Big Deals (part 6 of 13)

by Mik

"Oh, come on, you can do better than that."

Mulder turned slightly on the Stairmaster, an indignant protest on his lips. Then he realized that Skinner was looking at the Orioles fall apart in a pre-season game. "I thought you were working on those reports," he reminded Skinner, in a slight pant.

Skinner lifted his eyes to meet Mulder's. "What weight have you got that set at?"

Mulder looked down at the gauge. "A hundred pounds."

"Are you trying to kill yourself?" Skinner came around the sofa to the corner of the living room, and reached to reset the gauge. "I only do it at fifty pounds and I outweigh you."

Mulder put one of his hands out to stop him. "Give me a break, Kat. In this weather, I haven't been able to run in almost a week. I've got to do something."

"Fifty pounds," Skinner insisted. "And when I'm through we'll go to the gym and shoot some hoops, okay?"

Mulder's eyes brightened. "Yeah." It had become a recent part of their routine. Once or twice a week, they'd meet on the roof of the Hoover and run each other all over the court. They played very physical, and frequently gave up all semblance of following the rules, but they had fun, and worked up a good sweat. Occasionally, some of the less tight-assed agents would come out and they would break into haphazard teams, usually with Skinner on one and Mulder on the other, which was good because they were both so competitive. Those who played with them seemed to enjoy the competition too. There was talk of putting together something more official in the spring. "All right, fifty pounds." He felt as if he was going to fly off the steps now that the tension had been cut in half. "Go finish those reports."

Skinner went back toward the den, leaving the television on. Mulder wasn't interested in the game, but he watched it, because he knew Skinner would want a play by play later on. The phone rang. Mulder looked toward the hall, saw that Skinner wasn't coming out to answer it, so he climbed down, snatched up his towel, and dragged it across his neck and bare shoulders as he reached for the phone. "Mulder."

"Fox, sweetie, how are you?"

"Hey, Sharon." He started toward the den. "Kat's in the middle of something right now, let me see if I can -"

"I can tell by the heavy breathing what he's in the middle of," Sharon laughed.

"I will overlook your gross assumptions and point out that you've left a participle dangling," Mulder retorted archly.

"And what have you left dangling?" she countered, still laughing.

"Actually, I was on the Stairmaster, and Kat's in another room, working up a sweat over some budget reports. Just another boring Sunday in the Wonkerstein residence."

"The what?"

Mulder chuckled. "Never mind. Let me see if I can get his attention."

"Don't bother him," Sharon said quickly. "I know from experience what he's like when he has to bring reports home. In truth, I was just angling for an invitation to see the new house."

"You haven't been here yet?" Mulder was surprised. He was sure that little Friday night custom would continue whenever he was out of town. "Oh, you must come over."

"Well, he didn't want to invite me until you two had agreed on a date. He says he won't do anything in that house without discussing it with you." Sharon sighed, and it was almost envious. "It must be love."

"Must be," Mulder agreed, pleased by this piece of news. "I'll get back to you on a date, okay?" He heard Skinner in the hall, going to the kitchen and he stepped through, trying to get Skinner's attention. When Skinner looked up, he mouthed, 'Sharon', and waited for a response. Skinner nodded in resignation. "Hold on, Sharon. He just came into the kitchen. Here." He handed the phone to Skinner and went back to the living room, and realized someone was standing at the front door, knocking, loudly.

Mulder glanced over his shoulder, listening to Skinner mumbling into the phone and pulled the door open a fraction. Two men stood there. They could have been a younger version of Evelyn and Steven, with different coloring and style. One was very-too-blond, tall and thin, in black leather. The other was small, and dark, in jeans and thick sweater. Both had dark, intense eyes, and both were drunk. "Ooh, your sister was right," the blonde cooed, nudging the other one. "He is scrumptious."

"Chaz and Clive, I presume?" Mulder said, unaware that he was clenching his fists. If he calls me cupcake, he's a dead man.

"How did you know?" Chaz demanded.

"I work for the F.B.I.," Mulder retorted. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" And please make up your mind, it's twenty eight degrees out there and I'm wearing a tank top and I'm sweaty.

"We came to invite you to dinner, mate," Clive said.

Mulder shook his head. "I can't. We're working on some reports right now. They've got to be finished by -"

"You don't look like you were working on reports," Clive argued, touching the sweatband on his forehead.

"I was just taking an exercise break," Mulder said, wondering why he needed to explain.

"Well, if you could take a break for exercise, you can take a dinner break." Chaz was reaching for his arm.

Mulder tried to evade him. "No, really, I -"

"Come on, don't be antisocial, Fox," Clive pouted, going for the other arm.

