Little Things (part 7 of 15)

by Mik

"Agent Scully, I'm sorry I had to wake you." Skinner tightened the belt of his robe as he let the woman into the suite. He saw her eyes go to the sofa first, and he was glad he thought to throw a pillow and blanket there before he dialed her room. "He's in here."

Mulder was on his side at the edge of the king-size bed, shivering uncontrollably. Scully went to the far side of the bed and knelt beside him, brushing his hair back tenderly, touching his brow, putting a hand on his chest. "How long has he been like this?"

"I don't know. He seemed to get sick all of a sudden, while we were at the game. Then, when he passed out in the cab, I couldn't help but notice that he was feverish. He was sort of in my lap." Skinner admitted this uncomfortably. He thought Mulder was just back to being playful when he suddenly took a nosedive into Skinner's crotch, but when Skinner tried to make him stop, he realized that his agent was burning hot to the touch, and completely oblivious to anything going on around him, including Skinner.

"Well, he's definitely febrile, and congested," Scully agreed. "Has he been coughing?"

"All night. He started that just before …" Skinner stopped and scowled. "Grape."

Scully looked up at him. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

Skinner shook his head. "What's the matter with him?"

Scully frowned her I'm-worried-about-Mulder frown. It was only one of an entire repertoire she had. "I don't know. I thought he had a cold. He was complaining earlier. But listening to his chest, I think it might be something else, maybe bronchitis. There's a viral strain going around, one very resistant to antibiotics."

"He was complaining earlier?" Skinner seemed to catch this only at the last minute. Why hadn't the fool said something to him? He had a fever last night, and he couldn't eat. And this morning his color seemed so strange …

"Yes, sir. He didn't want you to know, because of the basketball game," Scully confided. "So I gave him some over the counter medication to get him through the evening."

"Well, that would explain the floor show at dinner tonight," Skinner said grimly.

Scully nodded. "Yes, sir. You can be grateful he's not a junkie." She looked down at Mulder, worriedly, as he started another bone-racking cough. "You've seen him on pseudoephedrine. Can you imagine him on speed?"

Skinner shook his head. "Something I do not wish to contemplate -- oh, God."

"What's the matter, sir?"

"He drank beer at the game."

"That doesn't mix well with pseudoephedrine," Scully agreed.

"Should he be in a hospital?"

Scully decided against moving him. "No. He should be left where he is for a day or two. I'll prescribe something for the fever and a strong suppressant for the cough. Once the fever breaks, he can go home."

Skinner nodded. Then he tried to find words to explain what truly scared him. He had put Mulder to bed, noticing that, while he was burning hot to the touch, he was shivering and unaware. Skinner had wrapped his arms around him, trying to keep him warm, and despite that deep, rattling cough, managed to sleep for a while. Suddenly, Mulder had let out a wail, and began to thrash, so violently that he hit Skinner in the nose and made him see stars. When Skinner couldn't calm him, he rushed for the phone and called his partner. "Should he be delirious?"

Scully smiled. "Oh, that." She eased the bedclothes up around Mulder's chin. "That's Mulder's nightly routine. You've just experienced night terrors -- the Movie. Mulder can't sleep through a night without a nightmare or two. I'm an old campaigner in the Mulder road-show. Trust me, you get used to it."

"But, he's never --" Skinner stopped. He nearly confessed that in all the nights they had spent together, Mulder had had one nightmare, and he had brought that on himself. "He never mentioned it to me."

"He doesn't mention it," Scully agreed. "I don't think he's aware of how bad they are. I don't want you to hold this against Mulder, but he has severe sleep problems. He has to have a television going or a light on, all the time. I've learned over the years to leave the door open, so I can get to him before he hurts himself." She smiled ruefully. "I hope I don't regret telling you this, sir."

"Has he ever considered sleep therapy?" Skinner asked, casting an anxious glance at the form on the bed.

