Little Things (part 12 of 15)

by Mik

Mulder saw something in the white bucket that made him stop, allowed him to stand in the rain, contemplating, even though he knew Scully was waiting for him a block away. Drawing a deep breath, he went inside the flower shop. He'd never sent flowers to anyone before. It wasn't his style. But he sent a dozen lavender roses to Skinner's home address with nothing on the card but a simple 'K'. He wanted to say more. He wanted to write 'I love you' but his hand wouldn't cooperate. He bought a single white rose for Scully and went on down the block, whistling to himself.

Scully looked exhausted. She hated stakeouts. And to have to be part of a team staking out a residence hotel in a nicer part of Manhattan was ludicrous to her, especially after spending the day performing autopsies. She glared at Mulder as he pulled the door open. "You're late," she complained, as she collected her things.

"I know," he agreed, and produced the flower. "I saw something in a window and I had to buy it."

Scully's expression was worth it. Those brilliant blue eyes widened, met his, and went dark for a moment. She looked overwhelmed. It wasn't Mulder's kind of gesture, but it was one she needed. "Thanks," she murmured. She leaned up awkwardly, and kissed his cheek. "That's sweet."

"Go on, get out of here, you're ready to drop." He offered her a hand to pull her out of the car.

"I'll see you at midnight," she promised. "Do you need anything before I go?"

"Coffee?" he asked. "There's a place --"

"I know where it is." She backed away from the car.

Mulder hunched down in the seat, trying to get his long frame comfortable in the compact car. He could still smell the rose on his fingertips, and he wondered if Skinner's face would look anything like Scully's when his flowers arrived. "Not likely," he said aloud, and chuckled to himself.

Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner. Mulder said the name as if it was his own property. He savored it. He couldn't believe his luck and he was living on the edge waiting for the day the luck failed. Mulder's concept of loving and being loved was warped, he knew that. He was a psychologist. He knew how this emotion was supposed to work. But there had never been anything nurturing about the love he had known as a child; angry, bitter mother who never had time for him, obsessive compulsive father with violent tendencies, a sister who adored him, but was taken away from him. As he thought back on it, his only sense of purpose, his reason d'etre as a child had been Samantha's hero worship of him. When she was gone, Mulder's reason to be was gone too. He felt a lump rising to his throat and he swallowed it back painfully.

As a lover, he had aligned himself with women who needed to be in control. Maybe, Mulder had to admit, he had a need to be controlled -- no, he'd been looking for the maternal care he had been denied as a child. What he got was hot sex and twisted relationships. And then he met Scully, and she mothered him -- within an inch of his life.

He'd worked his way through school, and then the Academy and finally the Bureau looking for approval from some paternal figure. And now he had Skinner. But Skinner was different from everyone he had ever been involved with. Skinner, the tight-assed Marine, was so comfortable in his own self, his own skin, that he was completely free to give himself to Mulder. Mulder, to his shame and regret, wasn't comfortable enough to give back. Which was why he never said he loved Skinner. Well, once, that night he got back from Mercy Hospital, and Skinner had been waiting for him. He admitted that he never thought he'd be in love with a man, but that wasn't the same thing really. Skinner had said it over and over, in words and deeds, in music and dance (dancing! Skinner loved to dance, to drag him into an embrace when a Righteous Brothers song came on the radio and rock gently to the music). Mulder sighed, savoring that memory.

Scully came up the block again, a large paper cup in her hands. "Large drip with a double shot, right?" she said, as he rolled down the window.

"You're beautiful, Scully." He took the cup gratefully, wondering where he left his gloves. "Go get in out of the cold, will you?"

She nodded and backed away, the rose still in her hand, turning the collar of her trench coat up against the frigid air.

It was cold for October, he thought. October? My birthday, he thought. I'll be thirty eight in a couple of weeks. Huh. He decided he didn't want to think about getting so close to forty. He let his thoughts go back to Skinner. They had been together since … May? Well, the first time, that was the end of March, but it didn't count. May. He nodded and worked the lid of the cup off, letting the steam and the aroma caress his face. So they had been together six months. Some kind of record for him.