"I'm not dressed -"

"You look fine to me," Clive promised, practically purring. Between the two of them, they got Mulder out onto the porch and shut the door behind him. "Come 'ead, Georgette cooked enough for an army."

Before Mulder realized it, he had been hustled down the steps and across the driveway. Georgette was just inside the other door, a well-shaped, petite blonde, with a long curtain of straight hair, dressed in leggings and a long blue sweater. She had a bottle of beer in her hands, which she held out when she saw Mulder come through the front door. "Fox, I'm so glad you made it. Where's your partner?"

"Working on the reports that are due tomorrow morning," Mulder said, jerking free of Clive's grip. "And he's going to kill me if I don't get back over there to help."

"Well, you can take a little break. It won't hurt you." She hooked her arm in his and tugged forward. "Come taste this barbecue sauce, and tell me what it needs."

Mulder went because being with Georgette was infinitely more comfortable than Butch Chazzidy and the Suntanned Kid. "It's just a stereotype, Georgette," he warned. "I don't know anything about cooking."

"Well, you know what you like, don't you?" she purred, rubbing up against him just like a cat.

Mulder bit down on his lip and sighed. "I do know what I like." I'd like to be at home, listening to Skinner growl at my department budget. He opened the beer with his fingers and let her lead him into the kitchen. The kitchen was chaotic, swimming in dirty dishes, empty bottles and the most heavenly aroma Mulder had encountered in years.

"Ooh, how did you do that?" Georgette squealed.

Mulder held up the bottle cap. "A product of my wayward youth," he said, and tossed the bottle cap in the trash. The smell of barbecue assaulted him again. He hadn't had ribs in a very long time. And these smelled wonderful. His mouth was watering. This was not a good sign. He flicked an anxious glance out the kitchen window, and thought he could see Skinner moving through the dining room to put up the phone. "Uh oh," he muttered. "He's going to be looking for me in a minute."

"Hmm?" Georgette was stirring. "Did you say something, Fox?"

Mulder shook his head. "I don't know what's missing. It sure smells good." He came closer and sniffed. "It smells great."

"You're a rib man, are you? I thought so." She brushed up against him, 'accidentally'.

Mulder backed up a step and sent his eyes around the kitchen. It was clear that several beers had been consumed before someone got the idea to invite the new neighbors over. So, the trained investigator realized he was dealing with three drunk and, if Georgette's behavior was indicative, horny individuals. There were times in his life when he might appreciate the situation. This was not one of them.

Georgette was leaning up against him again, trapping him against a counter top. "So, Fox, you said you were new at this. How new?"

"I...um..." He swallowed, and tried to push Georgette back a little. "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

"Is this your first relationship with a man?" she persisted, a little twinkle in her brown eyes. "Clive was wondering."

"Clive belongs to your brother. And I belong..." He hated the idea of belonging to anyone, as if he was a possession and not a person. "...to Walter."

"Don't be coy, honey," she simpered. "I can tell you like women, too." She rubbed her hand under his tank top.

More than beer had been consumed, he decided. These three were beyond caring. "I like women," he agreed. "I also like fidelity." He stilled her hand and stared down into her eyes. "I'm really into fidelity."

"Georgette, get your hands off Fox," Chaz protested, appearing in the doorway. "You'll upset him." He came between them, reaching up to drape his arm around Mulder almost protectively. "Come on, honey, she's drunk. Don't pay any attention to her."

Once again Mulder was dragged off in a direction he didn't want to go. Clive had the stereo going in the living room, and was gyrating obscenely to a Queen song - Bohemian Rhapsody. "Come on, Fox," he said, holding his arms out. "Let's dance."

Mulder shook his head and brushed Chaz' hands away. "I don't dance."

"With a body like that? Of course you do." Clive was trying to draw him in closer.

"No." Mulder went rigid, digging his heels in. "I don't." Clive smelled of something strong and cheap - and not just Chaz. "Look, I don't want to be rude, but I need to get back to work."

"Come on, Fox, dance with us," Chaz was insisting, pushing him forward.

"Look, guys, I know you mean well, and this is all just fun to you, but I'm not into this stuff. I just want to go home and -"

"How can you not be into dancing, mate?" Clive wanted to know, incredulous. "It's simply the best thing ever."

"Come on, you're making a big deal out of nothing here," Chaz complained.

Mulder sidestepped. "Let me make a phone call, make sure I'm not needed."

"What, need to get Daddy's permission to have a good time?" Clive jeered.

Mulder turned in the direction of the kitchen, and the phone he had seen on the wall. If he had his gun, he'd just shoot everyone and go home. Well, he'd wave it around a little - no, Clive might get off on that. He looked like he was into bondage. Creep. Mulder dialed, looking around the kitchen and wondering what happened to Georgette.