"Twice that I know about," Scully agreed. "Once he gets up in the morning, he's fine, with no memories of the night before. It doesn't seem to impair his ability to work, so he just deals with it. I hope he didn't upset you too much. It is a little unnerving if you're not prepared for it."

She reached for the telephone and dialed. "This is Dr. Scully, in room …" She looked at Skinner questioningly. He was still looking at Mulder.

"1701."

She continued her conversation, asking for the house doctor, and then for prescriptions.

Skinner wandered back to the bed. Night terrors? He'd never seen any indication of this in Mulder's behavior or work. And why didn't it happen when they spent the night together? Was it because he felt … safe? Skinner almost smiled. I'll keep you safe, Kitsune, he thought.

Scully replaced the phone. "They'll have the meds up in about an hour," she said. "I thought he was going to sleep on the sofa."

"He … uh … he was, but he seemed so sick when we got back, I just put him down there."

Scully nodded as if she understood. She had made sacrifices for Mulder, too. "Listen, call me if he gets worse."

Skinner nodded. "Should I … do you think he should be left alone?"

Scully frowned. "It wouldn't hurt to watch him, at least until the meds get here. After all, he's got a fever, and he did mix medications and alcohol. That can get tricky. See if you can't get him to drink some water. It will move the other medication through his system faster, and keep him from getting dehydrated." She could see the anxiety in her boss' face. "Do you want me to stay with him?" she offered.

Skinner drew a deep breath. "No. This is just my penance for dragging him to that conference, I suppose." He stacked pillows up on the side of the bed nearest the door. "Thank you, Agent Scully." He eased down and leaned against the pillows.

She nodded and left.

Skinner leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. He should have known. Mulder had been so unnatural (as if Mulder was ever natural?) all day. And that performance in the restaurant … instead of recognizing it for what it was, Skinner got mad, and jealous. He stayed mad all through the game, instead of enjoying Mulder enjoying himself.

What a sight, Mulder enthusiastic about something earthly in nature. Mulder's eyes bright, Mulder's smile genuine, Mulder's lithe body jumping up and surging forward with the rest of the crowd. Skinner sighed deeply. All week long he had been fantasizing about making this weekend special, something that would prove to Mulder that it wasn't just about sex. At the same time, he was trying to figure out for himself what it was about. Was it curiosity? Was it sex? Was it that mid-life thing? No.

So, had he suddenly developed homosexual tendencies? He doubted that, too. He had seen many young men tonight who could have changed places with Mulder in an instant, some who made eye contact offers to do so, but none of them tempted him. Not one of those young, handsome, sleek men held any attraction for him. There was something in Mulder himself that drew him like that proverbial moth. It was Mulder's soul. That flicker in his eyes, that treble in his laugh. Mulder could be a man, a woman, old or young, and that spark, that essence of what he was would draw people near.

The desire to make love to him, that wasn't about sex either. That was about being a part of him, having a connection in the most literal, and perhaps vulgar sense. But if Mulder was never ready to take that step, it wouldn't diminish his feelings. Feelings. Walter Skinner, you've fallen in love.

Tentatively, he reached across the bed and touched Mulder's hair. Yes, Walter, you've fallen in love with an amazing and uncontrollable soul.

Mulder shivered again, and grunted, as if in pain.

"Easy," Skinner said, drawing closer to him. Scully's words had disturbed him. What would send a thirty-seven year old man into the throes of night terrors on a nightly basis. Well, if it was anyone else, you'd have to ask that question, wouldn't you? he thought. But, who knows what all Mulder's seen. And if there was any truth to the stories about his sister's abduction … "Easy."

Mulder turned toward the soothing voice. His words were unintelligible, but urgent. His hands twitched and clenched, and his body trembled.

Skinner touched his fevered face gently. "Shh, baby, it's all right," he promised. "It's all right."

Mulder seemed to relax at last, snuggling into the warmth of Skinner's embrace. His breath was ragged, and he continued to shiver, but he wasn't frightened anymore.

