TITLE: Same Game: Part VII - Fouled Out

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, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current. Skinner has always been their boss. And I don't give a damn how many arms Krycek has, he doesn't get to play.

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

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

Same Game VII - Fouled Out by Mik

Advance. Advance. Advance. I've been trying to figure out what he meant since he kissed me and murmured that one word.

I tried asking him, but he started that ring around the rosy talk he's learned dealing with the bureaucrats, and I never did get anything remotely like a real answer. But I will.

We goofed around in the hotel room until almost nine o'clock. By then, Skinner's orderly nature and routine were being seriously challenged. Even the day we called out, he had breakfast on the table by eight, and we were dressed and the dishes done by nine. Lounging around, naked, in a hotel room was just too much of a strain for him. So I threw on some jeans, and let the trained field investigator find us a coffee shop.

He spent most of breakfast just staring at me. I can't believe, in all the years I've been reporting to him he's never seen Breakfast With Mulder. Scully is accustomed to it, even has a modified version of it. I can never gauge just how hungry I'll really be when I sit down to breakfast, so I never order any of those combo-things that coffee shops specialize in; you know, three pancakes, some sort of formed animal flesh, potatoes/toast/grits, wilted lettuce and watered-down juice. I go directly to the 'sides' menu, start at the top and work my way down. Top on this hit parade was a blueberry muffin, and a cup of coffee.

He wasn't exactly shy about ordering. He wanted pork chops for some reason. Not a formed animal flesh I could truly appreciate at this time of day. But he seemed to think it was appropriate. I made a mental note never to let him wake up when it was still dark. It clearly confuses him.

After the muffin, I went on to fruit and some bacon. And more coffee. He was just dragging the last of his dry wheat toast across his disgustingly runny egg yolks, when I ordered a bowl of cereal and some orange juice. He was nursing a cup of decaf during the grand finale, cinnamon roll and a milkshake.

The waitress brought the check one last time, glaring at me as she set it down, daring me to find one more thing to order. I grinned at her. "How are the hash browns?"

Skinner grabbed the check, hastily. "That will be all," he told her in his best dismissal voice. I nearly got up to leave at that tone.

"Mulder, do you eat like that all the time?" His eyes skimmed the check and I could hear the old adding machine crunch the numbers.

I slurped the last of my milkshake and reached for my wallet. "Just breakfast."

He made a slight waving gesture with his hand and pulled himself out of the booth. I backed out from my side, and I know his eyes were on my ass. "I don't know how you do it, Mulder," he murmured.

"Nervous energy. Didn't you know fidgeting burns calories?

Haven't you noticed how much weight Scully's lost working with me?"

He frowned at me. "Cancer can do that, Mulder."

I flinched internally, but shook my head and pulled my jacket out of the corner of the booth. "She started losing weight long before she was given cancer."

"Mulder."

I twisted to look at him as I was tugging on my jacket.

There was a frown around his face, as if he didn't like remembering losing Scully, as if he felt personally responsible for her near death. I felt myself bristling. How could he assume responsibility? I mean, how dare he? Then I remembered all the things he had done to try and save her. "It's all right," I said quietly. "She's alive now."

"Yes," he said, and for a moment, I heard something in his voice, something distant, something that sounded faintly like a hiss.

The woman who rang up our bill didn't pay any attention to the many times the total had been changed, or the end result. She just banged numbers on that aging register, popping her gum, and smiled past us as she held out a hand for Skinner's cash. "You boys enjoying your trip?"

We looked at each other, flushing with guilt. Were we THAT obvious? I thought Skinner was actually going to stammer out some detailed explanation about how he came up to find his wayward agent before he drilled holes in his head again or something. I grabbed the change and said, "Yeah, thanks."

Out in the car, I held out the fistful of cash and coin to him. He shoved the key in the ignition and backed the car out of the slot quickly, as if he expected the cashier to come running out and yell 'Hey, I figured it out. You're gay!' He looked down at my hand, that frown furrowing up his brow.

"I was a good boy and ate all my breakfast," I announced.

"Can I keep it?"

He shook his head at me. "You ate everyone's breakfast, Mulder. Yes, if it means that much to you."

"Goodie," I told him, and opened my hand, making a great show of counting it up. "Will you take me to Toys R Us now? I want a Darth Maul action figure."

His brow wrinkled up. "A what? No, never mind. I don't want to know." He pulled back onto the interstate. "The only advantage I could ever see for not having any children was that I would never be forced to go into a place like Toys R Us."

