TITLE: Same Game: Part II - Ground Rules

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 and Skinner continue the relationship that began in "Same Game, Part I - Tip Off".

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: The action takes place immediately after "Tip Off". This is an AU, no spoilers. 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.

* This is for Geoffrey, who gave me permission to play with his characters from "What You Want", and for the owners and shareholders of the Chatterers Gallery for their love, support and lifetime supply of "Peeps".

Same Game: Part II - Ground Rules by Mik

Now, I would never have pegged my boss for a mother hen. Skinner's always been this big, bad assed guy, with his hand on his gun grip, prepared to pull me into his sites, but he turned into a grandmother on me that night.

Granted, a big grandmother, and one with a (surprisingly) sensuous touch. If I hadn't been hurting so bad on that basketball court, the way he was rubbing the inside of my thigh so lightly would have been enough to send me crawling all over him. And then, he picked me up like I was a stack of files and carried me over to a bench.

I've never been one to swoon over anyone, but that got me. Somehow, it's a blur to me now, we ended up in his hotel room, acting with intent. I confess I was scared shitless. I was expecting physical pain then, and the lovely joy of emotional pain to tide me over a day or two while I tried to figure our where our sick, little slasher might strike next. But, Grandmother wouldn't have me in any sort of pain. First he wouldn't give in to a very blatant attempt at spontaneous combustion, and then, he decided I'd get no sex at all 'til my wounds had been tended to.

If you ever want a mental picture of a sweet paradox, let me tell you about A.D. Walter Skinner on his knees beside his bath tub, sleeves of his sweatshirt pushed high up those tree branch forearms, washing my face. I feel compelled to insist that I was quite capable of washing my own face, I do it nearly every day now, but, he started with my knees, where gravel and dirt had bitten into the skin, and then over my stomach and up my chest, detouring over my shoulders. At that point, I was lulled into a state of complete tranquillity, and couldn't put up a single demurer when he swabbed that nice warm cloth over my sticky, sweaty face.

By the time I was out of the tub, dried and into a pair of sweats (he went to my room and got clean stuff for me!) he had gotten tea from room service, and aspirin from his dopp kit, and was making me a sleepytime cocktail. He shot me a glance as I opened the bathroom door. "Should you be on that leg, Mulder?" he asked, pouring tea from the little caudal.

"Well, I didn't find it convenient to leave it in the tub," I retorted and walked, gingerly, to the end of the bed.

"Here." He brought me a white, porcelain cup and saucer and two aspirins.

"A little herbal tea will relax you."

I gaped. I know I did. When did the Assistant Director of the FB Fucking I turn into the Editor of Lady's Home Journal?

I think he saw me from the corner of his eye. He straightened and became busy with something behind me. "My wife used to drink it at bed time when she had trouble sleeping."

Wife. Oh. Forgot about that little detail for just a moment. I popped aspirin expertly and took a tentative sip of something that smelled strongly of peppermint and something I couldn't identify.

"That's chamomile," he said, turning down bedclothes, stacking pillows. "It will help you sleep."

"Sleep?" I turned to look at him, and I'm quite certain the word DISAPPOINTMENT was tattooed across my face in bold script with lots of cyphers and serifs.

"Yes, Agent Mulder, sleep." He came to the foot of the bed, and took the cup

from me. "You've been injured. You've-"

"Just a flesh wound!" I protested, adding, with a dreadful English accent,

"I've had worse."

He got it. I saw a little light of recognition dance through those…those amazing brown eyes!

"You've also been through a very difficult, emotionally draining day, on the heels of several days of long hours hard work and research," he continued after a moment. He looked down at the cup balanced between his big paws.

"We're contemplating something that could change our lives irrevocably. I, for one, will not make such a momentous decision without at least one good night's rest."

"But, I-"

He put one of those big paws over my mouth, held firm for a moment, and withdrew, with just a whisper of a caress to my cheek. "Tomorrow, Agent Mulder. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

I could see in those amazing eyes that there would be no argument. "Very well, Scarlett," I sneered, and made myself get to my feet.

"Where are you going?" he asked as I reached the door.

I looked back at him. He was making two piles of pillows in that great big bed. "My room?"

He considered the edge of the sheet in his hand. "Is that what you prefer?" he asked quietly.

Was that disappointment in HIS voice? Was that insecurity that tightened around the corner of his eyes for a moment?

I turned and leaned against the wall. "I thought that's what you were telling me," I answered, quietly.