The medication came a little while later. The house doctor brought it up, and took the time to confirm that Mulder did indeed have bronchitis. "Here's an antibiotic. He needs to take this four times a day, until the prescription is finished, even if he starts to feel better. This is for the cough. And I'm going to give him a saline, salicylic acid shot to bring the fever down." He tapped the bubbles out of a syringe.

Skinner stopped him. "No needles. He doesn't like needles."

The doctor smiled, tolerantly. "Then give him four aspirin, dissolved in eight ounces of water. Then give him another eight ounces of water. Make sure you get him to drink all the water. He's going to risk dehydration until the fever comes down. And don't worry." He patted Skinner's shoulder. "He'll be fine in a couple of days."

Skinner didn't care for the implications in the tone or the smile. "I think you're laboring under an erroneous assumption here, Doctor. That man is a Special Agent of the FBI. I am his Director. I have a responsibility for his well-being, just as I do for the other agents traveling with me."

The doctor only smiled as he put his things back into his bag. "Well, I guess that's the difference between LA and DC," he said easily. "We might make assumptions, but we don't make judgments. This will be on your bill. Good night."

Skinner waited, glaring, until the door was closed. Then he let go a long, painful sigh. "Well, Kit," he muttered, carrying the medications into the bathroom. "I think we just got a glimpse of our future, if we proceed on this course." He measured out medications, dissolved aspirins, and filled an extra glass with water. Then he went back to the bed, setting down at Mulder's side. "Come on, Kitsune," he said softly. "Sit up. Take this and you'll feel better." He eased Mulder up against his body, and worked the antibiotics between his lips. "Here we go. Swallow this. I don't need a bath." He tipped the extra glass of water up and Mulder sputtered and swallowed and opened his eyes.

He tried to say something but all he could do was cough so Skinner hushed him gently, and gave him the glass with the aspirins. Mulder sipped and gagged. "Drink it, Mulder," he commanded gently. "It was either that or you get a shot." Mulder gulped down the rest of the glass, obediently, and shuddered. "Here, drink some more water."

Mulder took the glass with shaky fingers and sipped. "I … I ruined it, didn't I, sir?" he asked, through chattering teeth.

"Ruined what?" Skinner asked, brushing his damp hair back from his damp forehead.

"This." He drank a little more and his voice was a little stronger. "Us."

"You didn't ruin anything," Skinner said impatiently. "You got bronchitis. Why didn't you just tell me you were sick?"

"Because." Mulder took another sip. "Because I …" He gave the glass back. "I don't remember."

"Well, we'll talk about it in the morning." Skinner put the glass on the bedside table, and eased Mulder back against the pillows. "You get some rest and you'll feel better."

"I hate being sick," Mulder muttered.

"I know," Skinner agreed sympathetically. "You sleep." He tiptoed out of the room, and went out to the bar and poured himself a scotch.

Okay, Walter, he said to himself, slumping down on the sofa. Where do you want to go from here? You've lived your entire life on the straight and narrow, making sure there was nothing about you to make people point and whisper. And now … and now you want to embark on a relationship that will be disastrous to your career, destroy your family and could possibly be dangerous, given the levels of homophobia in some parts of the country. And you want to do that to someone else. Skinner's eyes flicked toward the bedroom door. If you really loved him would you submit him to something like that?

But, damn it, I do love him! Why shouldn't I be allowed to love him? He sighed. Well, why shouldn't he be allowed to love Scully? Bureau regulations forbade it, to begin with. But, as far as his feelings for Mulder, there were also certain religious and constitutional issues to contend with. He knew that neither of those two things made any difference to Mulder, but his position in the Bureau meant a great deal to him. Even if two thirds of the Bureau thought he was a crackpot, he had resources there he would never have anywhere else, and his quest for the truth was probably the most important thing in his life. No, he couldn't take that away from Mulder. This had to stop before it started. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that Mulder contracted bronchitis before they could take the next logical step in their relationship. Maybe it was a sign …

Walter, you sound just like him now. He took a sip of scotch and listened to the sounds of Mulder twisting and turning in the bedroom beyond. He wanted to go in there and wrap his arms around Mulder, but he remained on the sofa, drinking scotch and thinking.