Skinner's machine. "Damn it. Kat, help," he said softly. "I'm trapped in a house with three, drunk, horny people and I don't have my gun. If you don't get over here, I'm going to get screwed by somebody." He hung up and looked toward the back door. These people were so far gone, maybe they wouldn't notice if he just sneaked out the back door. He hadn't taken three steps in that direction, when Georgette appeared, with a glass of water in her hand. "Well?" she said invitingly.

"Well, what?" Mulder asked uncertainly. Was this what he had to look forward to at every party now? Hello, Mother, I'm moving back in with you, and I'm never coming out of my room again.

"You said you wanted to get screwed by somebody." She came toward him.

"That's not what I said," Mulder said, taking another step backward. He realized she wasn't drinking water. It was Vodka, straight. He shivered, thinking, perversely, of Krycek. Now he really wanted to go home.

"I heard you."

"Eavesdropping is a Federal offense," he lied, stepping backward again, until he hit the wall. Only, the wall had arms, arms that came around him, caressing his nearly bare chest. "Jeesh, what is with you people?" he protested, squirming away from Chaz. "A few beers and you decide to play 'let's molest the neighbors'?" He twisted away from them both. "Look, I suppose, in the right light, all this might be flattering, but I don't play these games, okay?" Mulder recalled once or twice staring down some punk because the threat of sexual interest usually terrified bullies. But this wasn't the field. These people were just the neighbors … albeit neighbors from a Stephen King novel. "So I'm going to go home and pretend - will you stop that?" he protested as Chaz slid a palm across his chin.

"Will you relax?" Clive suggested, coming up on his other side. "You want this, we all know it."

"I don't know it," Mulder said, feeling surrounded and stupid. "What I know is that you three are certifiable. I'm a psychologist, I recognize the symptoms."

"You work for the F.B.I.," Georgette argued, in a breathy little giggle.

Mulder nodded. "I'm also a Doctor of Behavioral Sciences." If he kept his voice calm, level, matter of fact, maybe they would listen to him. "So I know crazy when I see it. The problem with you two," he continued, indicating Clive and Chaz. "Is that you believe your own press. Not all of us are into leather and swinging, down in SoHo. Most of us live quiet, normal lives, and never, ever cheat with metal heads." Having said that, Mulder pushed through the little group, thinking he had well and put them in their place.

Clive, who was as tall as he was, clotheslined him as he started for the front door and twisted him back against his studded leather jacket. "When were you ever in SoHo, mate?" he sneered.

"Oxford, class of '82," Mulder choked, reaching for the arm around his throat.

The hold lessened. "Oh, yeah? What's a Yank like you doing going to a posh school like Oxford?"

"Psychology," Mulder said, digging his fingertips into the flesh of the forearm. The problem was, these people weren't the bad guys. He had no right to hurt them. These were just drunk and stupid neighbors. "Now, will you let me go?"

The front door pushed open and Skinner filled it, his face impassive as he took in the scene; Clive with his arm around Mulder's neck, Chaz pressed in on Mulder's flank. Mulder's first reaction was relief, followed closely by irritation, and finally, after noticing a peculiar lump under Skinner's sweatshirt, amusement. Skinner had come to rescue his partner, at gunpoint, if need be.

"What's the matter, Daddy?" Clive challenged. "Had to come liberate your little boy?"

"Actually, no," Skinner said, coming inside and shutting the door. "I thought maybe I'd better come see if you were all right." He came further into the living room and nodded politely at Georgette. "I hope I'm not intruding but I wanted to get here before he loses his temper. See," he shrugged, looking regretful. "Once he loses his temper, I can't control him."

"Him?" Clive jeered, disbelievingly, but his hold eased. Even Mulder was staring.

Skinner nodded solemnly. "He probably didn't mention this - he doesn't like to brag, but he's a Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He's been trained in secret military combat. He knows fourteen ways to kill a man with just his left hand. Oh, he probably wouldn't kill you," he continued, evenly, as Chaz nearly stumbled backwards, trying to get out of Mulder's reach. "But he has a real aversion to being touched, and if you upset him, he could probably put you in the hospital for a few days before I got him calmed down."

Clive's hands slipped away. "Sorry, mate."

Mulder nodded and rubbed his throat.

"Yeah, sorry," Chaz agreed, backing farther away.

Mulder moved away from them. He had an irrational urge to run into Skinner's arms and hang on for dear life.

"Would you like a beer, Walt?" Georgette asked in a small voice.

Skinner shook his head. "No, I think I'd better get Mulder home. I don't like the look in his eyes." He backed away, as if he didn't want to get too close to Mulder himself. "You okay?" he asked solicitously. "You need to run or something?"

