Little Things (part 13 of 15)

by Mik

Skinner stood back and surveyed the table. Sharon smiled encouragingly at him from the other side, while she rearranged the silverware. "Walt, honey, relax. It's perfect."

Skinner reached out to fuss with the roses, saw that his hand was actually trembling and shoved both hands into his pockets. "I appreciate that you came over to help out with this, Sharon," he said, feeling a little awkward, a little excited, like a boy going to his first couples party. "I could never have gotten all of this just right. Just one more tic in the Mulder dichotomy; he eats standing over the sink, but he'd notice if something was out of place here." He pulled a hand free and gestured to include the elaborate table setting.

Sharon came around the table, put her hands on Skinner's shoulders and gave his cheek a peck. Her eyes were dancing in amusement. "Does he have any idea?"

Skinner shook his head. "No. His birthday was Tuesday, and we didn't make any big deal out of it. I didn't even give him a card. I sent him chocolate-covered pretzels, and I understand that he and Dana polished them off in a matter of hours."

Sharon didn't even frown at the use of Scully's first name. She'd overcome her fierce desire to get him back the night the three of them sat down, and Skinner stumbled out a confession about his feelings for Mulder. Poor Mulder. He sat through the whole conversation as if waiting for a call from the governor. Then Sharon had looked at him for a moment, recalling every word of the conversation they had back in May, and she laughed. Then she apologized for throwing tea at him. He shrugged and admitted that it left a 'cool scar'. Mulder was not politic but he was innately gracious.

"Oh, I have a gift for him, too," she said too casually, unwinding herself from Skinner. She went to the living room, and brought back a little bag filled with confetti.

Amazed, Skinner put it on the buffet, next to the gifts he had purchased. "What is it?"

Sharon leaned up and whispered into his ear.

Skinner pulled back in surprise. Surprise that Sharon would buy such a thing. Surprise that Sharon would even know such a thing existed. "He'll never use it."

"Try it," she urged wickedly. "It will come in handy when things start to get rote."

"Somehow I can't imagine that happening with Mulder," Skinner said with a helpless chuckle. He picked up and peered in the bag. Saw black rubber. "Where did you find this thing?"

"In one of those shops down on Sixth Street," she answered airily. It was clear she was enjoying Skinner's discomfiture. "I understand they work wonders on getting things … ah … loosened up."

Skinner stared at her. "Sharon!"

"Well, wouldn't it save time sometimes?" she teased.

"I wouldn't know."

Sharon put a hand on his chest, automatically straightening his tie. "Oh, Walter, you're blushing. What did you think I would think? You tell me you're in love with a man, and yet you think I don't realize that means you're sleeping with him?"

"Actually, I'm not." Skinner paused, choosing words. "Well, I am, but not the way you mean."

"I didn't think you had a choice," Sharon drawled.

"We ah …" He scratched the back of his head. "We haven't consummated the relationship yet."

"You mean …" She sent a glance toward the table. "I'd better get out of here. I'm going to spoil the seduction." She went for her purse. "I never dreamed that you'd fall for another man, Walt, but if you had to do it, I'm glad it's Fox. He's changed you a little bit, for the good."

"How so?" Skinner didn't doubt her, in fact he wanted to believe her, he just didn't know how.

"Well, you're freer, somehow." She went to the closet for her jacket. "You're more forthcoming with your feelings. You're more generous now. Not that you were ever ungenerous to me, but now you give more of you. You're kinder." She turned to him, smiling wryly. "Although, from the way you used to talk about him, he must be a handful for you."

Skinner smiled too. "He's nothing like you'd think he should be. He's like one of those damn puzzle boxes I brought back from Saigon. You look right at him, thinking you see where the piece fits, and it doesn't fit there at all. You meet him, and you think 'uh huh, conservative, uptight New Englander, kind of a mental freak'. Then you read one of his field reports and you find out he's neither uptight nor conservative, but he is definitely a mental freak. Then you get to know him, and he's not even that. He's puckish, and spoiled, and a little shy. He didn't have an easy life." Skinner shook his head sadly. "His mother was cold, non-nurturing, his father was an alcoholic and physically abusive. He was smarter than the other kids his age, and that made him feel like a freak, and then there was the fact that, no matter how it happened, his little sister disappeared when he was twelve years old."

"I didn't know that," Sharon said softly. "Poor Fox."