Well, that took all the fun out of THAT. I folded up the bills, neatly, and stacked the change in the palm of my hand. Then I took a great deal of pleasure in working the money back down into the pocket of his Dockers. "I'm a little old to be getting the change just for eating my breakfast," I reminded him, wriggling my hand deep enough into his pocket to drag one of my fingers against the roundness of his balls. Let him remember how old I am now.

He squirmed under my caress and tried to pretend he didn't like it. "Mulder, I'm behind the wheel of a moving vehicle.

Now is not the time."

I did not remove my hand. I kept my fingers still, but I stayed there, letting my fingers rest on the cotton pocket lining right over his thigh. It would be time soon enough.

He took me back to the house to pick up my car, and we walked silently through the place together double checking doors and windows. At the back door I turned and sent my eyes around again, remembering my mother in this kitchen, angry about something I didn't understand at the time, pouring a bottle of Jim Beam down the sink. "I've gotta' sell this place," I muttered.

He put his hand on my shoulder then, and squeezed. "We can come up again in a couple of weeks and get it ready," he offered quietly.

We. The promise of that simple pronoun warmed me. I was part of a 'we'.

At the door of my car, he paused, glancing around to see how easily we could be observed. "Are you coming back to my place?" he asked, softly.

I opened my door and tossed my bag in the back seat. "Sure, if that's what you want. You did promise me a dance."

He blushed again. He is so damned cute! "I'll stop and pick up something to barbecue," he offered.

There you go, manly stuff. We'll toss some meat on an open flame, and beat our chests and belch and feel like tough guys. And then I'm going to drag him inside and let him make me scream like a girl. I nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

There was an awkward moment, hovering there, not knowing whether to shake his hand or hug him or just climb in the car and drive away.

Walter S. Skinner makes snap decisions all day long. He made this one in a snap and a half, leaning in to brush a kiss across my lips. "Hurry," he whispered, and backed away, turned on his heel and marched (yeah, he does march) toward his car. I stood there, mouth open, lips tingling, cock hardening, hair on the back of my neck starting to stand up.

I heard his car start and move away from the house, and I scrambled in behind the wheel, thinking I could play catch up with him all the way down the interstate. It might be fun to flirt at seventy miles per hour. As I flicked the key in the ignition I checked my rearview mirror, and for one moment, I saw red eyes. I felt my breath catch, and my heart thump a little and I looked again, and saw a driveway that needed to be retopped before I could sell the house.

I had to wait for him when I got to the complex. I don't know when I managed to pass him--I had a look out for him all the way. But somewhere in that long drive, he must have made a pit stop, because I sat in front of his house for nearly an hour before I saw his sedan pull up and make the electronic gate swing open. I started my car and swooped in behind him before the gate could shut, and pulled into his guest space or, as I now thought of it, my space.

I had been sitting there with a mite-sized unease that seemed to grow almost elephantine as the moments passed, wondering where he was. I couldn't define it, couldn't give it a flavor. I wasn't exactly worried about him, but I knew this was hard on him. It went against everything in his life, everything he stood for, everything he believed. There had been moments over the last few days when I wanted to hand it back to him with both hands, but then he'd look at me...just this look he has, and I'd want to hold on tight and fight everyone and everything to keep him.

This wasn't just him. There was something else, something unrelated to us, to this little world I was hiding in. Something out THERE. While waiting for him, I had scrambled around for my cell, and tried calling Scully. Sometimes just hearing her settles things for me. She's so logical that the sound of her voice can bring clarity.

She wasn't home. I was about to try her cell, but he arrived, and I forgot about everything except teaching him to dance. Red meat was about to overshadow red eyes.

I climbed out of my car just as he went to the trunk of his and began pulling out brown paper bags. "Give me a hand here, Mulder?" he asked.

Oh, right. He went for groceries. "Sure." I let him put two fairly heavy sacks in my arms, while he took another two, and nudged his trunk shut with his hip. Nice, firm hip. I knew it by heart, now. Slightly concave and attached to a firm, well-formed butt. Yeah, the guy was made to be in a Dockers ad, I decided, following him to the stairwell. These waves of physical lust that overcame me around him were bewildering but undeniably pleasant, and I shifted myself discretely as I felt the beginnings of another erection.