"He's a fucking psychopath," Clive muttered.

From the corner of his eye, Mulder could see Skinner nod agreeably. He bit down on his lip to keep from laughing out loud. They went outside and down the steps. "You're sure you feel safe with me?" he drawled.

"You? I could fold you in half and stuff you in a duffel bag, you skinny brat," Skinner assured him on a laugh.

"You know, Scully did teach me a couple of tricks with a coffee stirrer," Mulder observed.

"You can show me sometime," Skinner promised. "What the hell happened?"

"I was kidnapped," Mulder complained. "I got over there and they were all drunk and horny. What took you so long?"

"I couldn't believe you went with them."

"I didn't go with them."

"A trained killer like you getting caught unaware like that?" Skinner tsked him as he opened the front door.

"Fuck you," Mulder retorted, starting for the stairs.

Skinner caught his arm, pulled him back into his embrace. "When?"

"What about Friday night? What about this morning?" Mulder reminded him. Usually, when it came to full on lovemaking, once or twice a month was all Mulder could tolerate, but Skinner had been extremely persuasive on two occasions over the weekend.

"What about now?"

"What about you take a shower while I run the dishwasher?" Mulder suggested, wriggling free. "I've had all the groping I can handle for a while." He noticed his cell was on the dining room table. "Did someone call?"

"Dana." Skinner had to jerk his attention away from the idea of lovemaking. "She said to tell you it didn't take."

"Oh, Scully." Mulder felt a wave of grief wash over him. "How did...is she okay?"

Skinner's brow furrowed, confused, concerned. "She seemed okay. A little subdued."

Mulder started for the stairs. "I'm going up there."

"Now?"

Mulder nodded. "She needs me. I'll be back by dinnertime."

***************************************

Scully was in a long, pink flannel gown, her red hair bunched up in a clawlike clip, her face clean of make-up and slightly tear streaked. She didn't seem surprised that Mulder was at her door. She almost appeared to be expecting him. Mulder came across the threshold, kicked the front door shut and gathered her against him. "Oh, Scully, I'm sorry."

She cried a little against him, but not long. Scully wouldn't allow herself to give into grief for long periods. "I've already called Dr. Hanson," she said, easing away from him. "He said we must have miscalculated. We should try again in two weeks."

"Are we going to?" Mulder asked quietly. Poor woman, why couldn't something go right, be easy?

"Of course." She brushed at her red rimmed eyes. "Would you like some tea?"

He nodded. "I'll get -"

"No, I need to be doing something," she said. "Where were you when I called?"

"Next door, getting molested by leftovers from the Culture Club." Mulder folded himself down on her plush sofa.

Scully stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Do I want to know?"

Mulder shook his head.

She kept looking. "What did Walt say when you told him you were coming over here?"

Mulder shrugged. "Nothing. I said I'd be back for dinner."

"Is this going to cause problems?" she asked worriedly.

"No." He shifted around to look at the television. There was a video in the player, but it was on PAUSE. "What are you watching?"

"Penny Serenade," she answered.

"Never heard of it." He picked up the box, scanned the description and sighed, "Oh, Scully."

"It's a great movie," she said over the whistle of the tea kettle. "Cary Grant."

Mulder dropped the box on the table and leaned across the back of the sofa to watch her. "Are you coming in tomorrow?"

"Of course," she said.

"If you want the time -"

"Mulder, I was pregnant for less than seventy two hours. It wasn't real to me. Besides," she paused as she carried the mug to him. "We both knew it probably wouldn't work the first time. Now, what I want to know is, do you want to continue?"

"Do you?"

"Of course, but Dr. Hanson isn't coming on to me." She curled up next to him on the sofa.

"Scully, Shaquille O'Neal could come on to me and it wouldn't keep me from doing this for you." He sipped tea. "You know what would be good with this?" he said wistfully.

Scully's eyes twinkled. "That biscotti we bought in Charleston?" she said.

Mulder nodded, his eyes fixed on her smile.

Scully jumped up and went back to the kitchen. She came back with a gold and brown box.

Mulder's eyes lit up. "Where did you get these?"

"The joy of shopping the internet," Scully said, opening one of the foil packets. She held out a chocolate dipped macadamia cookie. "You know, if Kat really loved us, he'd be sending those to the office," she said, taking a bite of her own.

"I'll mention it to him," Mulder promised, dipping his in his tea.