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

Scully came back at dawn. She was dressed in the same leggings but another sweater, a long, blue gray cardigan. Her eyes were red and tired, her smile forced. "How is our little patient?" she asked.

"Sleeping," Skinner said, backing up to let her into the room.

"And how are you, sir?" she asked, noting the unmistakable smell of liquor on the A.D.'s breath with alarm.

He sighed. "It's been a long night."

"I'll look after him for a while," Scully promised. "Carrie can go to the symposium, and you can get some sleep."

Skinner nodded. "That sounds like a good idea." He moved toward the sofa, and stopped, hearing her croon softly. He turned around and went to the bedroom.

Scully was on her knees beside Mulder, stroking his cheek, speaking softly. She looked up when Skinner came in. "He still has a fever."

Skinner was frowning. "I think what is so disturbing is that I've never known him to be sick. Am I wrong? I know I get enough requests for medical LOA's when he's been injured in the line of duty, but I don't ever remember a request for sick time."

Scully nodded. "He's not sickly. He's in amazing health, considering his eating and sleeping habits. He's got the constitution of a horse, and the metabolism of a machine. I would say he got exposed to this virus when he was a little rundown, or under stress."

Skinner picked up on something curious in her tone. "Is he under stress? I mean, more than usual?"

Scully eased upward and gestured toward the door. "He might be."

"I don't see why," Skinner said defensively as they left the bedroom. "You're back on the road to good health, and he thinks he's been given some answers about his sister --"

"Oh, that's not it, sir." Scully floated down into a chair in the living room. "That's his crusade. He's been carrying it for so long, it might be stressful to put it down. No, I think this is something in his personal life."

Skinner stiffened just as he was going to sit down. "Would you like some coffee, Agent Scully?"

She nodded.

Skinner prepared coffee at the bar, wondering if he was about to hear that Mulder had confessed his situation to his partner, or she had guessed. "You know, he's in love with you," he blurted out, using some of Mulder's misdirection to keep from hearing that she knew the truth, or even suspected it.

Scully laughed softly behind him. "Oh, no he isn't, sir. That's just his way of letting off tension."

Skinner turned to her.

She nodded. "Whenever things get too intense or crazy, he says something like that. He's even proposed to me. He doesn't mean it."

"Oh, but he --"

"No. I know him, he's not serious. If I thought for one minute that he was serious about it, I'd be barefoot and pregnant in a heartbeat." She frowned, ruefully. "Well, barefoot, anyway."

"So you have feelings for him, too?"

"How could I not?" Scully answered honestly. "Look at him, he's obnoxious, self-centered, persistent, rude, and childish. He's also one of the warmest, sweetest, most compassionate, sincere men I have ever known. I've put my life in his hands so many times, and I've always felt safe. I respect him, I adore him, I like him. But, he sees me as his partner, which is as it should be. There's no temptation on either side to cross that line and ruin something that is so precious, so unique. So he proposes to me on a regular basis, and I pretend he annoys me." Scully's face was just a bit pink. She lowered her eyes. "That's more than you needed to know, isn't it, sir?"

Skinner smiled gently, as if to say he understood. "No, Agent Scully. I'm glad you felt you could tell me that. There have been so many rumors about you two, it's nice to know the facts."

Scully nodded as she raised her head. "Besides, he's got someone in his life right now."

Skinner was pouring coffee and he nearly spilled it. "Oh?" he said, trying to make his voice casual. "Well, he's more likely to confide in you than in me." He stared at the cup in front of him, wanting to change the subject, wanting to demand details. He realized, helplessly, that he had no idea what he was doing. "How do you take your coffee?"