"No." He didn't look up. "I was only saying that we weren't going to take any further steps until we'd slept on it."

Further steps. He can even make sex sound like Bureau protocol. "What do you want me to do…sir?"

He turned his head just enough to look at me. "To get your butt in the bed."

He growled. When did I start getting hard for that growl? "Yes, sir," I returned smartly, and ran as fast as my twisted little knee could get me there.

He actually tucked me in, fussing around with pillows and bedclothes until I was quite snug, then he went through the room, shutting down lights, checking locks, putting his service piece in reach, and finally, with a sigh, shucking his sweats. In what seemed to me to be slow motion, he climbed into bed, and settled down near enough that I could feel his body heat, but not his body.

I stayed there, being still, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what in the hell I was doing, but not feeling any inclination not to do it.

I'd always been a little curious about it, I admit. I doubt there's a man out there who can honestly say he's never at least wondered about it. And there had been once or twice when some guy looked at me a certain way and it

did have a visceral effect on me. Hell, if I was totally honest, I'd have to say that rat bastard Alex Krycek had the prettiest eyes I've ever seen on a man…until tonight, that is.

I turned my head slightly, and felt those eyes on me in the darkness. They were as soft as his touch a moment before. "Yes…sir?" I whispered.

He was laying on his side, watching me in the semi-darkness. "Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why are you here?"

I felt a flush of panic come over me. "Because you said-"

"No." His voice was gentle. "Why are you here, with me?"

I rolled onto my side to face him. "Because I wanted to be."

"But you've never done this before."

"Neither have you," I countered.

"So why should we suddenly decide that we're going to change orientations and with each other?"

"Kismet?" I suggested.

"So help me, Mulder, if I get one more lame movie reference-"

"Okay, okay. I don't know. I mean, I know why I wanted to come here, but I'm not sure why I'm staying." Bullshit, Mulder, you know EXACTLY why you're staying. Because he promised to hold you and care for you and make you feel like you weren't the biggest screw up on the Federal Payroll….all right, second biggest. "First of all, I'm not all that sure we're changing orientations. Some people like their bread buttered on both sides…" I knew I was blushing. "Umm…"

"Bi-sexual, Mulder. I got that." His voice was curt, but softened unexpectedly. "I understand that. Why are we acting on it?"

"Because…" I closed my eyes. I was getting tired. Tired of so damned much.

"I'm not sure right now."

"Come here."

I inched closer.

"Here."

Suddenly, I was folded into this well of warmth, my cheek pressed against the wall of his chest, muscle hard, hairy enough to tickle, smelling faintly of sweat and maleness and maybe even some residue of cotton, his arms around my shoulders, his hands sliding down my back. This is why, I thought to myself.

I felt him chuckle beneath me. Did I say that out loud? Does it matter?

No. I closed my eyes and relaxed against him. His hands were soothing against my skin, as if smoothing away all my woes with the ease one smoothes away wrinkles in the sheets. His scent was filling me, and his muscles rippled slightly against my cheek. I'd been up against this body before, but never like this, never so much a part of him. I wanted to feel him, smell him, hear him, taste him. I let the tip of my tongue slip out and slide along one firm, defined pec. Salty, powerful, warm.

He reacted with a slight jerk, and tipped his head down to look at me.

I looked up, anxiously. Did I cross a line? Was that a further step?

Melted chocolate gaze pinning me in place, he lowered his head, slightly, and I felt his lips brush against mine. That was it. Whatever motives put me in that bed, that kiss sealed my fate. I was lost. I was his. No one ever managed to touch me so softly and so deeply with one simple gesture. He didn't merely kiss my mouth, he kissed my soul.

He must have felt me melt against him, because he worked a hand between us, and held it against my heart. With our lips still touching, he brushed the palm of his hand over my chest, making my heart change from a tarantella to a mambo in a flicker, and let a fingernail skim one of my nipples.

To my knowledge, nipples on a man are like udders on a bull, worthless.

However, I must at this point confess that he was well on his way to making me believe I was a cow. I think I made some kind of sound of encouragement, because he did it again, on the other side. Stunned, zinging, hungry, I moved in on his mouth, needing something, and not able to ask for it. My life defined in a moment; I need. But what is it I need?

He accepted my assault on his mouth, as his hand moved over me, my chest, shoulders, throat, belly. His touch was tentative, shy, as if he was exploring me. As it crept toward the waist of my sweats, I thrust toward him, trying to encourage him, trying to communicate permission to proceed, trying to get him to touch me.