Six months, and he was just beginning to believe it wasn't just a fluke, an accident. They didn't flaunt their relationship, but they weren't hiding it, either. That's the way Skinner wanted it, said they both had too much guilt in their lives to deal with being in the closet. They had told Skinner's family, and Skinner's mom invited them to dinner a couple of times. She called Mulder 'Son'. They told Sharon. They didn't tell Scully, and they certainly didn't tell Mulder's mom -- that would have killed her for sure. But Skinner said the beauty about being open about it was that there was no secretive, suspicious behavior, so no one could suspect anything. And for six months they'd been getting away with it. They went out to dinner -- sports bars, mostly; lots of red meat, beer, yelling themselves hoarse over basketball games, betting with each other, Skinner losing more often than Mulder. They tried running together for a while, but Skinner couldn't keep pace with Mulder, so they got bikes and started riding everywhere every weekend during the summer. Skinner even managed to drag Mulder to church a couple of times, and Mulder sat hunched in the pew, expecting lightning to strike him at any moment.

They sometimes went two or three weeks without seeing each other and then they would be drawn into each other's arms without any formal plans being made, and devour each other. Mulder could show up on Skinner's doorstep almost before Skinner put his bags down, after being away for a conference. Skinner would just know when Mulder got back from an assignment, and he'd be there, waiting to fold Mulder into an embrace and drag him to bed.

Bed. Mulder made a face, and sipped too hot coffee to wash away a taste. That was the only place they had problems. They tolerated one another's ignorance about the sports of their choice. They accepted one another's opinions about politics, religion and the Psychic Friends Network. They reveled in one another's sense of humor, appreciation of the inane, fascination with history, science, nature. But in bed, they had problems. Ever since that night after he got out of the hospital, Skinner had been trying to move things up to the natural culmination of this sort of relationship, but Mulder had balked. Maybe it was just his own foolish denial, but if he did not get involved in an anally receptive relationship (you see, Scully, I was paying attention), then he wasn't really gay. He could stand the masturbation, that had been part of his repertoire for years. He could get into oral sex (there's a good reason why you work in the Hoover Building, Kit), and that other thing that Skinner did sometimes, with his fingers … well, that was indescribable, but he didn't allow himself that pleasure too often.

Mulder made a face. 'That thing with the fingers …' You're a grown-up, Mulder. You know what that's called. Postillioning. But, he and Skinner didn't call it that. It was 'that thing …'

There were things about bed that weren't a problem, of course. Mulder loved to fall asleep in Skinner's arms. He was so big and strong and steady and he made Mulder feel safe, and in control and … treasured. What a feeling, to matter so much to someone. It was exquisite. It almost made him tear up to think how many years of his life he had been searching for it, but not knowing what it was. And Skinner seemed to take whatever he handed out; sulks, ranting, rages, weird tangents of logic, stupid humor, sick puns, extreme possibilities. He even learned how to let go, not be so possessive, give Mulder his space. Consequently, Mulder didn't seem to need so much. He got lonely if he spent more than one night on his own.

And sleeping! He slept through the night, something he hadn't done since childhood. At least, when he was with Skinner. He still had nightmares occasionally, when he and Scully were out on assignment. More than once he woke up with Scully leaning over him, touching his face with those little rose petal fingers. He loved her so much, but what he wanted from her, she couldn't give him. And Walter S. Skinner, the world's most unlikely source, could.

He sipped coffee and glanced at his watch. Right now, Skinner would be pushing himself away from that great big cherry wood desk, with a resigned sigh, and going to the closet in the corner to get his jacket. He'd probably jerk his head to one side making his neck crack. (Every time he did that, Mulder wanted to climb walls.) He'd go through emptied hallways, speaking to the cleaning crew, knowing security guards by name, down the stairs to the parking garage, climb into his Lexus and go home. Maybe he'd call Sharon over. They'd eat something she cooked, and talk about what went wrong in their marriage, and how happy they were that they could still be friends. Sharon seemed to love the fact that Skinner's new flame was a man. She treated Mulder with a sort of suffocating maternal affection tinged with a little sexual innuendo, as if testing to see if he could be lured back to the light side. It was totally different from the way Scully treated him.

He'll get the roses tonight, Mulder thought savoring his coffee and the secret thrill in sending flowers to Skinner. Over the past few months, his office had been the repository for some really amazing offerings. Roses, occasionally, because somehow Skinner found out he really liked them. Sunflower seeds by the pound were delivered along with smoked almonds, M & M's (plain, peanut, almond, peanut butter and mint), a three pound gummi bear, a two pound chocolate kiss, tickets to a baseball game, and then after that, a case of ballpark peanuts (the floor of the office was a mess for a week after that), a Righteous Brothers CD, and origami foxes. He had three of them still. He took one apart to see how it was made, but he could never put it back together again, so the poor thing was lying, badly mangled, in his belly drawer, next to his extensive collection of paper-clip chains.