How could she not know that? Skinner thought. Up until a few months ago, that was the thing I thought defined Fox Mulder. "Don't you dare say that to him," he warned. "He doesn't see himself as poor anybody, and he'd as soon shoot you, as take your pity." He leaned against the wall in the hallway, arms folded over his chest. "He's such a mass of contradictions. Did you know he sings?" Skinner nodded into Sharon's disbelieving stare. "You'd think that with that raspy little whine he uses to talk, he'd sound terrible. He really does have a nice baritone singing voice. He's shy about it. He only sings when he thinks he's alone, but it's nice."

Warmed up to the topic, Skinner couldn't help but ramble on. "He hates baseball -- absolutely hates it, but he's memorized all the stats in the American League, because he knows I follow the Orioles. And did you know he's a writer? Published." He didn't see Sharon's softly amused smile as she listened to him brag. "He's been writing articles for various magazines for years, and he just sold a book on crime scene investigation." He shook his head, remembering the nonchalant way Mulder handled the news. "He acted as if it was nothing. They sent him a seventy-thousand dollar advance, and they want him to write another one, and he just shrugged it off."

"Seventy-thousand? That explains his suits," Sharon murmured.

"No, he put it in trust. He wants to make sure his mother has everything she needs." Skinner was proud of him about that. He reached out and adjusted Sharon's scarf, making it more snug around her neck. "He claims he doesn't believe in God, but he has this Christian sense of justice, an eye for an eye, and all that. And I think he's just a little bit scared of this God he claims he doesn't believe in. I took him to mass Labor Day, you should have seen him. He cringed right through it, as if he was waiting for God's wrath to be visited upon him. But, and this is the maddening thing, he knew the mass -- and it was in Latin! He heard it somewhere, and remembered it."

"Shame you two will never have children," Sharon murmured.

Skinner sighed, and Sharon knew she had gone too far. "Well, I'd better be going. I think I hear the elevator." Before she reached the door, there was a sharp knock outside. "Doesn't he have his own key?"

Skinner shook his head. "Doesn't want one."

"Another tic." Sharon pulled the door open and smiled at the startled expression on Mulder's face. "Hi, Sweetie." She pressed a kiss to his cheek and went on out.

Mulder touched his cheek. "She kissed me," he protested.

"She likes you," Skinner explained, reaching for his coat. Great. Jeans and a sweater, his favorite look (short of naked in the shower).

"Yeah, I guess I'm better than an eighteen year old blond trophy for a second wife." He went into the hallway, sniffing, head back, that wild animal look. "Something smells good."

"All your favorites," Skinner said behind him. "Chocolate, pretzels, gummi bears -- oof." Mulder had answered with an elbow in his ribs. He peered into the kitchen. The table was empty. He looked back at Skinner.

"Dining room," Skinner said.

Mulder turned left, across the hall, and stalled at the doorstep.

"Happy birthday, Kitsune," Skinner called.

Mulder's eyes went around the room, taking in the flowers, the balloons, the candles, the cake, the pile of presents, the best dishes, the good silver. "My birthday was Tuesday," he muttered stupidly. "You sent me --"

"Surprise." Skinner pulled out a chair. "Sit down. I've got champagne chilling." He went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle. Mulder was leaning forward, sniffing the dark red roses. He jumped at the sound of the cork and looked over his shoulder.

"Can I open my presents now?" he asked. It wasn't as childlike as it should have been. It was more like … dread?

Skinner made himself smile. "Some of them." He reached for Sharon's little silver bag. "Now, this one is from Sharon and I have to warn you, she has a slightly different perspective on our life."

Mulder reached in tentatively and pulled out the ridged, conical rubber. "What is it?" he asked.

Skinner decided he couldn't say it out loud, either, so he whispered it in Mulder's ear.

Mulder's head snapped back, as if the word had burned him. "A what?" He dropped it back into the bag. "Whatever for?"

"She was trying to be supportive," Skinner said, easing the bag from his fingers. He gave Mulder an apologetic smile. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, here."

Mulder picked up the narrow box and shook it slightly. "It sounds like a tie." He tugged paper away and opened it. "It is a tie." He frowned and looked up at Skinner. "It's an Oxford tie."

Skinner nodded.

"You got me a tie from Oxford?"

"Why not, you're alumni, you're entitled." Skinner reached for another box, barely concealing a grin of delight. "I got you something else from college, although, it's really for me."