***************************************

Skinner glanced at his watch, worriedly. It was after ten. Mulder had been gone eight hours. True, it was an hour plus drive to Scully's apartment near Annapolis, but it was snowing, and he couldn't help being concerned. Mulder hated to drive in snow. And why did he go, anyway? What didn't take that would make him jump and run, with no explanation. Something was going on, something was wrong, and Mulder wouldn't confide in him. He determined to seek Scully out the next morning, go behind Mulder's back, betray his trust, find out if he was all right.

All right. He thought Mulder was going to kill him when he walked in on that weird party earlier. But he didn't care. He wanted to kill that bottle blonde and the neighbor woman. How dare they have their hands on his Fox?

And the expressions on Mulder's face; incredible relief, and then a dark flash of anger, and finally … what the hell amused him, anyway? And that story Skinner spun, it wasn't that far from the truth. How many people had Mulder killed over the years? A dozen? Oh, easily. And he carried their souls around in his wallet, each one. He could never have been a soldier, never fired his rifle without looking back. Mulder's sense of justice prevented him from reveling in the death of anyone, no matter how heinous.

That was the problem with Mulder; he felt so much for other people, he didn't have room for feelings about himself. Skinner's mind skittered back to that morning. Mulder was exhausted, hadn't slept well the night before. Stayed up working long after Skinner called it a night. At three in the morning, he was in the jacuzzi with one of Skinner's historical accounts of Viet Nam. When he stumbled back to bed at five, naked, clean and warmed, and visible in the early light, Skinner wanted him, wanted him bad. He knew he'd gotten his 'quota' of sex on Friday night, but he wanted more. Insistent caresses and hot kisses had gotten Mulder's attention, and even when he tried a sleepy demurer, Skinner persisted, whispering his need. Mulder, either taking pity on him, or thinking he might salvage some sleep from the night, rolled over, acquiesced. Skinner might have felt guilty except that, before long, Mulder was stifling little sighs and moans in the pillows, rocking his hips in an urgent desire to find a rhythm they could both dance to, and dance they did.

Skinner shifted at the kitchen table, rocking his empty coffee cup back and forth in his hands. Where the hell was Mulder? He was tempted to call Scully, ask her to send their wayward boy home, but what if he left hours ago? Then Scully would be worrying, and he'd be worrying even more. No, better to sit and wonder alone.

He went out into the living room and turned on the television, flipped channels, fretted. He missed having Mulder around. He'd gotten used to the sense of him being there, even when he was behind closed doors, doing research, having his 'down time' as he called the time he needed to satisfy his loner instincts. Sometimes Skinner wished he was one of those psychics Mulder believed in. He would give almost anything to know what was going on in Mulder's head, when he got quiet. It couldn't be based on the next thing out of his mouth. Skinner had learned a long time ago, that Mulder's mind and mouth were often on free-vend and there was no predicting what word would trigger a circuit jump to another subject. He eased back on the sofa, resting his head against the wall, wondering what was going through Mulder's mind right at that moment.

"Kat?" He felt something brush against his cheek. He twitched away from it. "Kat?" He opened his eyes. Mulder was leaning over him, looking concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Are you...what time is it?" Skinner sat up so sharply, he nearly bumped Mulder in the nose.

"Midnight."

"Where've you...is she all right?" Skinner stood, stretched, sent his eyes over Mulder, looking for wounds.

"Yeah." Mulder looked relaxed. "She shouldn't be, but she is." He shrugged out of his jacket. "What are you doing up? You've got to get up in five hours."

"I just wanted to make sure you got home okay," Skinner confessed, reaching for the black leather jacket. It smelled like Mulder, or maybe Mulder smelled like leather. He liked the association. "It was snowing."

"Still is," Mulder agreed with a laugh and brushed at his hair. "Thanks for waiting up, but you shouldn't have." He put a hand on Skinner's shoulder and squeezed. "Just like you shouldn't have come rescuing me this afternoon, but I'm glad you did."

"Those guys were crazy," Skinner said, taking the jacket to the closet in the hall. "Who knows what would have happened to them - or to you, if I hadn't come over when I did."

"At least you had your gun," Mulder snickered, and started up the stairs. Skinner went up behind him, admiring the way he looked in jeans. Not many thirty eight year old men could wear tight jeans like that. He wore them like a teenager, snug around his ass, showing off every inviting curve, and totally unaware of how it looked to others. He wore them that way because that's the way he liked to wear them.

"I would have shot one of them, if they had gotten any farther," Skinner agreed, taking an extra step, so he could put his arm around Mulder's slim waist. "You're mine and nobody else gets to play with you."

"You're cute when you're possessive," Mulder retorted, tugging his sweater off as he reached the top of the stairs, not taking Skinner's embrace into consideration. "By the way, Scully has a request for the next time you decide to send something down to the basement."

"Oh?" Skinner was watching Mulder in the bathroom, splashing water on his face.

