TITLE: Same Game: Part VI - Nothing But Net

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: Sometimes you just have to let it go and you hope you get it in.

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, 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. 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 Grammar Queen and the kit'n'caboodle for alpha, beta and omega. 

Same Game VI - Nothing But Net by Mik

I'm not sure when I woke. I'm not good at judging time that way. I'm used to just being awake, and knowing from the length and line of the shadows on my walls what time it is. It had to be very early morning. That point where the sun hasn't broken the horizon but has sent word on that he's coming to take over the neighborhood.

Darkness leaves.

It's a grey light. No definable source. I think it might be my favorite time of day. It's the time when everything hangs in the balance. Nothing can be black or white, good or bad, day or night. It's the one time in a twenty-four hour period when I let it all go.

I opened my eyes, found myself adjusting to that greyness and let myself assess things. I was curled against that mountain of body, his arm around my back, his hand cupped around my shoulder.

I wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. The hair on his chest was crushed beneath my cheek, tickling slightly with every breath.

It was a good, safe place to be.

My mouth tasted terrible. Mental note, Mulder: Never go to bed without brushing your teeth after a cum cocktail. Still…what a rush, making him come like that. He roared like a lion and came up off the bed like he'd been levitated by a fakir. I couldn't help but be proud of myself for a job well done. It was more erotic, more exciting, more satisfying seeing him, feeling him come than anything that could have happened to me.

I think it was because he lost control. I've never seen it happen. I've seen him angry, I've seen him enraged, I've had him take me down and hold me like the back line of the Packers, but, never once has he lost that steel under girding of control. In my hands, under my tongue, he let go. I felt my head swell a little with unexpected power.

And look at him, now, I thought, considering his profile in this fine, almost palpable grey light. Strong chin, well shaped nose, surprisingly sensual lips, thick black lashes fanned across those broad cheeks. And, I know something most people don't know, I added, shifting slightly in my muscular cradle. There be dimples in those cheeks.

"What are you smiling about, Mulder?"

Ah, that grumbling voice, reverberating in my ear. I lifted my eyes and found him looking down at me. "What?"

"You look like the proverbial cat with cream right now."

I eased away enough that I could raise up on an elbow and look down on him. "What are you doing awake? Don't you know this is my time?

This is my witching hour. Go back to sleep."

"And miss the chance to see you turn into a bat and fly away?"

He rolled onto his side. "No way." He stroked a hand down my arm.

"You slept a little while, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I slept…" I sent my eyes around until I could find the red light of the VCR clock. For just a moment, it was two red eyes, watching me. I shivered. "About five hours."

He yawned, deeply. Oh, Lord, I could plunge head first into that mouth. "Is that some kind of record for you?"

"You know," I admitted with a wry laugh. "I think it is."

"Well, what time did you want to get back to the house?" He slid a hand over his smooth brow, and patted down the fringe of brown.

"Uh…the house?"

"You said you wanted to get some work done it."

It took me a moment to recognize my stupid excuse. "Oh, no."

I shrugged. "I'll hire someone to come in and-"

"I don't mind helping, Mulder. You'd be surprised to know I'm fairly handy with a hammer and a paint brush."

I wouldn't doubt it, I thought, momentarily imagining him in denim overalls and nothing else. "You know, you've breaking your own rule quite a bit. You've called me Mulder or Agent Mulder several times, in bed."

"Well, as I recall, you were doing a fair amount of 'sirring' yourself," he returned, evenly.

I drew a deep breath. "I guess we both have to pay a penance, then."

"What do you think you have in mind?"

"Well…let's see. We've ruled out Aunt Bea and the apple pie."

"You're insane." He cuffed the back of my head with his hand.

But he was laughing, a nice deep, warm sound, the color of chocolate that didn't fit in my grey world.

"I think I should get another backrub, and you should get…breakfast in bed?"

"Really?" He arched a brow. "What did you think I should eat?"

It wasn't my original intent, I swear it, but I couldn't resist.

I flopped over on my back. "Me."