Mulder was tying the tie around his bare throat. He scowled at the box as if he already knew what was in it. "You got a picture from ROTC, didn't you?"

Skinner opened the box and held out the silver frame proudly. "You looked good in uniform, Kit." He smiled at the photograph. It was of four young men, looking left, marching, serious, determined, disciplined. Mulder was taller than the others, but he was standing very straight, looking serious, looking almost proud. Skinner's heart constricted just a little bit. It made him feel good to know that Mulder was once proud of wearing a uniform -- any uniform. He was proud of Mulder.

Mulder didn't even look at it. "Yeah, well if you think I'm going to dress up in a soldier suit for you to feed some demented military fetish of yours, you're seriously mistaken."

Skinner pretended to be crestfallen. "So much for the rest of my plans …"

"Don't tell me those are the components of my old uniform?" Mulder said, flicking a hand toward the pile of boxes still on the buffet.

Skinner selected another box. "Okay, one more."

Mulder shook it. "I think … cufflinks?"

"What are you, psychic?"

"Yeah, when I retire from the Bureau, I'm going to work for Dionne Warwick." He pulled the box open. Tiny silver X's. He smiled. It wasn't an effusive reaction, but it was genuine. "Thanks. I like them."

"Have you ever thought about retiring?" Skinner asked, filling his glass with champagne.

"I'm only thirty-eight," Mulder protested.

"I didn't mean tomorrow," Skinner said. He was putting radicchio and mushrooms and hot bacon dressing on a plate.

"Actually, I'm sort of thinking of writing more," Mulder confessed quietly. "It was very … satisfying."

"Seeing something completed, something that made sense?" Skinner suggested, putting the plate in front of him.

"For a change," Mulder agreed. Suddenly he grabbed Skinner's wrist. "Kat, there are green things on my plate."

"That's called salad," Skinner said tolerantly.

"I know salad, Kat. That's not salad."

"It is. Just think of it as extreme salad."

"The dressing's hot."

"Shut up and eat or you won't get any birthday cake."

"In psychological terms, that's called cupboard love," Mulder said, taking a tentative taste. He seemed to relax. "Okay, I taste bacon. I'll live." He took another bite. "What else?"

"Greedy, aren't you?" Skinner asked as he filled his own plate.

"I meant for dinner."

"London Broil."

"Ah, a theme night." Mulder chewed. After a moment, he swallowed. "I can't believe you did all this for me."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't do anything for your birthday," Mulder answered, sipping the champagne.

"Actually, you did," Skinner said, picking up his fork. He kept his eyes from Mulder's curious ones. "You coughed."

Mulder's expression was one of complete mystification.

Skinner took another bite, chewed and swallowed. He sighed. "I was standing in a bullet riddled hallway, thinking you were dead, and I heard you cough."

Mulder's mouth fell open. "That was your birthday?" Suddenly, he jumped up and came around the table, to throw his arms around Skinner's neck and squeeze. "Oh, jeesh, Kat, I had no idea. We had that stupid fight on your birthday?"

Skinner pressed his face into Mulder's shirt and breathed greedily. "The day before my birthday was the fight. My birthday started out with me going to a morgue, thinking I was going to identify a body."

"I am so sorry," Mulder murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Skinner's head. "So damn sorry."

"Shut up." Skinner squeezed. "Hearing you cough was the best present I could have gotten." He unwound himself. "Now, go eat." He slapped at Mulder's ass.

"Ow." Mulder rubbed at his backside. "You've either got latent hostility issues or latent paternal ones. Both scare me." He sat.

Skinner laughed. "Some of each, I expect. I've known you … what, six years?"

Mulder nodded around a too big bite of salad. "I could learn to like this," he said, pointing at his almost empty plate.

"You know, Sharon said it was a shame we'd never have kids," Skinner said, oh-so-casually.

"It's not," Mulder assured him. "My parenting skills were stillborn. I'd start out wanting to do everything like a textbook psychologist, and end up beating the poor kid over the head with the textbook. You'd make a great dad, though," he conceded. "Maybe we should get a puppy." He grinned. "Then we could be the Fox and the Hound." He stopped grinning when he realized Skinner didn't get the reference. "Disney movie."

"Oh." Skinner took the last bite of his salad and got up to go for the meat course.

Mulder started to get up too. "I'm closer to the kitchen."