He ignored me, moved his hand up my side, over my hip and down the small of my back. I pulled back, away from him, relinquishing his mouth. "Damn it,

Skinner," I hissed. "Just get to the point."

I felt him chuckle again, and found myself back on my back, him leaning over me. "You're so damn impatient, Mulder." He bent to suck lightly at my throat. "Sometimes the best part of the trip is the journey itself."

"Oh, great," I groaned, trying to rub myself against his hip. "You're going Zen on me." I sent my own hands roaming, and finding their target without hesitation, making him jerk slightly. Caressing his sac, I grinned up at him in the dark. "Want to see if Grasshopper can snatch a pebble from your hand?"

His teeth sank down, slightly, and that momentary pain was actually satisfying. I turned my head a bit to let him do it again, but he was pressing little kisses to the wound area. And that was even more satisfying.

"Mulder," he murmured, licking, sucking, biting and then licking his way down my throat to my collarbone. "Do you think you could leave popular culture out of our pillow talk?"

Pillow talk? He's so damned cute. "What?" I asked, turning back to him.

"You mean we can't discuss the merits of Star Trek TNG versus TOS while we're…we're…" I stopped. I couldn't actually say making love, and something wouldn't let me say fucking. Not to him. Not to my boss. Not to Granny Skinner. Not to this man who was sucking my soul out through my shoulder socket.

Suddenly, his fingers curled around the front of my sweats, catching me and my little friend by surprise. "No. Personally, I think Janeway is hot."

I groaned. "No, not Janeway. Please." I rocked my hips and he loosened his grip enough that I was actually rubbing myself within the circle of his fingers. "Please," I gasped.

Within a minute, my sweats were gone, with no small measure of help from me, despite my swollen, aching knee. He was on me, stretched out over me, incredible, solid heat, gellitine spread thickly to hold me in place. His hands were planted at either side of my shoulders, and his mouth was on mine, sucking, licking, biting, as he rubbed himself against me. His cock, which I already knew to be thick and well shaped, was insinuating itself into every sensation, the hard ridge of the head dragging down the shaft of mine and up again. His body, flattened against mine, provided a sanctuary for them; hot, heavy, intense friction.

I knew I wasn't going to last. It had been a long time since I'd had another body against me, and it had been years since I'd had someone climb inside my head at the same time. He was stroking my libido with every kiss, just as his cock stroked mine with every push of his hips.

He was making these wonderful noises; deep, back of the throat sounds that seemed dangerous and yet needful, an enraged and wounded bull, death at his heels, determined to take the toreador with him. Gore me, I wanted to shout.

I deserve it. Impale me on your horns and toss me to the ground. Trample me. Take. Me.

XXX

I felt him shift, fold upward, ease out of bed. He cast a furtive glance back at me, and I know he couldn't see that I watched him through narrowed eyes. A beautiful silhouette against the semi darkness, he limped toward the windows and parted the curtains slightly, to peer out, hip cocked, weight on his good knee. I had him in profile as he worried with one of his own. He was staring out, not at the pool, but at the heart of a killer.

A few hours ago, I made him scream. He spilled himself against me. And then, he collapsed, sobbing in exhaustion, into my arms. Now the demon has awakened again, and he's looking for Mulder.

Mulder. What the hell are you doing here? I wondered, watching him drag his fingers through his hair, and rub his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Bewitched boy, brilliant man, broken soul. What brought you to my bed? The need for pain. You think I didn't understand what you were whimpering as we rocked together? To be stabbed, gored, slain, destroyed? And then to whip yourself afterward for having enjoyed my touch.

Who did this to you? Who made you believe you deserved pain? Did you do this to yourself? Why? I sighed heavily and rolled out of the bed. You can't cure him, Walter, I told myself. You take him as he is, or leave him alone. You've taken on enough lost causes in your life. "What is it, Son?"

I asked, softly, a hand on his shoulder. I will not let you turn our feelings into an emotional cat o' nine tails. I will not let you make something so unexpected and passionate into a rack upon which you can stretch out your psyche.

He spared me a glance and continued his grim study of the eerie blue-green light of the pool area. "I can't believe you think Janeway is hot."

I laughed. I couldn't help myself. I slid my arm across his shoulder and drew him closer. He surprised me by letting me ease his head to mine. "Are you okay with this?" I asked softly.

