea was it to use candles?"

"Well …" I glanced away, trying not to laugh out loud. "She left her flashlight in the car, and the batteries were dead in mine."

"And …?"

"Well, she had all these nice aromatherapy candles in her bathroom."

"So, it was yours."

"No, it was hers. That’s what had her so pissed off."

We both laughed.

But at the first note of silence, he reached over and touched my thigh again. "How about an early night?"

I made myself look hopeful. "Sure."

He took the beer bottles and stood. "Why don’t you take a quick shower so you won’t have to get up so early in the morning?"

I nodded. I was seriously thinking about doing a little DIY sex just so that there would be no tell-tale erection to make him think that his attempts were welcome. Not that I didn’t welcome his advances, I just hated the disappointment that came after. I’d just rather not.

I was halfway out of my jeans when he came to the bathroom door and looked at me. "Sean has tickets to the play-offs. He wants to know if we’re interested."

Slight emphasis on the word ‘we’re’. Hmmm.

"Play-offs?" I looked at my watch. September. Where the hell had this year gone? And I had to turn in my resignation pretty soon. I could already hear the loud cheers coming from the seventh floor. I gave him a frank look. "How do you feel about that?"

"It’s up to you," he answered blandly.

"No, it’s not. You’re the one who likes baseball, not me." I dropped the shorts and felt his eyes go over me. I resisted an urge to cover myself. "Let’s put it this way; if you want to go, I’ll be happy to go with you."

He nodded and backed out of the bathroom. Did that mean yes or no?

He was back a few moments later, pushing the door to the shower aside, and sending his eyes over my soapy body. "I missed you, you know."

I forced myself to smile. "I missed you, too."

"When was the last time we made love?"

"Well, last week before I left --"

"No, I mean, made love." He looked at me meaningfully.

I answered with a shake of my head and resumed the soap work.

"Will you make love to me tonight?"

I had only done that one time. I began to sense a little performance anxiety of my own. "Yeah. That sounds really good."

"I’ll … um … get ready."

I blushed, I know I did. In the course of our growing understanding of homosexual sex, we had come to appreciate the value of the occasional enema. I always thought I was practical minded, and I thought that partnering with a doctor for so many years pretty much inured me to all bodily functions, but enemas still embarrassed me. And it embarrassed me more to think of him doing that for me. "Sure."

There was an odd expression on his face. As if he expected something more. I tried to analyze it but it’s hard to be analytical, naked and soapy, with a guy staring at you. It wasn’t until he turned away that I realized what it was. His expression said, ‘You see how much I love you? I’ll even do this for you.’ Yes. Things had to get better.

Well, the sex was good that night. At least, it was good for me. Yet, despite some direct hits on his prostate, his noodle stayed as limp and loose as pasta boiled fifteen minutes too long. He didn’t even try to fake it. He waited for me to disengage, and rolled over to take me in his arms and kiss me. "Good?"

I wasn’t quite ready for articulation yet. All I could do was gasp and nod and try to say ‘I’m sorry’ over the pounding of my heart.

He kissed me again and said, "It’s okay, Fox. It isn’t you."

Well, shit. Does that mean when his missile does go into orbit it isn’t me, either? I don’t like the implications.

I didn’t argue with him. I just let him pull me close to him, and fell asleep, listening to his slow, even, unlabored breathing.

____

Scully had apparently overcome her near drowning experience. She was at her desk, looking her usual poster-girl-for-perfection self when I came in. She put down her pen and gave me a quick once over. "You look like you got some rest this weekend. Is that a new tie?"

"Does one have something to do with the other?" I asked, shrugging out of my jacket.

"No. It’s just that tie is almost sedate." She signed something with a flourish and closed a folder. "Well, that’s one thing to be said for what’s going on. He’s been a good influence on your wardrobe."

"I resent that." I started rolling up my sleeves. "This tie was a gift from my mother."

"And you’re wearing it?"

It took me a minute to see that impish glint in her eyes. Scully was actually teasing me.

"Yeah. Once a year, I bow to tradition."

"Is today the day?"

Her voice had changed. I looked at her. The impish glint was gone. She was asking me something else.