"Biscotti. Specifically, biscotti from Godiva chocolates." He rubbed soap in his hands. "More specifically, milk chocolate and macadamia nut biscotti." He scrubbed, splashed and patted his face with a towel. "We got some in Charleston last year and we're both hooked. She can give you a web site to order them. That is," he leaned around the bathroom door, grinned impishly. "If you think I'm worth it."

Skinner had come up to embrace him, but Mulder managed to stay out of his reach, putting the towel on the rod, so he only caught Mulder's belt loops in back. "I don't know," Skinner said, sliding his fingers between the waistband of the jeans and Mulder's hot flesh. "You'd have to prove it to me."

He felt Mulder tremble a little. He pulled Mulder closer, let his lips search Mulder's face. "You taste good."

"I taste tired," Mulder corrected.

"Good and tired." Skinner walked him backward to the bed, and eased him down, sliding his fingers up over a hard, bare chest, to tangle in Mulder's hair. "Good."

Mulder wiggled a little beneath him. "Kat..."

"Shh." Skinner worked his fingers away from Mulder's hair and down over his collarbone, rubbing his shoulders gently. "You feel good, too."

"Kat, you're breaking my legs," Mulder complained, huskily.

Skinner rolled to one side, amazed at how aroused he was, how aroused he had been since he walked in that door and saw another man's arms around Mulder and the relief in Mulder's eyes at his arrival.

Mulder stood up, on legs as shaky as a newborn colt, and stripped his jeans away. He looked over his shoulder at Skinner and sighed. Stripping off his boxers, he eased under the bedclothes. "Five hours until that devil alarm clock goes off," he said.

Skinner nodded and stood, undressing slowly. Mulder was giving in, but he was playing the game under protest. At that moment, however, Skinner didn't care. He was looking at Mulder's tousled hair, muscled arms, bright green eyes, full lower lip and remembering sights and sounds and sensations from not so many hours before. He would probably drop dead before morning, but, oh, what a way to go.

***************************************

"Kit, come on." Skinner nudged him. "You're going to be late." Usually he got up an hour earlier than Mulder, exercised, showered, ate and dressed, and woke Mulder before he walked out the door. He'd been trying for fifteen minutes, and Mulder still wasn't responding. Well, he'd only had five hours sleep, Skinner reminded himself generously. Still, that's an hour more than I got, and I'm up to business as usual.

He frowned down at the sleeping form. There was something not quite right. Usually he woke up with Mulder curled around him like ivy, but from the moment he eased away from Mulder early that morning, he hadn't been aware of any restless movement. Mulder was still pretty much the way Skinner had left him, except for an odd juxtaposition of hips and shoulders. From the waist up, he was laying flat, face down, his hands tucked under his chest, his head buried in pillows, just as he was last night, when he was trying to stifle his moans. From the hips down, however, he was laying on his side, his legs slightly splayed, one knee pulled up.

For a moment, Skinner watched him, waiting to see him actually breathe. When he was sure Mulder was breathing, he was gruffly amused and slightly impatient. If he didn't get Mulder up soon, he was going to be late. "Come on, Kit." He reached for the bedcovers and tugged. Then his own breath stalled and rushed out in an expletive. Blood was smeared along Mulder's inner thigh and had pooled around his hip. Not enough to be life threatening, but enough to look truly gory.

Impulsively, Skinner reached out to touch him, and Mulder jerked slightly in protest. "Lay still," Skinner commanded and began a ginger exploration of Mulder's anus. "My God, Mulder, you look like hamburger." Skinner was instantly contrite, mentally kicking himself for mistaking Mulder's trembling for anticipation, his groans of pain for moans of pleasure. "Don't move," he instructed, as Mulder started to stir with a wince and a muttered epithet.

He went to the bathroom, rummaged around and came back with a warm washcloth and some Neosporin. By the time he returned to the bed, Mulder was awake, embarrassed, and annoyed. "You're going to be late," he warned, trying to sit up.

"Lay flat," Skinner snapped.

"I don't need you cleaning me up," Mulder protested, inching away. "Get away from me. Just go to work. I can handle this." He reached for the washcloth. "Go on. I don't need your help."

Skinner stood there, looking at him, helpless and angry. How could I be so selfish? "Why didn't you say something?" he yelled. "I could have really done some damage."

Mulder lifted a disbelieving glance at him. "I was trying to be nice," he muttered.

"Fuck nice," Skinner exploded, accusingly. "If it hurt, you should have stopped me."

"Go on, Kat," Mulder said in an oddly placating tone. "You're going to be late for work."

Skinner was too angry to move. "You stupid jerk, you should have stopped me."