Skinner's hand came down on him as he passed. "You're the birthday boy." When he came back in, bearing the tray of thinly sliced, rare beef in just a hint of juice, he was smiling to himself. He'd never seen Mulder so lighthearted. These had been a difficult couple of weeks for them both. Something had happened in New York that made Mulder decide they were ready for 'the ultimate step' as he called it during an argument. He was determined to do it, but not necessarily because desire drove it to him, or at least not sexual desire. It was more like a desire to please Skinner. As much as he appreciated it, Skinner wanted things to be just right, and against all his own longings, he had managed to resist Mulder's sometimes less than subtle seduction techniques. He did like that thing with the scotch, though …

"Oh, by the way," he said, setting the tray in front of Mulder. "My mom and stepdad sent you a birthday card."

"Really?" Mulder was astounded. Skinner knew that Mulder's mother hadn't. Of course, since her stroke, she could be forgiven for forgetting little details, like the date of her son's birth.

Skinner held out a pale green envelope.

Mulder took it and opened it carefully, while Skinner put roast and new potatoes and broiled tomatoes on Mulder's plate. "Oh, that's nice," he said, holding it up. It said Happy Birthday, Son. "Just like she likes me."

"She does like you. She thinks you're more conservative than Sharon was." Skinner filled his own plate. He was so glad his mother remembered. He was also glad that she understood how much this man meant to him. If only his stepfather would understand …

"Oh."

Skinner looked up, concerned. "What's the matter?"

"They've invited us for Thanksgiving." Mulder looked slightly horrified. "At Katonah."

Skinner relaxed. "You know what that means, don't you?"

Mulder was looking at the front of the card, an odd twist of longing around his eyes. "No."

"It means my stepdad has accepted you," Skinner explained. "If Mom invited you to the house, it wouldn't mean a thing, but she would never invite us out to his lodge without his permission, and he wouldn't give it unless he wanted us to be there."

"Maybe for target practice," Mulder pointed out. "I saw the guns over the fireplace."

"Call her and tell her we'll go."

"We will?"

"Call her."

"She's your mom."

"She would love to hear it from you."

Mulder put the card down and picked up his knife and fork. "This looks like an acceptable birthday meal."

"What did you eat on Tuesday?" Skinner asked. He'd been in meetings until nine. He had been so pissed that he missed a chance to take Mulder out, even for a beer.

"Scully and I had Chinese. We were working on that break-in/murder in Charleston."

"How's that coming?" Wife, three children shot to death asleep in their beds, father shot and left for dead in the garage.

"I think the dad did it," Mulder said confidently. "Scully says it's too obvious." He considered the bite of beef on his fork. "You know, sometimes things are obvious for a reason."

Skinner had to fight an urge to get up and request a warrant, just on the basis of Mulder's expression. "Why would he?"

Mulder rolled his eyes. "If you had seen his closets, if you had seen him. He dressed better than I do."

"Not a solid basis for assuming guilt," Skinner pointed out.

Mulder ignored him. "And he was way too involved in his appearance. There were mirrors all over the place. I think he was cheating, she found out and was going to take the kids. She was old money, so the house and stuff was probably all hers. He panicked and tried to get rid of her without losing all those mirrors."

"How did he shoot himself, then?"

"String. There was fishing line lying next to his body. The blood patterns indicated he was already prone when the bullet hit. Would he just lay down and let someone shoot him?" Mulder stabbed a potato and waved it in the air. "You ever notice that women don't commit suicide by sticking a gun in their mouths? It's a … I don't know, I guess vanity is the word I want -- but not just being vain. Women either take pills and lay themselves out en tableau, or they jump from high places and obliterate everything. This guy was shot in the shoulder -- almost took his arm off, but his head was turned away, as if trying to keep anything from hitting his face."

"It's all theory, Mulder," Skinner said, while deep down he was very impressed. He always was.

"So's baseball," Mulder retorted. He held up his plate. "All clean. Do I get birthday cake now?"

"Will you let me finish?" Skinner said patiently. "Here. Open another present while you wait."

Mulder shook it. "Clothes. It's got to be clothes. It's a shirt. Ooh, it's a cool shirt." He pulled it out and held it up to him. "It looks like one of my ties," he decided.

"That's what I thought," Skinner said, taking a bite.

"Short sleeves? I'm going to wear short sleeves in October?"

"It's non-perishable," Skinner took a swallow of champagne. "You can wear it next year when we have another heat wave."