"Yeah." I pulled the envelope from my belly drawer. "I’m going to submit it after our conference this morning."

"How does he feel about it?"

"I’m not sure." I flipped the switch on my CD player and came to squat at her side. We were trying to be discrete these days. "He seems to be supportive. He’s not happy about it, which surprised me, but he is trying very hard to show me that he’s not taking it personally."

She had to lift her voice slightly to be heard over Queen, even with me at her side. "Are you sure this is the right thing to do?"

"Oh, yeah. No question. We’ll never keep this working as long as he’s my boss. He tries, but he’s always going to be my boss. He’s told me that. I’m doing this for him. And for you."

She looked taken aback. "Me? How did I figure into this equation?"

"Well, there are two points." I held up a finger. "The first one is you really disapprove of this. Now you won’t have to see it." Another finger. "And the second one is you’ll have a chance to further your career without me hanging around your neck like an albatross."

I swear tears shimmered in her eyes. "Oh, Mulder, you big … goof." She put her arms around my neck and hugged, tight. "You’ve never held me back." She brushed hair from my eyes. "What about you? What in this is good for you?"

I smiled at her. "I’ll finally stand a little even at the bar with him. I won’t be his subordinate. I’ll be just … not his subordinate."

"And this will make everything all right?"

I laughed at her. "You sound like my mother."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, my Lord. What does your mother think of all this?"

I stopped laughing. "Well, she’s happy I’m moving to the Pentagon. She’s not happy about me sleeping with a man."

"No. I can’t see her too happy about that." She frowned. "Was she too terrible?"

"Well, she gave me all the standard maternal pinpricks; your father will be spinning in his grave, I didn’t raise you this way, how can you deny me grandchildren." My voice was in danger of breaking suddenly, so I stood and returned to my desk. I picked up the envelope. "Show time."

I admit I had a moment of doubt when, at the conclusion of our meeting, I stood and hesitated in front of his desk. Scully was already at the door, and she gave me a questioning glance as I pulled the envelope from my pocket.

He was still signing off on our expense reports and didn’t look up. "Something else, Agent?" he asked gruffly. Boy, one thing Skinner never did was let the bedroom come into the boardroom, although he had been known to bring the boardroom home on occasion.

"Uh … yes, sir." I looked at Scully again, and this time she nodded. "I guess this … um … makes it official."

He looked up as I put the envelope on his desk. For a moment, it seemed as if he was afraid of that bit of processed tree product. Finally, he reached for it, and slit it open with a thumbnail. He scanned it once, then read it again slowly. Then he looked at me. "Are you sure about this, Agent?"

I nodded. I looked at Scully a third time. "Yes, sir."

"And, when does this take effect?" He looked at the letter again. "October first." He sighed. "I suppose I should have expected this, but it does take me by surprise." He slipped it back into place and put it into a drawer. "Thank you, Agents."

I stood there. Surprise? How could it be a surprise? He’d known about this for three weeks. I looked at Scully yet again. Her brows had literally disappeared into her hair. I looked at him. He looked normal; the only indication that anything was wrong was a vein pulsing at his neck. Holy shit! "Uh … sir …"

"That will be all, Agent Mulder," he answered crisply. "I’ll see that this gets processed." He made that neck twitch thing he does.

"Sir," I persisted. "That is only a resignation from the Bureau."

"Yes, I’m aware of what it is." He opened a file.

"Sir. I’m not resigning from anything else."

"Thank you." He looked up. Looked at Scully. Looked back at me, and then it clicked. "Thank you," he repeated.

XXX

There it was, in front of me. His resignation. Neatly typed and on company letterhead, all protocols recognized. I was not only losing him, the Bureau was losing him. How could he do this? How could he be so stupid? This was his career. How could he give up his career for another man? I suppose the same way I could give up mine for him, if it came to that.

I would have given anything to scream at him, right there in front of Scully, not as superior to subordinate but man to man, lover to lover. But I sucked it up, reigned it in, trying to focus on something else; his expense report, that God-awful tie he was wearing, the way Scully hovered at the door.

"Sir?" he said, tentatively.