Mulder twisted around, throwing the washcloth at him. "Don't yell at me, asshole," he snapped. "In case no one ever told you, you're not very good at taking no for an answer."

Skinner backed up, stunned by the outburst, and instantly wary. "Are you going to be all right?" Please, Mulder, don't walk out on me, don't shut down on me, don't close up on me.

Mulder answered with a jerky shrug. "This will be a test of my manhood, won't it?"

"You're not going to try and go to work today," Skinner determined, speaking as a boss and not a lover.

Mulder made a face. "What would my excuse be? I spent the weekend getting my brains fucked out and now I can't sit down?" His shoulders rolled in an ironic shrug. "Of course, it will just prove what so many people have been saying all along, that I really do have my head up my ass."

Skinner ached at the tired, defiant tone of voice. "Come on, Kit, don't do this."

"Go to work, A.D. Skinner," Mulder said, in a flat voice. "I'll be along directly."

Skinner wanted to wrap Mulder up, hold him close, soothe him, beg forgiveness. Instead, he did what he was trained to do, give orders. "I don't want you to come to work."

"I don't want to stay home," Mulder answered, meeting Skinner's eyes, his own cool, greenish gray.

There was no winning a contest of wills with him. And Skinner couldn't afford to lose, so he decided not to engage Mulder in battle. "Maybe you ought to go to a doctor," he said, suspecting that he could see fresh blood as Mulder inched toward the edge of the bed.

"Go to work." Mulder pulled himself upright, wincing. "I'll be in later." He paused and it was clear he was reigning in feeling. "I want to be alone, okay?" His voice was rough. "Will you just go?"

Skinner turned away from the bed, feeling slapped, dismissed, berated, defeated. He went to the door and turned again, just in time to see Mulder hobbling toward the bath. Selfish sonofabitch, he thought, not sure if he meant himself or Mulder.

Mulder must have come in that day, Scully never called looking for him, and paperwork did come up to him with the current date. But Mulder didn't call, wasn't seen around the water cooler, so to speak, and Skinner didn't dare go down to the basement to see if he was all right. He was feeling incredibly guilty. That's it, he promised himself. No more of that until he asks for it. If he never does … fine. He toyed with the idea of roses, dismissed it, tried to remember what it was Mulder was asking for last night, couldn't remember, and just spent the afternoon stewing.

When he got home that night, Mulder's car wasn't there, but Georgette was, sitting on the front stoop, looking miserable. "Walt," she cried, scrambling up as he came up the drive. "I … I am so sorry about yesterday. Is … is everything all right?"

Skinner stiffened. Why would she think it wasn't? "Georgette, I don't think now is a good time to discuss it."

Georgette was kneading his arm with her anxious fingers. "Well, I know he left your place right after you left mine, and he didn't come home for hours. I was just afraid you two had a fight, or something."

You bitch, he thought coolly. You wanted us to have a fight, so you could pick up the pieces.

"No, he had to go see about his partner. She's … sick." He made himself smile. "Everything is fine."

"No," she persisted, miserably. "I'm so embarrassed about what happened. Clive made such a fool of himself, Chaz kicked him out. I was afraid that Fox and Clive went off somewhere."

"No. I know where he went, and when he came home." Skinner made a move to pass her on the walk.

Georgette stiffened. "He's not...not dangerous, is he? I mean, my kids will be home -"

Skinner was thoroughly annoyed. "For the love of...no, he's only dangerous when drunks try to get their hands in his pants." She was the one who might be dangerous around kids. He turned and stared down into her eyes, meaningfully. "You've got to understand something about Mulder. He's very old-fashioned, very faithful and it irritates him when men - or women - try to test his loyalty." That was so true.

Georgette nodded, numbly. "He told me he was really into fidelity," she admitted.

Skinner was pleased to hear that, but not pleased enough to stop being annoyed. "Yes, we both are. That's why we got married." He tried once again to push past.

Mulder's car swung into the driveway.

Georgette turned and hurried to him. "Oh, Fox, are you all right? I'm so sorry about Clive. Chaz kicked him out. Please say you'll forgive me?"

"Sure," Mulder answered easily. It was clear he was in pain, he was moving so carefully. "But, you tell your brother that if he or his little boy toy ever get within fifteen feet of me, I'm going to shoot their nuts off." He said this with a sweet, sincere smile that chilled Skinner's blood.

It took Georgette a minute to assimilate what he said. She answered with a jerky nod and backed away. Mulder kept his eyes fixed on her, until she was backing up her front steps.

Skinner went to him, reaching in to take his briefcase before he had to bend and reach for it. "How are you?" he asked quietly. Mulder seemed pale, more so than usual.

"Fine," Mulder answered between clenched teeth.