In the kitchen, he moved about efficiently, putting things away. I surprised him by remembering where I found things during my unappreciated attempt at breakfast and put some of the stuff away myself. It was strangely comfortable to wander around his kitchen as if I belonged there. It was so...so domestic. I was used to the chaotic jungle of my life, and this man was trying to offer me heart and hearth.

"How are you doing there, Mulder?" he asked, easing a box from my hands.

"Huh?" I blinked at him.

"You've been staring at the linguini for five minutes.

Don't you like pasta?"

"Oh, yeah, high in carbs, good for running." I reached into the bag again and found it empty.

"Mulder?" He put a hand on my shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Why do you keep asking that?" I shrugged him away. "I'm fine. Really. So...raw meat for dinner, huh?"

"No, I thought I'd wave a match over it," he answered, with a forced chuckle. "Don't you like barbecue? Is that what you're so carefully not saying?"

"I like barbecue fine," I answered. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, you seem a little..." He frowned. "Never mind."

"Rule number two, Skinner," I retorted.

"Distant. You seem distant," he blurted out. "And you made that crack about raw meat, so I thought-"

"I didn't say raw meat," I corrected him. "I said red meat."

For a moment, he looked as if he was going to argue with me. Then he shrugged. "I misunderstood you. How do you like it cooked?"

I knew then that he was right. I did say raw meat. Why? Because that's what I feel like. Raw meat, set in a trap waiting for my dangerous darkness to come back. "Um...I don't know, a little pink in the middle." I went out into the living room, and stared down at the pool below his terrace. What is the matter with you, Mulder?

"What's the matter, Mulder?" I felt his hand on my shoulder again, his long fingers working against the cords of muscle in my neck. "Are you having second thoughts?"

And thirds and fourths. "No. Not at all." I turned into his arm, and let him hold me. "I don't know what's in my head at the moment. I guess I'm just worried."

"We'll be okay, Mulder." He let his fingers dance over my shoulders. "We're two intelligent men. We can make this work."

Men. The operative word in that sentence was men. I sighed heavily. Still, he didn't seem to mind our anatomical similarities. He seemed to appreciate them quite a bit this morning. I sighed again, a different sort of sigh. He smelled good. I'm not sure what it was, aside from clean, but I wanted to just stand there and inhale him. No aftershave, no scent of soap or detergent, just pure, unadulterated Walter Skinner. Suddenly I was hungry and it wasn't for red meat or pasta. I turned my head just enough to get my mouth against his neck and suck.

I felt him swallow against me. I heard him groan with pleasure even though he didn't make a sound. I groped until I could find his fingers and twisted them into mine, pressing the whole length of my body against his. There was no sign of arousal, yet, but there was no sign of resistance, either. There was something about the feel of his body against mine. Safe, strong, solid. I'm not sure exactly what it was, but I craved it at that moment.

Food had become extremely unimportant to me. "Can we go upstairs?" I asked against his throat.

"Mulder." His laugh was self-conscious. "We just...only this morning...I have to start the coals."

I held on to him, even though I knew he was going to try and pull away. "I think we're smokin' already, Mr. Skinner, sir."

He gently disengaged his hands and put them on my shoulders.

"Relax, Fox. We've got the weekend. Let's just eat and talk for a little while. Give me a chance to recuperate, or I won't be able to have as much fun."

"Oh, well, for your sake, then." I backed away from him, but he held on just long enough to claim one kiss, one deep, impassioned, soul-sucking kiss, before he released me and smiled.

"You are good for an old man's ego, you know that?"

"Old?" I howled, following him to the terrace. "I'd like to point out that there's less than a decade between us."

He looked down at the barbecue. "Yes, but it's what we put in those years that can make a difference," he said, somberly.

I caught myself glancing over my shoulder, but I wasn't sure what I was looking for. So I merely nodded, trying to look as if I could possibly understand.

Something caught my eye, sitting on the table in the corner and I went to pick it up. "You read GQ?" I asked, pretty gracelessly.

He was building a pyramid of charcoal lumps. "Yeah. It's interesting. Lots of good health articles and things like that." He glanced over at me. "Why?"

"I dunno." I shrugged. "You just always talk about this rural background of yours, you know...chicken pens and sheep shit," I chuckled. "I just had this image of you, just now, sitting on a tractor, reading Gentleman's Quarterly."

He reached over and took the magazine away from me. "Go grab us a beer, will you?" he asked, resuming his assembly of an altar to Bael.

I went to the fridge and collected a couple of long necks.