For a moment, he looked unsure. Just unsure enough that I was prepared to withdraw the suggestion and stumble out some pointless, embarrassed apology. But, he surprised me again, by running a speculative hand down over me, almost testing me for plumpness, like a wicked old woman planning a Hansel pie. "I think…"

He paused, considered me up and down.

I held up two fingers. I was grinning, I know it. The idea of my boss going down on me…hell, I'd probably get off on the image alone.

He looked up at me. His face seemed so…so naked without his glasses. It was an erotic rush to look back. "I think we agreed that you were going to lead one of these days."

It took a second. Flip, flip, flip through the transcripts of previous conversations. Ah, yes. Lead. Sex. Him. Oh, yeah…

"Oh, we will, I promise you that. But, I'd like to think I'm a bit of a gentleman. I'm not going to pop your cherry in a cheap hotel room off the interstate."

He blushed. Even in that light I could see it. It was…well, okay, it was cute. Cute is not normally a word I would put in the same sentence with Walter S. Skinner, but that was cute. "What did you…"

He paused, glanced away and looked back. "What did you have in mind?"

"I dunno." I stretched and even without looking I could feel his eyes slide over me. "I thought maybe a room at the Henley Park or at the very least, your own bed."

"You couldn't afford a room at the Ramada, Mulder," he scoffed and sat up. Impulsively, he squeezed my thigh. "But, I like the way your heart works."

"My…um…heart?" I teased, wiggling my hips a little. I was getting a fairly nice erection and I wanted him to notice. And what is that crack about not being able to afford a room at a nice old place like the Henley Park? Does he really think all my money goes into my closet? How vain does he think I am? I'm going to show that old dog a trick or two.

"What are you smiling about, now?" he asked me, and I noticed his fingers remained on my thigh.

"Nothing in particular." I sat up and took a healthy bite of the roundness of one of his shoulders. Damn, I'm oral. "You."

"Hey." He slapped at me. "Cut that out." I think it might have turned into something silly, but he caught my hands and forced me back on the bed, covering me with his body. Then covering my mouth with his.

Let me get this on record while I'm still coherent: Walter S. Skinner is the make-out king! Comfortable enough to put all his weight on me, he combed his fingers through my hair, and assaulted my mouth like the beach at Normandy. My ears, my chin, the bridge of my nose, my throat got either faint fingertip caresses or determined licks.

And all the while his body was grinding against mine. At one point, I felt his legs part and lock around mine for leverage, and then he really began to rock.

"Oh, God, Walter," I gasped whenever my mouth was free. When it wasn't, my only response was a groan that could have been fright, pain, or physical thrill, and to try to lift my hips against his.

Since he outweighs me by a good forty pounds, I wasn't having much luck, but it sure felt good trying.

He found that place where neck meets shoulder and latched on like a lamprey, dragged his fingers down my arms, to find my fingers and tangle with them, and then he started a sort of circular motion with his hips which gave me incredible pressure and then just the lightest brushing of his hair across my cock.

I could feel it, I could see it, I could taste it coming; an orgasm of epic proportions. This was going to prove to be more powerful, more amazing, and more memorable than that first one in the pool house with…oh, hell what was her name? Doesn't matter.

She had tiny round tits, but she was willing to share, and one touch and I was a goner. "Ohh, shiiit, Andie."

He stilled over me, even as I was still pumping and shuddering.

"What?"

Uh oh, black cloud of a face. "Uh…"

"Who the hell is Andy?" He was backing off of me while I was still scrambling to hold on to him.

"She was a girl I dated when I was fourteen," I gasped, trying to coax my heart back down my throat. I looked down between us.

What a mess. What a beautiful, glorious mess. I smiled back up at him. "Thank you, Walter."

He kept moving, backing all the way to the bathroom. He came back with a wet washcloth and a towel and held them out to me. For a moment, all I could do was look up and admire the way he was built.

He was…I don't know…if a '63 Stingray could be a man, he'd be one, all horsepower and aerodynamic curves. He'd be bright red, too.