Scully always looked forward to these deliveries, and she would wait, wryly amused as he unpacked a box, and then demand an explanation for them. (Why peanuts, Mulder?)

Mulder knew Skinner despaired of him getting any nutrients in his odd diet, so he had started him on all kinds of vitamins and supplements, which he took faithfully, when he remembered. He'd even tried to tone down Mulder's garish ties, make his wardrobe a little more conservative. (Why do you spend all your money on Armani, Mulder? You live in a shit-hole and you make no contributions to your 401K -- Because I'm tall and thin and I can't get away with Brooks Brothers, like you.)

Skinner was also amazingly spontaneous. He loved the idea of a midnight movie on Saturday night. There was that dancing thing. In fact, he liked touching Mulder whenever possible. Once, Mulder was trying to extract him from a sticky place on the WEB, leaning across the keyboard, and Skinner grabbed him around the waist and pulled him down onto his lap. For a moment, Mulder was indignant, and then Skinner started kissing him on this place on his neck, and Mulder was Jello in his arms, and the WEB went down, because they had been idle too long. (Idle was not what they had been!)

And Skinner loved to kiss. He was a great kisser, better than Phoebe, and Mulder always used to feel that she was sucking his brains out through his tongue. If it wouldn't get Skinner so worked up, he could spend entire nights doing nothing but lip wrestling with his boss.

His boss. That was the weirdest thing. They could pass each other in the hall, and Mulder's knees would get a little weak. He knew he stared after Skinner like a lost puppy, but Skinner was always so cool, so confident, so polite. Whenever he was in Skinner's office, getting his ass raked over the coals, he was amazed, and sometimes a little hurt, that Skinner could be so detached. But Skinner had warned him that things would be the same when the lights were on. He didn't think he could hold the line as well as Skinner did. If he didn't hold himself tightly reigned in during the infamous ass rakings, he'd climb over Skinner's massive desk and kiss his boss into submission. If anyone suspected anything, it was kept to themselves. The gossip mill in the Hoover building was an amazing thing, and there hadn't been even a whisper about the A.D. and the head of the X-Files.

Laughter. That was something else he never thought would be a prominent part of his life. He had never suspected that Skinner knew how to laugh. But they laughed a lot. They would duel to the death with puns. They picked up hip-hop slang and snaps and insulted each other in broad variations. (What if Shakespeare had come from the 'hood?) They loved to watch phenomenally bad movies and make remarks, a la Mystery Science Theater. Or they would watch Skinner's damned John Wayne films. Mulder thought he liked that best. Skinner sitting up straight on the sofa (the Duke wouldn't want a Marine to slouch), Mulder resting his head on a rock hard thigh. Mulder would eat (grazing, Skinner called it), Skinner would sip his scotch. Occasionally Skinner would touch him. Nothing extraordinary, nothing erotic, usually just a pat, or to brush his hair out of his eyes, or to pick up bits of sunflower seeds from his shirt, or his chin, but it was all electric. And sometimes, Skinner would look down at him, and his dark brown eyes would be so full of … of … love? Mulder sighed, longingly, just thinking about it.

The Skinner he worked with was an island; cold, distant, unapproachable. The Skinner that he was spending nights with was a redwood, big and strong and sheltering, ancient and wise, only to be found one place on earth.

The coffee was cold. He rolled down the window a little bit, and dumped it out. The air was like a knife. He rolled up the window again and rubbed his hands together, searching for something warm to think about. He could see Skinner, sitting back in his chair, behind his desk. His sleeves rolled up, his brows arched slightly in disbelief, fingertips of one hand supporting his temple, listening patiently to Mulder trying to convince him why he had to go to New Mexico and look at ancient glass formations in the sand. But he liked seeing Skinner across the dining room table, in a Marine’s tee shirt, his fists stacked one on top of the other, supporting his chin, his glasses pushed up, his dark eyes bright, listening while Mulder explained the theories behind that ancient glass.

Skinner once tried to interest him in baseball, tried to tease him into profiling the pitchers so he could predict the pitches. Mulder said he couldn't do it unless he knew at what age toilet-training began. Skinner never did take him to another game. But he sent him all those peanuts …

There was a little chirp at his side. He picked up his cell phone. "Mulder."

"Alone?"

That voice. That growl. "Dear God, am I ever. Tell me again why we're up here?"