"Did you go to the doctor?" Skinner asked. That wasn't what he wanted to say.

"No." That wasn't what he wanted to hear.

"Come on inside," Skinner urged. "Lay down, relax. What do you want for dinner?"

Mulder surprised him with a sharp look. "Stop fussing," he warned. "I'm not an invalid."

"I know, but -"

"Don't say it." Mulder broke his grasp and went up the stairs, slowly, but with dignity.

Skinner waited until he was inside, and easing down into one of the big chairs, before he moved in front of him, and stood, hands on hips, looking down at him. "Mulder, I -"

"I don't want to do a post-mortem, okay?" Mulder implored, his voice slightly frayed.

"I betrayed your trust, I didn't listen to what you tried to say to me, I hurt you. Oh, God." Skinner felt something alien burning his eyes. "I'm always hurting you."

Mulder looked up at him, astonished. "Walter Skinner, are you … you are, you're crying?"

Skinner forced himself not to look away. He deserved whatever gleeful humiliation Mulder wanted to heap on him. "I'm sorry. We will never, ever do that again. I promise."

"You don't mean that," Mulder said, shaking his head.

"I do. I hurt you, I did everything I was so concerned about not doing. Please forgive me."

Mulder sat up, in pain, and reached out, to collect a tear from the corner of Skinner's eye. He looked at it, a jewel on his fingertip momentarily. "Not until you take back that stupid ukase against sex."

"Not all sex, just that -"

Mulder's expression was part irritation, part amusement. "Look, Kat, as alluring as I am, as good as I've gotten at cocksucking, the fact remains that you have a need to put it somewhere. If we had any kind of sex, it would lead to that sex. Now, take it back."

Skinner wasn't going to back down on this one. "No."

Mulder shrugged. "Then I don't forgive you, and I might as well leave." He started to rise from his chair.

Skinner put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in the chair forcefully. "You're not here because of your cocksucking skills, or your ass. You're here because I love you. And, because I love you, I'm not going to put you in jeopardy again."

"Well, then wrap me in cotton and put me in the attic, because I risk danger every time I go outside. Cut the maudlin crap, Kat." Mulder pushed his way up. "You're feeling guilty because you saw someone else touch me, and you experienced an overpowering need to mark me, brand me, however you could. It's normal, it's part of being a man. You would have done it if it had been Sharon." He shrugged slightly. "Yes, it hurt. But, I'll get over it. Now, take back that self righteous vow, or I'm out of here."

Skinner's fingers tightened on Mulder's shoulder. "Stop threatening me like that," he warned softly. "Fox Mulder, you're not leaving me. This isn't some little fling we can walk away from. This is marriage. I fucked up the first one, I intend to do this one right." His fingers tightened. "But you've got to be as committed to it as I am, or it won't work. The next time you threaten to go, you will. Is that understood?"

Mulder stared at him, eyes wide.

Skinner shook his shoulder slightly. "Is that understood?"

Mulder nodded, slowly.

"Now, do you forgive me?"

Mulder arched a brow. "Do you take back that vow?"

"Which one?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed. "Don't play games with me, Skinner," he said in something akin to one of Skinner's own growls.

"We'll see what happens," Skinner conceded, carefully. "Now, do you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," Mulder answered in a low, even voice. "You didn't do it on purpose. It wasn't malicious or punitive. It just happened." He smiled, grimly. "I suppose I ought to be flattered. Maybe when I feel better I will, but there is nothing for you to beat yourself up over, and there's nothing for me to forgive."

Skinner couldn't let go. "Do you know I love you, and I'd never deliberately hurt you?"

"That's how I know there's nothing to forgive," Mulder answered gently, reaching up to ease Skinner's hand away. "Now, forgive yourself. If your Catholic conscience needs penance, I'll let you clean up the mess in the bedroom. I was in a hurry this morning."

"Mess, what mess?"

"A little post-coital hemorrhaging," Mulder answered with false levity. "I didn't take time to take care of it. I just wanted to get to work somewhere close to on time."

"Mulder, I wouldn't expect -"

"It wasn't you I was concerned about," Mulder said, with a grimace. "I didn't want to have to explain to Scully why I was late." A tremor went through him, and he sat down, with a little wince. "I think I'm going to sit down for a while." His face was suddenly very pale.

Panicking, Skinner turned and ran upstairs. The bathroom was a bloody mess. It was amazing Mulder was still upright, let alone that he had driven himself to and from work and spent eight hours behind a desk, given the amount of blood he had lost. It was Skinner's penance to clean it up, and on his knees, scrubbing floorboards, he vowed, to himself anyway, that it would never, ever happen again.

- END part 6 of 13 -
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