Well, he must think I'm special, I told myself. Last week he only had Sam Adams. He bought Heineken for the weekend.

I brought them back to the terrace and twisted the cap for him. "So, have you seen Scully this week?" I asked, tipping mine back.

He nodded as he lowered his bottle. "I saw her yesterday at the briefing. She's the one who gave the address for your summer house."

The beer turned bitter in my mouth. "Briefing? What briefing?"

Guilt washed over him, visibly. "An armored car robbery

yesterday. Nothing to be concerned about." He gave me an unconvincing shrug. "We were setting up some surveillance on a possible suspect."

"Why send Scully?"

"Well, we needed an extra man, and since her partner was off duty-"

The unease was back; the size of a semi-truck now, and planted square on my chest. "You sent her out on surveillance without me?"

He flicked me a glance and returned to his pyrotechnics.

"She is a skilled investigator, Mulder. She didn't learn everything from you."

"But, what if she gets hurt, what if she-"

"What if she did just fine and brought the perp in?" he countered, his soft firm voice cutting through the rising panic in mine. "Do her good to get a little glory, don't you think?"

I looked down at my beer. "Is that why you did it?"

"Mulder, I didn't DO anything. We needed an extra gun.

Policy directs that we utilize those agents whose partners are on sick leave or vacation. She was available, I used her."

"How did it go?" I asked. Maybe she did need a little glory. She'd been under my shadow too damned long. Shadow...I shook it off, decided to focus on him.

"I don't know. It was set up to start last night." He stepped back from the barbecue. "Now that's a proper fire."

I considered it. "Looks good." I considered him; broad chest, powerful arms, ugly shirt. "So do you."

He pulled his gaze to me, mouth slightly agape in protest and disbelief. "I'd have never taken you for such a sex fiend, Mulder."

I leered at him around the lip of the beer bottle. "Always keep 'em guessing, that's my motto." I ran my tongue around the lip and then took the whole neck of the bottle into my mouth, slowly and deliberately, my eyes fixed on him.

He swallowed again, watching me. "Well, the coals need a while to get hot enough," he decided, moving toward me.

I grinned as much as I could and pulled the bottle out, ending with a loud, obscene suck.

"Get inside," he growled.

He was pulling me into his arms, settling his teeth against the cords of my neck, making me sigh, when I heard it. I stiffened.

He lifted his head. "Mulder?"

"I..." I stopped, listening. Heard it again. But this time it sounded different. "It's my cell." I pulled away from him and trotted to my jacket, flung over the back of a chair. "Mulder."

The hiss I'd been hearing all morning was suddenly a loud, triumphant roar. I dropped the phone into my jacket pocket and started to tug it on.

"Mulder?" He was coming across the floor toward me, and I jerked away from him. "Scully was shot. She's on her way to the hospital." I bolted.

Just as Mulder reached the door, my own phone began to ring.

I had a choice of ignoring it, and catching up to him so he could fight and struggle to get to her, or letting him go, possibly getting pertinent details about my agent's condition. I heard the door slam shut as I reached my phone.

There had been a firefight. Two suspects and two agents down. Condition on all four unknown. Scully and the other agent were en route to the local ER. I grabbed my jacket and keys and started off, not five minutes behind Mulder.

The fifteen minute drive was just long enough to decide that if Scully was seriously injured, Mulder would never forgive me, and just long enough to remember a million wonderful little crumbs that I'd have to live on if I lost him. Visuals; that lazy smile he gave me this morning, the way his hair stood up in all directions when he woke, the incredible, casual beauty of his body, the way he could look so innocent while trying to seduce me with a beer bottle.

Audio; the soft, even breathing of truly restful sleep, the little high-pitched moan when he came, the pointless, tuneless humming, that half snort laughter. Eccentricities; dancing, bookstores, the way he ordered breakfast, the way he loved me.

Loves me. No, if something happens to Scully, I told myself. It will all be past tense.

As usual, Mulder couldn't contain himself in the hospital.

He had yelled and threatened and made demands until security could be called. They had isolated him in a waiting room, and promised to send a doctor to him. I flashed my badge and got her condition before I was directed to him, pacing like a wild animal, eyes as bright as sunlight through jungle. "Agent Mulder?"

He jerked around. "You bastard," he rasped. "She didn't need to go. You could have found someone else."