"Because that office is shorthanded, and the county employees are on strike. It's called interdepartmental cooperation, Mulder, you ought to try it some time."

"Well, I am working on my relationships with Administration," Mulder said, almost coyly.

"Yes, I got the roses. Mulder, they're lavender."

"They're purple. They were the most masculine roses I'd ever seen." He was quiet for a moment. "You don't like them."

"No, that's not true. I'm surprised, I admit. The last time you did something sentimental --"

"Don't go there," Mulder warned. He didn't want to be reminded at that pathetic attempt at iambic pentameter.

The silence was broken by that laughter.

"Did you call for a reason, or you just needed to hear my sultry baritone?"

"You're a tenor, Mulder," Skinner retorted. "And a thin one at that. I called to thank you for the flowers."

"You're welcome." Mulder was pleased. Skinner must have really liked them, otherwise he would wait and mention them when Mulder was there, grazing on his sofa. "I bought Scully a rose too, so she wouldn't be jealous."

"Where is she?"

"In her room, under a ton of blankets, if she's smart. It must be twenty degrees outside."

"Why isn't she on stakeout with you?"

"Because she was doing post mortems all damn day. May I remind you that the Coroners up here are county employees? Talk about interdepartmental cooperation."

"So you're on stakeout alone?" There was an edge of fear in Skinner's voice.

"It's not like I need Scully to protect me, Daddy," Mulder drawled. "Besides, I've got backup around the corner in a blue and white."

"This is … uh … is this case a problem for you?" Such gentleness, such concern.

"Because this rich old guy is picking up street hustlers and slitting their throats for the psychosexual pleasure it gives him?" Mulder said. "No. Should it? I think the bastard needs to be kicked until his nuts come out his ears, but I'm not taking it personally, if that's what you're so delicately trying to ask." Trust Skinner to see something about this case to identify with. "I mean, I don't really identify with his victims."

"He likes pretty young men, and he likes to mutilate them," Skinner said, less gently.

"Are you calling me pretty?" Mulder said, on a brittle note. "Because, if you are, I want my roses back."

Skinner was squirming.

"My God," Mulder gasped. "You are, aren't you?" He felt something twist inside his stomach, revulsion.

"Pretty isn't the word," Skinner began, trying to extricate himself. "Extraordinary."

"You are nearsighted," Mulder decreed.

Skinner only laughed again. "In more ways than you think. When do you think you'll be back?"

"When I've caught this guy, and they've pried my fingers from around his neck, or when the strike is settled." He gave a pedestrian a quick look. Not his guy. "They're talking 'round the clock, I'm told."

"Watch your back, Mulder."

"Thanks for calling."

"Keep warm."

"Keep calling."

"Night."

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

His relief came at eleven forty, a fresh faced boy who seemed too young to put on any uniform other than a Boy Scout one. His name was William, and he was so damn earnest about telling Mulder his name, Mulder was almost compelled to admit that was his own middle name, but he refrained. William was chatty, eager. Mulder talked to him for a while, enjoying the avuncular role. Then he extricated himself, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he turned away from the car, the apartment building. His teeth were chattering. He could have gotten one of the blue and whites to drive him back to the hotel, but it was only six blocks and he was an athlete. He could do it.

But then there was that nice tavern three blocks away. Mulder had passed it coming up to relieve Scully. It was still open, still letting Nat King Cole drift out onto the sidewalk. The song was Call On Me. Mulder was learning to appreciate Nat King Cole. He stepped inside.

The restaurant was closed, but the bar was still open, warm, and dark, with a handful of couples sitting at little tables, getting bedroom eyes. He went up to the bar and sat down, pressing his frigid fingers on the warmth of the wood. He missed Skinner so much. "Scotch," he heard himself saying.

It was too strong. He thought he was going to kill himself trying to get it down, but once it was swallowed, it left a lingering shadow on his lips, like Skinner's kiss. He smiled, and felt himself thaw out. Oh, Mulder, he thought. You've got it bad, don't you?

He sat quietly for a long time. Nat King Cole gave way to vintage Billy Joel. The song Shameless came on, and the words seemed to hit Mulder between the eyes: You know, I'm not a man who has ever been insecure about the world I've been living in. I don't break easy, I have my pride, but if you need to be satisfied, I'm shameless, baby I don't have a prayer. Anytime I see you standing there, I go down upon my knees. And I'm changing. I swore I'd never compromise. But you convinced me otherwise. I'll do anything you please.

He almost choked. Almost anything.