Not now, not here, I implored silently. I picked up a file, tried to look purposeful while the last piece of structure in my life crumpled. "That will be all, Agent Mulder."

His voice was very soft, I had to strain to be sure I was hearing correctly. "I’m only resigning from the Bureau."

Only? Wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t Sean satisfied with just taking him from me? "Yes, thank you." I felt like a jealous woman. I was worse. I was a jealous man. And when I got my hands on that little punk, I was going to show him how it felt to have your heart ripped out through your eyes.

I felt Scully shift impatiently from the door.

"Sir, I’m not resigning from anything else."

"Thank you," I repeated and then … I looked at him. I looked at Scully -- she was nodding. I looked at him.

It was so slow to ignite but the relief rushed through me like a back draft fire. It took every ounce of control in my body not to leap over my desk and pull him into an embrace, smother him with kisses and maybe even tears of relief. I wasn’t losing him, he wasn’t leaving me, Sean didn’t win. "Thank you," I said again, and hoped he could hear the genuine gratitude in my voice. I won.

Mulder’s expression was bewildered, and maybe even hurt, but I chose to focus on the positive. He was only resigning from the Bureau, not from me. I … WON.

They left then, and I sat, staring at the place where he had been, still seeing him that night on the terrace with Sean; the easy laughter, the dancing, the smiles. Did I misinterpret what I saw? I must have. But the conversations we’d had certainly led me to believe …

I stopped and began to analyze each conversation and realized we never once said anything definitive. Tears stung my eyes. Three weeks of pure hell because, once again, the great stone Skinner did not talk about his feelings.

I reached for the phone, vowing that this would never happen again. I wanted to hear him tell me. And I wanted him to hear me.

"Mulder."

"Agent, I have a question about this letter you just gave me."

"Sir, I thought I made it clear --"

"Not here." I hung up. I stood up. I collected my suit coat from the closet and left the office and the building and, hopefully, my own masculine stupidity.

I didn’t wait too long at the bench on the far side of the reflecting pool. He trotted up to me, still looking bewildered, and now defensive, and maybe a bit angry. "Yes?" he snapped out, slowing before me.

"I need an answer."

I could see his wheels start spinning as he mentally flipped through case files. Mulder was back on the job, the letter and all its implications forgotten. There are times, albeit brief, where I doubt there’s a human male functioning beneath that trench coat. He just always seems to be ‘on’. "For?" he prompted, bracing himself.

"Are you having an affair with Sean Hardy?"

This didn’t catch him by surprise. Evidently, he’d thought about it. "No," he answered evenly.

"Were you?"

"No."

I drew a deep breath and measured my words carefully. "So, when you told me you were going to leave, you meant the Bureau."

"Yes."

I nodded. Yes. I was an idiot. Twice bitten by my own ego. "Thank you." My anger added an unnecessary sharpness to the additional, "That will be all."

"THAT will be all?" he repeated. His voice had risen and he softened it as a curious tourist turned our way. "You have the balls to ask me if I’m having an affair with anyone, much less your friend, and then say, that will be all? This isn’t my expense report we’re discussing Mr. A.D., Sir. This is my integrity. How dare you?"

Well, I have said more foolish things in my life, but none come to mind. I wanted to reach him, explain my fear, my jealousy, my sense of loss. I couldn’t, so, I did what any man would do. I got defensive. "It was a reasonable assumption."

"Reasonable?" He spat the word. "What was reasonable about thinking that I could …" he fumbled for a moment, looking around us. "… cheat on you?"

"You’ve been seeing a lot of him."

He wouldn’t look at me. His color was very high. His lips were pursed together, as if struggling to keep words in.

I had to confess that I’d investigated this. "He’s been following you on a lot of field assignments."

"Yeah. He’s been recruiting me."

"You seem very friendly with him."

He turned, caught my eye from the corner of his. "He’s your friend, Walter," he said quietly. "You told me he’s an important part of your life. I was trying to get along with him."

It was a miracle I remained standing after that blow. I did the only thing I could do out in public. I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Will you accept my apology?"

He nodded and shrugged my hand away. "I wouldn’t cheat on you, Walter," he said flatly. "You can say I’m a lot of miserable things, but I’m not a cheat."