But he'd smile. And Walter wasn't smiling. He was holding the towel in his hands, frowning. I wiped the last of our cum away and sat up, trying to reach for him. "Walter?"

He took a couple of steps backward, staying out of my reach.

"Walter?" I repeated. "Wally? Uh…sir?"

He was twisting the towel into something that looked painful.

"Do you have to think of women to be with me?"

"No, it's not mandatory, I just…" Oh. I get it. I shifted toward the edge of the bed. "I was having the most incredible orgasm I've had since I was fourteen. My mind just had to go back and try to remember her name, that's all." I twisted a finger toward my temple.

"It's the weird way my mind works. Associations." I smirked at him.

"For the rest of my life White Castle hamburgers will make me think of you."

He looked down at me, doubtfully. "White Castle hamburgers?"

"Yeah." I pointed across the room to the trash can. "Dinner last night."

"Well, I'm glad to know I'm inspired by haute cuisine," he muttered and took the washcloth back to the bathroom.

"Take me someplace classy for dinner, and I'll give you a chance for a recount," I offered, following him. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection. There was a different kind of nakedness in his face now. It made me uncomfortable to see him so exposed. I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my face to his shoulder. "That was incredible, by the way."

"Thanks." He shrugged, effectively dislodging me, and turned toward the tub. "Excuse me. I think I'm going to take a shower."

He threw the plastic curtain back, almost savagely.

"Need someone to wash your back?" I offered. I knew we were on thin ice here, and I even understood why, to a point. It is not kosher or kind to call out someone else's name in the middle of mind blowing sex. But, surely he could see I didn't mean it the way it seemed. Couldn't he?

"Thanks no. Why don't you see if you can go back to sleep?" he suggested, stepping into the tub.

"I don't think so, macho man," I countered, following him, even though it was a tiny tub, and he was filling it up all by himself. "I don't sleep well with a pulse of 200. Give it a chance to come down a little." I reached over and started the water.

It banged in the pipes as it rattled its way down to us, and I'm sure those I didn't wake up with my scream were wide awake now.

When I turned around, he was still frowning at me. I put a hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry I said her name, Walter. I wasn't thinking of her like that. I was just trying to remember the name of the last person to make me feel so damned good and-"

"It's okay, Mulder." He caught my wrist and gave it a little squeeze. "It's okay."

"You're Muldering again," I warned him.

"You don't like Fox."

"I like you calling me Fox," I answered, and to my surprise, I did. There was something very…dare I say comforting? about the way he said my name. I leaned up, tried to kiss him.

He put his free hand on my shoulder and pushed me back. "Look, let's be realistic here."

I made a face. "Oh, do we hafta'?" I knew what was about to come out of his mouth. I even knew why. I just didn't want to hear it. "I don't have anything to offer you-"

"No?" I hefted his cock in one hand. Even flaccid it was a handful.

"There's more to life than sex, Mulder."

"All right." I released him and folded my arms across my chest.

"What are you saying? You're tired of me? I'm too high maintenance?

Too old? Too young? Too me?" I shrugged and backed away from him.

"Gee, this is a short relationship, even for me."

He reached out and stroked my cheek. "Mulder, compared to you I'm an old man. You're young and passionate and beautiful and-"

Ah, so that's it. "Walter, you need your glasses," I broke in.

"And from where I'm standing there is nothing old, or apathetic or ugly about you. Don't you get it, Wally? You're it for me."

He scowled. "Did you just call me Wally?"

"Yeah." I grinned at him, tauntingly. "Whatcha' gonna' do about it?"

There was a hint of a smile beneath that scowl. "I'm gonna' throw your skinny ass over my knee and give you the spanking you've deserved since you were five." Suddenly, he stopped. "Oh, shit, Mulder, I'm sorry."

I know it showed on my face, even though I tried to keep the grin in place. I shook my head and swallowed. "It's okay, it's okay."

I stepped over the rim of the tub and fumbled for the paper thin towel. "I'm going to…um…go back to bed. Come back when you're done, okay?"