Another glass was set in front of him. Mulder looked up, bewildered. The bartender sent a discreet finger toward a booth behind him. Mulder didn't turn around. He didn't care what she looked like -- or him, for that matter. He wasn't interested in company. He leaned forward and whispered, "What's the proper etiquette here? I'm not interested."

The bartender lifted his gaze over Mulder's shoulder and shook his head ever so slightly.

Mulder sighed and reached for his own glass, half empty.

A man sat down beside him. "Come on, drink up. I'm not trying to pick you up. You just looked so damn miserable."

Mulder flicked a glance over him. Roughly his own age, dark skin, dark hair, well-dressed, well-manicured, strong features -- definitely not 'pretty'. It could be him, except for the complexion and those Skinner-brown eyes. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but this is a private party."

"Would you relax?" He smiled. His smile was nothing like Mulder's. Nothing like Skinner's. It was almost like Scully's. "I just have a weakness for men who cry over Billy Joel."

Mulder started to be indignant. He gave up on a sigh.

"Where is she?" the stranger asked gently.

Mulder smiled inwardly. How generous to assume -- or maybe the guy was just being kind. "She's at home, sleeping, hopefully with a rosebud pressed to her lips."

The stranger tipped his eyes up thoughtfully. "But she's not the problem, is she?"

Mulder stopped smiling. "Look … um …"

"Luke." He offered a hand.

Mulder was quick enough to keep from saying Mulder, or Fox as he accepted the hand. "William."

Luke's fingers didn't linger or squeeze. "Come on, William. Come sit in the corner, in the dark, and I'll put Shameless on the jukebox again." He put a hand on Mulder's shoulder.

"Luke, I'm sure you're a really nice guy --"

Luke cut him off with a nod. "I am, and that's why, I'm going to be your friend. I'm going to listen to whatever it is that is about to burst out of you, then I'm going to pat your head and put you in a taxi and send you home to the lady of rosebud lips." His fingers were a little more insistent. Mulder slid off the stool. Luke brought the second glass.

They sat in the dark and the silence for a little while. "So, why are you here?" Mulder asked finally.

"Because he is in Germany this week, and I miss him so bad I'm about to start watching Love Story and crying in my beer."

Please God, Mulder thought. Don't ever let me get that bad.

"And?" Luke prompted.

"And, nothing. I'm sorry, pal, but you picked up an empty box."

"Then why are you here?" Luke gestured faintly to indicate the booth.

"Because I wanted to hear that song again?" Mulder returned with a faint smile.

Luke smiled back. His lower lip even quivered like Scully's. "So what is it you're trying to decide, as if I couldn't guess."

Mulder finished off the scotch, winced and settled back in the booth, arms folded over his chest. "Okay, doc. Tell me."

Luke's smile was slow and confident. "You've got her, you want him. You never thought you'd drive on the left side of the road, as it were, and it's eating you up; the guilt, the shame, the confusion. It's okay, William. Would it bother you so much, if you were cheating on her with some cute redhead from the reception pool?"

Mulder smiled back. "Interesting the way you put words together, Luke. Are you a writer?"

"You must be a shrink, William. I've never seen quicker deflection reflexes."

Mulder chuckled silently.

"All right, how close am I?"

"Well, first of all, there is no she."

"The lady of the rosebud lips?" Luke reminded him.

Mulder reached for the second glass of scotch. "She's my friend. I love her because she's true and loyal and faithful and good." He sipped. It got easier. He could almost understand why Skinner liked this stuff. Almost. He wished he was kissing Skinner instead. "That's the way we both want it."

"And him?"

Mulder screwed up his lips. "He sort of intruded on my life, much the same way you're doing now." He let his eyes meet Luke's. "Tell me the truth. Do I wear a sign that says, 'Please molest me, my life needs to be turned upside down'?"

Luke shook his head sympathetically. "No. But you have expressive eyes, and they're hunted."

Mulder laughed again. Foxes were always hunted, weren't they?

Luke was looking pained. "Your eyes also have a way of making me feel very stupid."

Mulder waved it away. "Sorry. I'm sure you really want to help, but there's nothing to help with. I don't want anything."

"Okay. Enjoy the drink." Luke got up.

