TITLE: The Profile Unflowered

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: The story behind the drabble The Profile.

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. Spoilers? We don't need no stinkin' spoilers.

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.

I gave this to Sergeeva, but I'm borrowing it back.

 The Profile Unflowered

by Mik

I see his shadow come across the papers spread out across my coffee table. I want to look up, stare at him, but I don't. I don't dare. I might just grin. Can't have that. Can't have him knowing that having the big lion prowling around my little cave makes me feel…oh, I don't know, like grinning. I reach for another handful of seeds and work a couple between my teeth. "You need something, sir?"

He sighs, heavily. He's tired. He should be. Forty eight hours non-stop at the hostage site, another twelve at the debriefing, and then coming back to his office to be informed by a regretful Kim that his building is being fumigated and he's on his own for the night.

I was proud of myself for not jumping up to offer my place the second I heard that. I was proud of myself for not being too eager, too earnest. I made a face at him, sort of a man-to-man-tough-luck-buddy face. He glared at Kim, which she did not deserve. Then he glared at me. I didn't deserve it, either. Well, I did, but HE didn't know what I was thinking. "I suppose you could crash at my place, sir," I offer, looking doubtful. "It's already been fumigated this month."

"Agent Mulder," he said, with that ‘hell has frozen over voice’. "As I recall, you don't have a bed."

"Oh, that's just rumor, sir," I answered with a grin. "I got rid of the coffin months ago."

For a moment, I thought he would hit me, just on principle. Then I thought he would politely decline. I never expected him to laugh. The poor bastard must have been exhausted. "Very well, Agent Mulder, you have a house guest."

I don't know how I got downstairs without prancing. It's hard not to strut when you get your way.

So, he's here. We ordered Chinese and watched CNN. He picked up a book from my bookshelf and read, pacing. (What man reads while pacing? A man who doesn't want to sit down next to his subordinate on a lumpy futon, that's who.) Now he's standing over me, looking down at my artfully arranged mass of notes and photographs. For a moment, I believe he is admiring my work.

"When do you plan to go to sleep, Agent Mulder?"

I look up. The poor guy's dead, no question. "Anytime you want, sir," I assure him, and begin to carefully gather up my data. "Bathroom's through there. I'll go check the sheets."

I'm spreading the blankets back into place when he appears at the bedroom door. "You're too small," he announces.

I straighten. I'm six two. I think that's better than average. "In what way, sir?"

"For me to borrow something to sleep in."

"There are two things wrong with that statement," I tell him, barely containing my chuckle.

"Only two?" He still has my book tucked under his arm.

"Well, for one thing, it assumes I'd have something to sleep in, and it also assumes that I'd need something to sleep in." I give the bedclothes an artful fold. "Sorry I have no mints."

He answers with a sigh that could become a growl with very little effort.

I step back and let him come and drop heavily at the bedside. "I'll shut the door. There's no reason you'd need anything to sleep in," I offer. Too far, Mulder, too far.

He pushes his glasses up and rubs one eye. "Good night, Agent Mulder. Thank you for your hospitality."

"Oh, no problem, sir." I pull the door closed and grin to myself. Mulder, my boy, yesterday you wouldn't have believed you'd have Wally, the Pectoral Poster Boy, in your bed, and there he is. What fantasy shall we work on tomorrow? Me in bed with him?

An hour later, the light under the door remains on. I turn onto my side and stare at that slim strip of white. When did I develop this longing for the boss? Oh, I don't know…the first time he called me Son? The first time he held me hard against that broad chest, breathing hard and hot on my face? The many, many times he stepped out of the shadows to save my butt, or Scully's? Maybe the first time I actually saw him smile. (Oh, dear God, what a smile--klieg lights would be jealous!)

My inclinations for men have been few. Once was curiosity. Once was loneliness. Once was infatuation-- his, not mine. But this has become an obsession. I remember dragging a certain ratbastard who shall remain armless--I mean, nameless, to his condo, and caught him barechested. It took all the testosterone in my body and some I must have borrowed from Krycek to keep from throwing the little rat over the balcony and making a lunge for my boss. I only just kept myself from drooling.