XXX

Idiot! I wanted to bang my head against the tiles until I bled. You don't threaten an abused child with a spanking. Even I know that. And how could I even threaten raising a hand to him, the way I felt about him? But the worst of it was that, despite the color draining from his face, and the way his features went slack, there was a moment-I almost missed it-where his eyes gleamed hopefully.

There was some demon in the pit of his existence that craved the violence, hungered for the pain.

I ducked my head under the steaming water and groaned, "Oh, God,

Mulder, what did they do to you?"

A few moments later, I came back to the bed, a towel around my mid-section. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from me, slumped forward. I climbed onto the bed behind him and knelt there, fingertips on his shoulder, waiting for some cue.

He remained silent. His hands were knots against his thighs.

I pressed my fingertips into the muscles of his shoulder and made rough circles in his flesh.

After a few moments, he risked a glance back at me. "What are you doing?"

I willed my voice to remain even, unconcerned. "I believe my part of the penance was a back rub."

"Uh, yeah, but I already got a front rub."

"Shh. Let me do this." I began to make those circles with both hands, over both shoulders. I found the nickel sized pucker where Scully's bullet had pierced him. I was compelled to press my mouth to it, not a kiss, really, just a momentary homage to the prices he paid for his belief.

He reacted to that, leaning back into my mouth. "That's nice, Walter."

I slipped my fingers around the balls of his shoulders. "Come on, lay down. I'll do this right."

He turned around, meeting my eyes. "Walter. You are doing this right."

His eyes. So earnest, so warm, so forgiving, so…young. I pressed my mouth to his brow. "Listen to me," I whispered against his flesh.

"Don't ever doubt that I love you."

I felt him shake his head. "You're crazy." He lifted his head, and I looked down at him. "I studied crazy. I know."

I smiled at him. "Takes one to know one." Hardly original, but certainly apt.

It made him laugh. What a sound. Talk about alien! He settled against me so abruptly that we fell back into the pillows. I just wrapped my arms around him, and held him. "When do you want to get started on the house?"

"Oh, good grief, Walter, I don't," he chuckled. "That was just a ruse. An excuse to get out of town before I made a complete jackass out of myself, standing under your window in a torn tee shirt screaming 'Skinner' in a bad imitation of Marlon Brando."

"I could see you as a young Marlon Brando," I said thoughtfully.

"Me? Oh, no. I'm not tough enough." He tilted his head upward, to look at me. "You could have been Marlon Brando. I'd be…

Maxwell Smart."

"Mulder, I said sternly. "What did I say about popular culture in bed?"

"What did you say about Mulders and sirs in bed?"

He had me there. I nodded. "Well, it looks as if we've got one of each, at the moment."

Laughing, he rolled over and pressed his cheek to my chest.

"That's good," he murmured. "Just the way it ought to be."

I toyed with his hair. Where did he get such soft hair? It should be coarse and thick, not fine and silky. "I'm sorry I-"

"Shh," he whispered against me. "I know you didn't mean it."

Was that regret I thought I heard? A millisecond of flat disappointment? No, Mulder, I thought, twisting his hair in my fingers. I'm not going to hurt you. Not this time. Not ever.

"Ow!" I felt his fingers come over mine, stilling them.

"You may be unfamiliar with the concept, sir, but that hair is attached to my head."

"Sorry, sorry." I pulled him upward and kissed the top of his head.

The light was growing, and I could hear the giggling voices of small children on their way somewhere, being followed by shushing parents, reminding me that there was a whole world of Saturday morning outside those thin, motel room walls. I nudged him.

"What do you want to do today, if we aren't going to work on the house?"

His chin was digging into my chest, his eyes half closed, but a smile started to curve on those skillful lips. "This?" he suggested,

lazily.

I nudged him again. "Come on, this is Massachusetts. Let's find something that'll scare the locals."