His anger didn't surprise me. I was prepared for it. I wasn't prepared for the way the accusation in his eyes wounded me. I caught his shoulders, held him tight. "She was next on the list, Mulder. Her partner was unavailable. Relax. She's going to be okay. She's going to have a little scar on her shoulder. Another thing in common with you."

He didn't appreciate my humor. He tried pulling away from me. "Where is she? I want to see her."

I held fast. "She's in surgery. They're removing the bullet. She'll be fine."

"She won't be fine, she got shot." He struggled against me.

"It's my fault. I should have been here."

I should have foreseen that gaping maw opening to swallow the fault whole. "How is it your fault, Mulder? Are you saying you could have prevented a firefight?"

"If I had been here she wouldn't have been next on the list." I felt a dangerous little tremor run through him, as if he was just moments away from tears.

I glanced around, saw that no one could observe us, and stroked his hair back from his wild, grieving eyes. "It's all right, baby," I promised, in a low voice. "She's going to be fine. I spoke to her doctor myself. No major tissue damage at all."

"Don't." He jerked away from my touch.

"Mulder, Fox." I tried to reach for him, but he put distance between us. "Don't do this. It will be all right. Come on home with me. They'll call us when she's out of-"

He put his hands up as if to ward off a blow. "No, I want to..." He stopped, flicked a glance toward the door and then back to me, lowering his voice. "I need to stay. You go." He swallowed. "Go on home. I'll be along in a while."

"You'll come home later?" I repeated, wanting to make sure there was no miscommunication, that I expected him to be back in my arms by evening. "My place?" I added, in a whisper.

He nodded, jerkily. "Yeah. Later."

"You'll be all right?" He looked so lost, so forlorn, hunched into his jacket, staring at the floor. I wanted to hold him, comfort him, promise him every rosy, wonderful thing I could think of. Damn it, today I would be his daddy, if he needed it. If he needed balloons and merry-go-rounds and action figures, I'd give them to him. Anything to take that dark, hopeless expression from his eyes.

He nodded again.

I tried to put my hand on his shoulder. "Fox, she's going to be all right."

He nodded once again and stepped roughly away from me.

"Yeah, I know," he said, without any hint of the passion that usually flavored his words. "Look...don't worry about me. I'll be along...as soon as I hear something."

A code sounded behind us, and his eyes went to the doorway, his face paled.

I put up my hands to stop him if he tried to get through the doors. "Listen to it, listen to it," I repeated, roughly.

"They're calling for a crash cart on the fourth floor, cardiology. She's here on this floor. It's not her. It's not Scully."

He relaxed a little, sagging toward the wall. "I'll see you in a little while," he promised, without much enthusiasm.

I just want to see her...you know, be here when she wakes up."

"Do you want me to get you some coffee?" I offered.

He shook his head, and rested his brow against the scuffed green paint. "Save me a beer, will ya'?"

I wanted to enfold him, caress him, promise him that it would be all right, she would be all right, but all I could do was drag a hand across the sleeve of his jacket and squeeze slightly as I reached his wrist.

I haven't been moved to tears in many years. When Sharon died. When Ray died. When I thought Mulder died. That morning, being told my agent (and, yes, for many years I have thought of him as MY agent) had eaten his gun, there was no one I could share my grief with, no one who could understand the depth of it. And now, I had a double barrel shot of potential grief; the injury of one of the finest agents, finest young women, finest people I had ever had

the honor of knowing, and the loss of someone who, in such a short time, had come to mean more than my life.

I stopped at the nurse's station again. The little girl (she seemed far too young and untouched to have seen the things a nurse has seen) looked up at me, wide-eyed. "Is he going to be all right?" she whispered.

I nodded. "They're partners. They've been together many years."

"'Partners'? You mean, they just work together? Is that all?" She rolled her eyes a little. "I thought they were lovers the way he was carrying on."

Lovers? No, he is MY lover. Would he 'carry on' like that if something happened to me? He couldn't. Could he? Would I matter enough to him that he'd make a scene, not caring what others thought? "They're very close. Good partners are." For Mulder, a good partner was worth a hundred times more than a lover. "Could someone check on him in a little while?"

She nodded. "I can have a volunteer bring him some coffee."

"That would be good. Have we heard anything about her progress?"

She consulted a clipboard. "Still in surgery."

I rapped the counter with my knuckles. "Thank you. Good night."

In the parking lot, I slid behind the wheel and sagged in my seat. Should I have skipped over Scully? Could I have made another decision? No, she was right, and ready, and more than willing to take the assignment, with or without her partner. Mulder needed to realize that. He would. Eventually. But, at what cost?