"I know," I agreed quietly, just beginning to understand how much I had managed to hurt him once again. I started to walk and waited for him to fall in step beside me. "I saw you with him that night and I stopped thinking. All I could understand was that I might lose you." If I had said those words to Sharon, would she still be with me? Would she still be alive? I dragged in air and swallowed. Don’t look back. You have a good thing here, be satisfied with it.

My thoughts must have been scrolling over my face like java script because he nudged me. "Don’t second guess yourself, Walter. You’ll paralyze yourself."

I nodded jerkily. "Are you coming over tonight? I have one or two things I’d like to make up to you."

For the first time he addressed it. He looked off across the pool to the scaffolding around the Washington Monument. "Walt, have you been to a doctor?"

I nodded. One of the most humiliating conversations I’d ever had with a physician, but I have no regrets. It was the smart thing to do. "Everything checks out."

"So, it’s probably just … us."

I nodded again.

He was quiet for a moment. "I’ll come over, but we’ll play the rest by ear, okay?"

____

Sometimes I have to believe that Mulder missed his calling as a therapist. I know he is beyond parallel as a behavioral profiler, but there is a streak of gentle compassion that would serve him well in practice. That night he showed me that compassion.

For a long while after dinner, we did nothing but kiss and caress each other’s bodies, avoiding our genitals. We explored and tasted one another from lips to legs and many parts in between. I began to feel that familiar ache in my groin but he ignored the sluggish response and continued to pet and kiss and touch. Finally, he rolled onto his back, and began to stroke himself. "Can you get an erection when you do this?" he asked, not looking at me.

I pulled up to kneel beside him and watched his hand work his erection easily, with loving familiarity I had come to appreciate in our sexual contact. "No," I admitted, at last. "But I do have orgasm."

"Yeah?" He smiled up at me. "Touch yourself for me, Walt," he coaxed. "I want to watch you."

I felt very self conscious, those moss green eyes darting over me, touching my eyes, sliding over my chest, and then to my hands, where I grasped myself reluctantly.

"Oh, yeah," he murmured, and tightened his own grip slightly. "That’s good."

I closed my eyes, gathered my balls in my other hand and began to find a rhythm, losing myself in the memory of his touch. I felt the bed shift, and when I opened my eyes, he was kneeling in front of me, matching me pull for pull, his eyes fixed on my face.

He leaned into me, letting our lips meet, and our hands brush against each other. His eyes never left mine, fixed and settling deep within me, so that my touch was almost his. I felt as if he was making love to me by remote control. The sensation was overwhelmingly intense and intimate. I’d never known this with Sharon, with anyone. "Fox," I whispered against his mouth.

"Yes," he murmured, a hint of urgency in his voice. "Yes."

I never did get hard, but I came hard, spurting over my hands, over his chest, his chin, and he watched it with the expression of a delighted child, until his own orgasm caught up with him, and he baptized me with his own sticky flood.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I gathered him against me, ignoring the mess, ignoring his squirming protest, and I kissed him hard. "Thank you."

He buried his face in my neck. "You’re very welcome."

"In case you have any doubt about it, I love you."

He pulled back from my embrace. "What about you? Do you still doubt how I feel about you?"

I shook my head, helplessly. "I’m an idiot. I know it. But, I’ve got a good thing in my life, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I’ve had a lousy track record with relationships. I messed up my marriage. I never expected to have another relationship, Mulder. And I’m …" I looked down at my cum covered hands.

He nodded. "I know. It’s scary, isn’t it?"

"I’m sorry, Mulder. For everything."

He surprised me with a grin. "Hey, it’s kinda’ flattering, you know. The bulldog ready to fight over his bone." He stopped grinning. "You would have fought, wouldn’t you?"

"Babe, I was ready to kill him with my bare hands," I confessed.

"Do you think Sean has any idea?"

"No, and he’d better never get any idea," I warned.

"Not from me," he promised. He swooped in for a quick kiss. "Come on, Bulldog, let’s take a shower."

And that night, he slept in my arms, and I knew he was there to stay.

-THE END-