He backed up in a sitting position, laughing. "Walter, this IS Massachusetts. The only thing we could do to scare locals up here is to be openly Republican." He shifted around, dropping his feet near my pillow, and settling back, hands behind head, toward the foot of the bed. "I could take you up and show you my old stomping grounds," he offered, thoughtfully.

I did not sense a tremendous desire in his suggestion. I reached out and caressed his ankle. "Is that what you want to do?"

"No." He turned and dragged his tongue along mine. "I want to stay in this room and do things we could still get arrested for in twelve states." Suddenly he was sitting up again, his hands on my chest.

"Let's go to Boston."

"Boston?" I captured his hands. "Why Boston?"

"Because my favorite bookstore is in Boston," he answered, tucking his legs under him, so that he looked very much like he was begging. "Because, I want to walk the Common with you. Because…"

He leaned down and whispered, a low, throaty sound that went right to my spine. "…because there's a great bar there where we could go dancing."

I froze. "Dancing?"

He sat up, smiling at me. For that smile I might almost be willing…

"Yeah. It's a great place, Walter. Not a gay club, just a place where nobody cares what anyone else is doing. I used to go there all the time. With girls," he added quickly. "But, now I want to take you."

"No." I pushed his hands away and sat up.

"Oh."

I turned and looked at him. He was kneeling there, looking at his hands. "What?" I asked.

"You're ashamed to go out with me?" He shook his head. "I know, it's okay. It's a little too soon. No sense burning your bridges.

I under-"

I cut him off with a hand pressed over his mouth. "I don't mind going anywhere with you. I am not ashamed of you and I'll go any place you like, just not dancing."

He nodded against my hand and pulled away. "I see. We should do 'guy stuff', right? Go see a baseball game, go fishing? Scratch and spit and talk about hooters?"

"That's not it, either." I sighed, and reached for my bag, unzipping.

"Well, then, tell me what 'it' is?" he snapped.

I routed around for clean socks and briefs. "I don't dance."

"You mean, you don't like to."

"No." I pulled out a dark green polo that I hated, but wore once a month, because it was the last thing Sharon gave me. "I mean I don't. I don't…."

After a moment, he said, simply, "Number two."

"I don't know how."

I waited for a jeering remark, a whoop of derisive laughter, but all I got was silence, so I risked a glance over my shoulder.

He was just staring at me. "What?" I demanded.

"Is that it?" He backed toward the edge of the bed. "Is that really it?"

"Yes, what else would it be?"

"That you don't want to dance with me," he answered.

"Fox Mulder," I said on a long, sigh. "I would be delighted to dance with you. But…I…don't…know…how."

"Come on, Walter," he coaxed, coming around the bed. "Everyone knows how to dance. They make you learn this stuff when you're a kid. Alphabet, simple addition, box step."

"I'm afraid, Agent Mulder that my extracurricular activities involved chicken coops, and sheep pens, not cotillions and etiquette classes." I said this more roughly than I meant.

Mulder didn't take offense. "You got off lucky, then," he answered, easing the shirt out of my hands. "Come on, it's not so hard." He wrapped himself around me, wiggling his crotch against mine.

"It's a very logical process. It's predictable." He began to rock, holding me against him so I had no choice but to rock with him.

It was slow, and almost comforting. "It's a pattern," he purred, putting his cheek to my shoulder. "It's a rhythm." He lifted his head and sought my eyes. "It's like sex, Walter. And God knows you can do sex."

I have to admit it felt good to hold him, to sway gently to some tune only he heard. We didn't move from that spot on the floor, but I felt just slightly transported. I put my arms around his shoulders, held him close to me, savored the warmth of his body against mine, and let him establish a pattern of movement I could predict, follow, enjoy.

We had a pattern, he and I. Advance, retreat, advance, connect, retreat, retreat, advance. It was a rhythm in my head. For this moment, we had connected. I felt joined to him.

"You see, Walter, it's good." He lifted his head and kissed me softly. "We can dance at your place, can't we?"

Impulsively, I took his face in my hands and kissed him back.

"Advance," I murmured.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." I released him. "Yes, we can dance at my place."

-THE END-