"I'll wear it to the office," Mulder promised, shrugging it on over his sweater. "The air conditioner doesn't work down there."

Skinner smiled at him. What a picture. Oxford tie knotted over a throat left bare by a V-neck black sweater, loud orange sport shirt shrugged on over that. "Magnum, P.I., you're not."

"Well, maybe if I grew a mustache," Mulder offered.

Skinner gave him a violent mock shudder. "I'll bring the dessert plates."

"Got any ice cream?" Mulder called as Skinner went across the hall. He's thirty-eight years old, he had to remind himself. Tonight he seems about twelve -- Skinner stopped. He had read something in Mulder's profile, he thought, that suggested a part of his psyche might have been frozen at age twelve. Maybe it was starting to thaw. He brought the plates back. To his surprise, Mulder's plate was clean. He didn't think he had ever seen that. He wished he did have ice cream.

He brought the cake to the table. It was chocolate, with chocolate frosting. It had a little green man in frosting, and one candle. It made Mulder smile, as Skinner lit the candle. "Do you want me to sing?" he offered.

Mulder blushed a little and leaned in to blow the candle out. "Happy birthday to me," he murmured.

"Okay. You cut the cake, I'll get another present." Skinner deliberately handled the box as if it was very light.

"Let's see, that would be the shorts that go with this." Mulder's eyes widened as the box was put into his hands. "Too heavy for shorts. This is too heavy for a whole suit." He took the paper off in stages, as if he couldn't believe what the box said. "You bought me a palmtop computer?" he breathed. "Jeesh, Kat, these things cost a fortune. Besides, my laptop --"

"Is government issue. Your next book will not be written under the auspices of Uncle Sam," Skinner said, a little more sternly than he meant. "I'm hoping there will be another book."

"There might be." Mulder was opening the box, tugging Styrofoam padding away. "This alone would inspire me. Besides, I've been thinking about collaborating with Scully on forensic evidence." His eyes were a bright green, the green of a child who found the bicycle under the Christmas tree. He looked up. "Thank you … Walter."

Skinner felt an unexpected lump in his throat. He had never heard Mulder say his name with such reverence, respect … affection? "You're welcome. And now, my card." He held it out, rising up to hand it across the table.

Mulder opened the envelope. It didn't look like a Hallmark. In fact, it looked like an envelope that Skinner had pulled out of Kim's desk yesterday afternoon on his way out the door. He looked up, puzzled as he pulled out the blue and red folder holding the tickets and boarding passes. "Airline tickets? To Hawaii?" He looked bewildered, slightly repulsed. "Home of the paper grass skirts and the Kamanawanaleiu margarita?"

Skinner came around the table, drawing in a deep breath. "Also home of same sex marriages."

Mulder just stared at him.

Skinner dropped very slowly to one knee and reached for Mulder's free hand, drawing it against his chest. Mulder resisted slightly, stunned. Solemnly, Skinner said, "Fox Will --"

"Don't call me that," Mulder protested.

"Shut up," Skinner said gently. "This is a time for first names. Nicknames won't do here. Fox William Mulder, will you marry me?"

Mulder sat there for a long time, thoughts flying through his brain. Skinner thought he could see some of them flash in his eyes. None of them looked positive. He was about to let go of Mulder's hand and get up off his protesting knee when he thought he saw Mulder nod. "Walter S … Samuel? Steven? Stanley?"

"Sergei," Skinner supplied, tightly.

"Sergei?" Mulder repeated, stunned. "Sergei? Does the Bureau know about this?"

"Answer the question, damn it."

"Oh, so you do know what it feels like," Mulder said with a wicked chuckle. "I'll make a deal with you, if you never call me Fox again as long as we live, I'll never call you Serge."

"Fox William Mulder," Skinner growled. "I am about to get up and turn you over this knee."

"Okay, okay." Mulder shook himself. "Let's see, where were we? Hawaii? Grass skirts … Fox William … yada yada. Oh, yeah. Right. Yes, Walter Sergei Skinner. I will marry you."

It was Skinner's turn to be stunned. He never really thought Mulder would agree, no matter how much he wanted him to. "You … will?"

Mulder's eyes darkened, searched Skinner's anxiously. "Don't you want me to?"

Skinner stood up, pulling Mulder up with him, and kissed him, deeply. "Thank you," he whispered into Mulder's hair.

Mulder just held onto him.

- END part 13 of 15 -
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