Mulder started a protest, but he saw Luke go to the jukebox in the back of the room, drop in a quarter and punch buttons. He was relieved and amused when Luke returned. They sat quietly. Luke was drinking a beer that Mulder didn't recognize. Then the song came again, and the words started raining on Mulder like bricks: I have never let anything have this much control over me. Cause I worked too hard to call my life my own. Yes, I made myself a world and it worked so perfectly. But it's your world now, I can't refuse. I never had so much to lose. I'm shameless … shameless. You know it should be easy for a man who's strong to say he's sorry or admit when he's wrong, I've never lost anything I ever missed, but I've never been in love like this …

Mulder drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't let him make love to me," he confessed flatly. "I love him, but I can't tell him. I love being with him, but I always fight taking that last step …"

Luke was shaking his head again, and there was infinite sadness in his eyes. "Then you're kidding yourself, William. You don't love him, man. Look at it this way, if he was a woman, and you loved her, could you imagine not making love to her? No, it's part and parcel with the emotion."

"Not true," Mulder argued. "I do love a woman, and I wouldn't dream -- well, not much," he corrected himself. "Anyway, we love each other, but there's a line we won't cross."

"Doesn't sound very romantic," Luke said sympathetically.

"It isn't," Mulder agreed. "It isn't supposed to be that kind of relationship. It's more professional, platonic … oh, I see what you mean."

Luke's smile of triumph was small, but noticeable.

Mulder tossed the rest of the scotch back and stood, shuddering to his shoes. "Thanks, Luke. I guess you did have what I needed. Thanks for the drink." He touched Luke's shoulder gently, and turned around, determined to get outside before he started to stagger.

He made it to the hotel without falling down or throwing up. He was inordinately proud of himself. Now, getting this old-fashioned brass key into the lock was something else. He almost missed key cards. Almost.

Scully was sitting on the edge of his bed when he opened his door. She was wearing her trench coat, but underneath he could see the pale pink of her thermal pajamas. Oh, no, Scully, don't talk me out of what I had to get drunk to decide to do. "For me?" he said, trying to smile.

She jumped up and clutched at him. "Where have you been?"

Mulder backed up. "Easy, easy. I stopped for a drink because I was freezing my balls off in that car." He caught her hands, saw her white face. "What's the matter? Scully, what's wrong? Are you sick --"

Scully was shaking her head, clenching her fists in his lapels. "He got another one. This one wasn't a hustler. He was just a guy walking down the street." She was trembling. "When they described him … he sounded like you. In another ten minutes, I was going to go down and identify the body."

Mulder almost smiled at her. If she only knew … someone else had been trying to pick him up at the time. "How do they know it was our guy?" he asked gently. "That's not his m.o."

"Because they caught him," Scully was pressing her face into his shirt. "Standing over the victim with the knife in his hands, his p -- pants …"

Mulder squeezed her shoulders tight. "They got the bastard?"

"Yesss."

"Is he still breathing?"

She lifted her head. "We can go home tomorrow."

Mulder sighed. "That's good news, too."

She backed away. "You smell like…"

"Scotch," he admitted. "Scully, I was freezing."

She went to the adjoining door. "Good night, Mulder."

"Sorry you were worried," he tossed at her.

"I wasn't worried. I was afraid I'd have to do your post mortem."

He wrinkled his nose at her.

She shut the door.

He let himself fall on the bed, with a loud and grateful sigh. Home. D.C. A.D. Skinner. Pick an alphabet, it all sounded good to him.

Skinner. He sat up. Would he have his ear to the ground, listening for the conclusion? Would he hear the description and think the worst? Should he call? He let himself fall backward on the bed again. No. If something like that were to happen, Scully could be relied upon to relay the news. If it ever happened, he hoped she'd be gentle about it …

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

"Mulder?"

Light stabbed his eyes. She had pulled the drapes open. He opened his eyes, groaned and rolled onto his side. "Go away," he mumbled thickly.

"Mulder, our flight leaves in two hours." She was wearing high heels and they were making these horrendous scuff sounds on the polyester carpet.

"Go away before I'm forced to slit your throat," he warned. "And there will be no psychosexual pleasure involved."

"I never thought I'd see you hung over." She was giggling! "Come on, sit up. How much did you drink last night?"

"Lost count after a dozen." He sat up, groggily, blinked at her, and eased himself to the edge of the bed. Shit, he fell asleep in his favorite suit. "It was ladies night, and they all kept buying me drinks." He rubbed his eyes gingerly.

"The ladies, I presume?" Scully was bringing him a cool washcloth, laying it tenderly on the back of his neck, just the way Skinner had that night.

"No, the men. They were all drunk when I got there." He stood, swaying only slightly. "Did I mention I hate scotch?"