Reluctant to leave him, but mindful of a pit full of coals left glowing on my terrace, I started the car, and maneuvered my way out of the parking lot. I couldn't erase the image of that lost, anxious little boy I left behind. There were many childish things about Mulder's personality that I found irritating as his superior. There were many childlike things I found engaging as his lover.

But, I had never really thought of him as a child until that moment when he let his head fall against the wall in defeat. I had to make that up to him, somehow. Balloons and merry-go-rounds and action figures.

I was passing a department store I had passed a hundred times before when unexpected and uncharacteristic inspiration struck. I cut across two lanes of traffic, ignoring horns of protest, and pulled into the lot.

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

I was smiling to myself when I heard the buzzer downstairs.

I had received a call from the surgeon about forty minutes ago that Scully was out of surgery, out of recovery and doing well. She would probably be discharged in the morning. The wayward partner had seen her and had been sent home.

Home. For today, home meant here, with me. I released the electronic gate and went to put the steaks on.

He knocked a few moments later. I let him in, mistaking that glow in his eyes for eagerness. "Well?" I asked.

"She'll live," he answered, striding into the living room, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "No thanks to you."

"Mulder, it was in the line of-"

"Fuck that," he snarled. "You did it to get even with me."

I stopped as abruptly as I would hitting a brick wall. "You plan to explain that charge, Agent Mulder?"

"You had to do it, didn't you?" He moved toward me, his eyes an all too familiar fire of anger. "Can't forgive me for seducing you, for making you face what you really are, so you tried to take it out on my partner."

"What the hell are you talking about, Mulder?" I put my hands on his shoulders, and held him at arm's length from me. "As I recall, it was a mutual decision, and I, for one, have no complaints about it."

He slapped my hands away. "That's bullshit, Skinner, and you know it. I saw the way you reacted to that cashier this morning. You can't stand it that some GUY got in your pants. You can't stand it that the GUY is me. Spooky Mulder made you turn queer." He sneered the words. "You knew you couldn't do anything to me directly, so you put my partner in harm's way."

It took me a moment or two to control myself, and by that point I already had him by the collar, pulling him up to dance on his toes. My fist was pulled back to strike, and it was only in that instant that I realized what his words meant. I lowered my fist, slowly, and eased him to the floor. Carefully, I worked my fingers free of his shirt front and took a step back. "I know you don't mean

that, Mulder. And if you really do, you should leave, now."

I was right. For a moment, there was a look of stunned disappointment, and then for only a fraction of a moment, the crumpled face of a wounded child. Then the cold, hard sneer returned. "Don't even have the balls to take me on anymore, huh, Skinner?"

I wrestled with two desires; to knock him to the floor, and to hold him tight to me. I turned, instead, to the front door, and opened it.

"Throwing me out?" he jeered.

"No. Asking you to leave."

He stalled. I could see his mind working on a reason to stay, another sally on my senses, something to push me over the edge. He swallowed, ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, and fixed a dark green stare at me.

Before he could say anything else I'd have to listen to in my dreams for the rest of my life, I shook my head and gestured toward the door. "Go. Go on." I looked up. He was still standing there, fists in his pockets, shifting his weight almost imperceptibly from one leg to the other. "Mulder," I said, pushing the door closed but not shut. "I won't do it. I won't beat you up just because you think you allowed Scully to be shot."

He parted his lips in protest, but I kept going. "I won't hurt you. I won't give you the pain you think you deserve. We've already been through this. You won't get it from me. The only way I can hurt you, the only way I'll allow myself to hurt you is to do this." I opened the door again. "Now, go."

He swallowed again. "And not come back," he concluded.

"No." I waited until he met my eyes again. "You can come back when you'll accept what I have to give."

He wouldn't give in, but I knew that. It was inherent in his nature to resist. "You have nothing I want."

I nodded, accepting that. "Oh, wait, yes I do." I went to the counter in the kitchen and returned with a small bag. "You want this." I pressed it into one of his pockets. "Goodbye, Mulder."

He pulled the bag out of his pocket and peered in. The expression on his face was incredulous, and pained, and defeated as he pulled out the blister packed action figure. He mouthed the words 'Darth Maul' to himself, shoved the package and the bag into his pocket, and went through the door, pulling it shut softly, behind him.

Retreat? No, I decided, returning to the kitchen. I think this time it's withdraw.

-THE END-