"I'm very okay," he said. He lifted his head and looked up at me, studying me as if I was a crime scene. "I can't believe that…" he stopped.

I nudged him. "Rule Number Two. You have to finish sentences."

His brow furrowed up. "Rules? We have rules?"

"I think we need some," I responded gravely.

His chin jutted out, defensively. "Why?"

"I've lived by rules my entire life, Mulder. I'm not going to abandon them now." I softened the words by drawing him back to me. "Especially given the dangers we're facing."

"I've bucked rules my entire life," Mulder sighed against me. "I don't know if I can stand being in a relationship where I could…" He stopped. His voice sounded as if his throat closed up.

"Mulder?" I prompted.

"I could lose you," he whispered.

"No. That's a rule, too. There is nothing you can do to lose me." I reached out and caught his chin, forcing his face up to mine. "Do you understand that? That's the most important rule."

For just a moment, moonlight broke the clouds and crossed the window, filled his eyes, revealed mist and fear. Then he nodded against my hand. "What was Rule number one?"

"No Popular-"

"-culture in bed," he finished with another nod and a laugh. Well, it was more like a snort. "Do I get to make any rules?"

"Of course," I said before I saw the wicked gleam in his eyes. "Within reason. I won't ever intentionally hurt you." The gleam faded. "And I won't dress up like Aunt Bea and feed you apple pie."

"Rule number one, Skinner!" he crowed. "Rule number one."

I cuffed the back of his head. "We aren't in bed." I caught his wrist and pulled him back in that direction. "Rule number four. No 'Sir's, Skinners and Mulders. Not in bed."

He fussed at my grip. "I don't like being called Fox," he told me, flatly.

I released his hand. "I respect that. But I refuse to whisper endearments to Agent Mulder."

"Endearments?" His mouth twitched. "You?"

"Rule number five. Show some respect."

He pushed at my shoulders, sending us backward on the bed, him landing hard on my chest. "Rule number six, sweetheart. Fuck the rules." He kissed me.

Hard.

I wrapped my arms around him and rolled, so that I had him pinned beneath me.

"Respect, darling," I growled. "Or I will find ways to make you suffer."

He wriggled under me. "You just said-"

"I've got the collected works of John Denver on CD, my little muffin. I'll put you in a bubble bath and duct tape headphones to your ears."

For a moment, his mouth fell open, and his eyes widened. "Oh, God, you're so butch," he chuckled beneath me.

I could see him in the growing light. He wasn't quite smiling but his eyes had lost that vacant wounded stare that he wore when he came into the bar last night. That beautiful face looked years younger. He didn't have that normal ravaged look he got when he climbed into the head of a serial killer.

Could I have done that for him? I pulled an arm free to stroke his cheek and he turned against my hand, pressing himself against my touch. "Come back to bed, baby," I urged, and backed up, letting him scramble around to get under the bedclothes, lift them up, make room for me.

"Rule number eight," he mumbled, curling up against my side. "Don't call me 'baby' in front of Scully."

I kissed his head. What are you doing here, Mulder? I wondered yet again. I wasn't prepared for this. When I lost Sharon, I put away the need to have someone, hold someone. I'm at the summit of my life and dipping toward the valley and a final resting place. I don't need to bring someone else along for the ride.

I stroked his bare shoulder, feeling him drop back into slumber. And, of all the people in the world to hitch a ride, why is it him? Because he pays his own way, carries his own weight, knows the route, and can keep me awake in the midnight hour of the journey.

He shifted and sighed, and pulled a hand free to rub at the side of his mouth.

"Hey," I whispered softly. "You never finished that sentence."

He tilted his head toward me, clearly almost asleep. "Wha…?"

"You said 'I can't believe that…' and stopped. What can't you believe?"

He shrugged and tried to snuggle down against me. "I dunno." He twitched.

"Can't remember."

I nudged him again. "Try. I want to know."

He sighed, heavily and spoke into my arm pit. "I can't believe you wanted me."

"Oh, believe it, baby," I murmured, stroking his hair. "Believe it." How long have I wanted you? Six years? Seven? Since the first time I wrestled you in a hallway? Since the first time I thought you had died? Since the first time I saw you, striding through the hallways of the Hoover, seemingly oblivious to the stares, whispers and rumors that persisted wherever you went? How long? Eternity, I think. "Believe it," I repeated softly.

"I want to," he said, on a faint sigh. "I always want to believe."

-THE END-