Scully was so amused. "What does she drink?" she asked.

He opened his eyes wide enough to flick her a look. Scully hadn't asked a 'she' question in several weeks. "Thunderbird. From my running shoes."

Scully couldn't even come up with a comeback. "Oh, our guy saved the taxpayers a few hundred thousand last night."

Mulder stumbled into the bathroom and stuck out his tongue. He really expected to see a little tiny trench coat on it. "How?"

"Hung himself."

Mulder smirked. "There are worse ways to go," he quoted. "But I can't think of a less dignified one than auto erotic asphyxiation."

Scully's brow wrinkled up. "Mulder, you didn't really …"

Mulder made a face at her. "Do we have time for me to take a shower? I feel like I slept in a gutter."

"An expensive gutter," Scully muttered. "How come we don't stay in places like this?"

"Because with our budget we could only afford one room." He shut the bathroom door on her.

He felt better after showering, shampooing, shaving and brushing his teeth three or four times. His suit was beyond hope. He tugged a pair of blue jeans from his bag, and draped the form. "I hope we're not going straight to the office," he muttered, stepping into his running shoes.

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

He didn't go to the office at all that day. He wanted to think about his conversation with Luke a little more. He went to his apartment and sat in the dark, ignoring his answering machine, his e-mail, his fish. He got the bottle of scotch Skinner had left there and poured a couple of fingers. "Scale of the fish," he said, tipping the glass toward his aquarium. He swallowed. Luke was right. He had to decide if he loved Skinner or if he was just in love with being in love. He had to make that decision now, and stick to it. If it was just an infatuation with cuddles and laughter and gummi bears and dancing, it had to end, now, today. And if it was more … he emptied the glass. "If it's love, so be it." He stood up. He picked up his jacket, and his keys, and he left.

It was just a little after six. Skinner would be home soon. Mulder let himself into the condo in a manner that was less than legal, took a brief glance at the mail, only because it was habitual. As soon as he caught himself doing it, he stopped. He wandered around the condo for a few minutes, looking at it as if he had never seen it before. So many memories in this place, he thought, touching the back of that chair. Good ones and bad ones. But a good deal more good ones than bad, he was happy to say, and he couldn't say that about any other place he'd ever been.

He heard the ding of the elevator and he froze, waiting. The footsteps went past. I'm not ready for this, he said, and went to the bar in the corner. He poured another couple of fingers of scotch. He didn't drink this, he just held the glass in his hand and walked around the room. I can't do this, he decided. He put the glass down, went to the door. But there was Skinner's key in the lock. He stood still. The door swung open. They stared at each other for a few minutes. Skinner closed the door, dropped his jacket and briefcase on the floor, walked forward the few steps between them, caught Mulder at the nape of his neck and kissed him, hard.

When he was released, Mulder took a moment to gather the senses he had dropped on the floor like marbles. "Good to see you, too."

Skinner was making a face. "That's not sunflower seeds I taste."

"Scotch."

"You don't drink scotch."

"No." Mulder shrugged. "You do. I thought it would be more fun this way. Interactive drinking."

Skinner went back to get his jacket. "Tough case?"

"Yeah. Enlightening, though."

Skinner flicked a glance through his mail. "Mmm. I hear he took himself out of the game."

Mulder nodded. "They are going to have to figure out a way to put ripstop sheets on mattresses, in jails." He went for the glass he had filled, and he brought it to Skinner, and keeping his eyes fixed on the reflection of the windows behind him in Skinner's glasses, took a very deliberate sip, and leaned in, kissing Skinner.

Skinner dropped the jacket again, and his arms went around Mulder's shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of Mulder's jacket. Then he pulled away, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and took the glass away from Mulder. "Give me that. You're dangerous."

Mulder smiled. "Long day?"

"Get upstairs. I'll show you."

Mulder shivered slightly and turned around. I can do this, he told himself. It didn't seem so unbelievable this time.

Skinner came in and watched him react to the roses at the bedside. Mulder was smiling. Skinner nuzzled his neck. "I smelled them all night, and I had very nice dreams."

Mulder didn't turn to look at him. "Show me?" he murmured.

"How enlightening was this case?"

Mulder shrugged. "Maybe I'll show you."

"Do I have time to take a shower, or will you implode?"

"Want help?"

"I don't think I'd survive."

Mulder followed him to the bathroom door, needing to touch him just once more. "Are you hungry?" he offered lamely. "Should I order something?"