I can still smell him. He leaves a…presence in a room. Powerful, musky, not unpleasant. I wonder what he smells like when he's aroused. The idea makes me shudder and I roll onto my back with a groan. My hand snakes down to the waistband of my sweats, just imagining it. I close my eyes and try to imagine…no, I need a clue, a peek.

I get up and walk to the bathroom door. Then I pass the bedroom door and pause, listening. I hear soft, even breathing. Holding my own, I ease the door open gently. Oh, Mulder, this is so sick, spying on your boss while he sleeps? It's diagnostic! But, there he is. Asleep on my bed. Look at him. Just look at him.

He compromised between his Brooks Brothers suit, which is now draped neatly over the chair in the corner, and complete nudity. He's in white, my little angel of mercy. Little. Hardly. He actually seems bigger without his clothes on. That tee shirt is drawn across his chest so tight it defines every ripple of muscle, every curl of hair. And those briefs. Mmm. Well, I'll never need porn again.

There's another side to him, too. A very…dare I say it?…sweet side. He actually tried to slog through one of my multitude of books on the Kennedy conspiracies (although I'll give him credit for choosing one of the more plausible theories), and it's open on his chest. His glasses are pushed up high on his brow. Wow, look at those eyelashes. If women could only see past the glasses and the receded hairline, they'd swoon. I mean it. I have to hold on the bed frame myself.

Catching myself in the act of ogling my nearly naked, sleeping boss, I turn back to the bedroom door.

"Agent Mulder?"

I freeze. Busted. I am in so fucking much trouble at this moment. Where is a liver eating alien or a flukeman when I need one? Without turning around, I say, "Yes, sir," and actually manage not to squeak.

"Did you need something?" Oh, no, not the calm, rational voice! My doom is imminent.

I make myself turn, and meet his eyes. "No, sir. I was just checking on you."

"Checking, Agent Mulder?" He pulls his glasses down into place and he gives me a long study. "What exactly were you checking?"

"You, sir." Uh oh, there's that I-think-you-need-a-new-butthole-Mulder look.

"I see." He tosses the book to one side. "Come here."

I shuffle to the edge of the bed, trying to stay just out of his reach. "Yes, sir?"

"What did you feel was wrong with me that I needed checking?" he asks. That guy's voice could double as a circular saw, it's so sharp.

"Nothing, sir." Oh, shit.

"Really?" Is he…he is…he's SMILING!

"Yes, sir?"

He catches the waistband of my sweats and tugs me closer. "Did everything check out okay, Mulder?" He's rubbing the front of my sweats with the heel of his hand.

Hold the presses. Mulder's biggest, best fantasy ever is about to make the front page. "I guess it did, sir."

"You don't sound too sure." He tugs the sweats down and now--oh, sacre vache, he's stroking my little friend.

"I am, sir. Right at this moment, I'm very sure." I glance down at him, and see that HIS little friend is peeking out through the waistband of those briefs. His little friend is not so little, I see.

"I hope you're better prepared for this than you were for a house guest," he says, pulling me down so that I land on top of all that white cottoned chest. He catches my face between his hands and kisses me, deeply.

It takes me a moment to get my breath and heart rate back in sync. "Top drawer," I tell him, and begin to take a little oral history of Walter S. Skinner. Thickly corded neck muscles, soft fringe of hair, that scent…yes, it's stronger when he's aroused. I like it.

He rolls me over, holds me down, fumbles for things. "Oh, look." He pulls out something and holds it up. Red and white peppermint about a hundred years old, left in the pocket of my pants after a date. "You did have mints." He backs up enough to strip off his briefs.

I look up at him. He's huge. He's gonna' kill me, no doubt, but I can't wait to go. I love seeing him smile. "How did you know?" I ask.

He actually laughs. He has a nice laugh; it's deep and hearty, and natural. "Mulder, you are a lot of things, some of them quite impressive," he tells me, urging my hips up so he can remove my sweats. "But subtle, you're not." He gives my cock an almost affectionate little squeeze.

I reach up to help him with the condom. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all." How matter of fact. "As I said, some aspects of you are quite impressive. Roll over, and we'll discuss them."

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

I have to slide carefully from under the weight of his arm. I feel heavy and hot and stretched and sore, but blissful. At the door, I pause and look back. I have to grin. Big old bear, sprawled across the bed, face buried in a pillow.

He's asleep in my bed.

-THE END-