"Not just yet," Skinner said, working his tie free. "I'd hate to be interrupted."

Mulder nodded and went back to settle down on the bedside. The scent of roses was very strong. He leaned into them, touching the softness of the petals, breathing in the scent. He liked the color. Out on the street corner they had seemed a little gray. In the soft light of Skinner's bedroom, they seemed more purple. He eased himself back on the bed, closed his eyes, tried to imagine what he was about to do. He just couldn't see it. Then he realized he was afraid to see it, afraid he'd like it too much.

He felt something on his nose. He brushed faintly at it, felt something else and brushed at that, impatiently. Something -- "Damn it, Kat, you're going to drown me." He sat up spluttering. Skinner had a water glass in his hand, his fingertips still dripping.

"It's not very flattering to find your lover so wrapped up in the bliss of anticipation that he falls asleep," he said.

"I was up all night."

"So I heard."

Mulder sat up and brushed water from his collar. He flicked a glance toward Skinner. "What does that mean?"

"It means that when Scully came into the office today, she explained that you did not come in because you didn't get back from the stakeout until after three." Skinner's lips pursed up. "According to the reports I received, they caught the perp about twelve thirty."

"I went to a bar," Mulder said. "I was cold and I missed you and I ordered a scotch and listened to Billy Joel songs, and some guy tried to pick me up -- or maybe he was just trying to tell my fortune, I don't know." He shook his head and sighed. "Anyway, after two glasses of Kentucky's finest, walking became a very serious endeavor."

"Oh, my poor Kitsune, you went out and got drunk for me?" Skinner kissed his brow. "And did your fortune teller teach you how to drown a man standing up?"

"Ooh, that sounded like jealousy." Mulder shivered delicately. "I think I'm flattered. As a matter of fact, he never laid a glove on me. He just told me the story of my life."

"And?" Skinner prompted.

"He thinks I should learn to drive in England."

Skinner opened his mouth and then closed it again, shaking his head. "No, I don't want to know."

"Sure you do." Mulder reached for the towel at Skinner's waist and snapped it away. "Come here. Want me to sing Billy Joel songs?" He put his hands on Skinner's hips to direct him.

"No." Skinner was already erect in anticipation.

"Nat King Cole?" Mulder offered, letting the tip of his tongue do a light exploration before he began the process in earnest.

"No." Skinner's head was going back, his lips parted in pleasure. Then he gasped. "Mulder you put the suck in cocksucking."

"Thanks," Mulder said, letting his teeth slide around the ridge before plunging it back down his throat. He worked this way for a while, light and then hard and then light again, until he felt that tell-tale tightening in Skinner's balls. He pulled away.

It took Skinner a moment to react. He lowered his eyes to Mulder's bewildered. "What's the matter?"

Mulder drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I want you to make love to me."

That staggered him. "What? I mean, I thought you --"

"I know." Mulder bit down on his lip for a moment. "But I think it's time." He glanced over Skinner's body, faintly red with desire. "And so do you." He started to scoot backwards on the bed, toward the headboard. "Come and get me."

"No." Skinner's hand came down on Mulder's shoulder, holding him in place.

Mulder stared at him. "What?"

Skinner's jaw worked. "Not today. I'm … I'm speechless that you want to, but not today, not like this."

"What's wrong with like this?" Mulder demanded. "Would you prefer that we do it in Lincoln's lap?" Please, please don't change your mind, now, Skinner. I might not feel this brave tomorrow.

Skinner's expression was non-breachable. "We haven't been together in almost two weeks. We'd be too impatient. We would rush it. We could end up hurting you."

"I think I can take care of --"

"Kitsune, listen to me." Skinner sat down beside him. "I want to do it right. It will be the first time. I want it to be … special."

"Special?" Mulder sneered only because if he didn't keep his jaw clenched, he might weep. "Come on, Kat, think about what we're talking about, here. How special does it have to be? I'm not exactly a blushing virgin holding out for matrimony."

Skinner smiled. "In a way, you are."

Mulder reached for him urgently. "Believe me, I'll still respect myself in the morning."

Skinner took both Mulder's hands in his own. "Kit, let's wait. Let's do it right. I want it to be romantic and memorable. I've waited a long time for this. If I can wait, why can't you?"

Mulder winced at the argument, but he made himself nod. Because, if I think about it, I'll change my mind. "Okay. But in the meantime …" He pushed Skinner back on the bed, and resumed the light and hard and light and hard and …

- END part 12 of 15 -
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