"A little sweet," she answered. "He's not confiding in me. He's trying to pretend there isn't anyone."

Skinner emptied a packet into the cup and stirred. "Then how do you know there is?" he challenged, bringing her the cup.

She reached for it, smiling her thanks. "Because I know Mulder. He's being mysterious. He's being a little defensive. He's insisting more than usual that he loves me. And then, there were roses."

Skinner almost choked on his coffee. "Roses?"

She nodded. "Do you remember that weekend, when you called me looking for him?"

Skinner remembered that weekend like a saber going through his gut. He nodded. "I think so."

"Well, she spent that weekend with him. When I called, he wouldn't talk, and usually we talk for hours on the weekend. He couldn't get off the phone fast enough. Made lame excuses for why he wasn't answering his phone. Claimed he'd been running all day, and the thing is, the next time I saw him he looked as if he had been." She paused so that Skinner could note the significance of this fact. "And that morning, someone sent him roses."

Skinner nodded. "Roses. To Mulder."

She nodded. "Two dozen, long stemmed, deep red roses." She paused again. "Very romantic. Especially since Mulder likes roses."

Skinner raised a brow. "He does?"

Scully nodded. "He says they're a very strong flower, and they protect themselves." She flipped a hand. "It was one of those long conversations we had, stuck in an airport somewhere. I mentioned that I didn't particularly care to get roses, and he launched on this long speech about the different varieties, and the history, etcetera and ended by telling me he liked them."

Skinner could only shrug.

"And that's not all. Someone sent him licorice."

Skinner nodded. "I remember the licorice."

"She calls him Kitsune. It means fox in Japanese." Scully's words were coming out in a rush. "I think she's older than he is. I also think she has a lot of money, and she tries to use it as a leverage. He doesn't like it, but he has feelings for her, so he just goes along."

Skinner was intrigued. He wanted to know more about Mulder's resistance to this relationship, but he couldn't appear to be too interested. Fortunately for him, Mulder decided to interrupt the discussion by falling out of bed, with a loud groan.

Skinner and Scully raced into the bedroom, in time to catch Mulder, standing, weakly, at the side of the bed. He looked at them accusingly. "What's going on?" he rasped.

"You've got bronchitis," Scully said, going to him and trying to get him back into bed.

"I do not," Mulder said as indignantly as he could, while being tucked into bed.

"Yes, you do."

"Scully, that's my sweater," he said, plucking at her sleeve.

"I know." She drew the blankets up under his chin. "You gave it to me when we were in Montana."

"I loaned it to you when we were in Montana," he corrected, coughing.

Scully put a hand over his mouth. "Stop talking," she insisted. "When did he take his antibiotics?"

Mulder pushed her hand away. "I like that sweater, Scully."

"About four this morning."

"Hmm. And he got a shot, too?"

"No. Four aspirins, sixteen ounces of water," Skinner corrected her. "He didn't want a shot."

Scully smiled again, but it didn't go up to her eyes. "Do you want to try and eat something?"

Mulder shook his head.

"Okay then, just stay put, will you?"

Mulder nodded. "Then stop talking about me as if I was dead. I could hear you, you know. And she's not older, and she isn't trying to make me into her boytoy. Mind your own business."

Scully blushed a little. "Go back to sleep, Mulder. You're dreaming."

Skinner put a hand on Scully's-Mulder's-sleeve as they left the bedroom. "What is it? I could see it in your eyes."

She shook her head. "His fever should have come down a little by now. If anything, he seems warmer than before." She glanced over her shoulder. "Did the doctor take his temperature?"

Skinner nodded. "102.9"

"Well, that's not too bad. But it really should have come down by now." Scully went to the door. "You try and get some rest, sir. I'm going to send Carrie to the symposium, and then I'm going to go down to the pharmacy and get some Isopropyl alcohol, and see if an alcohol bath won't bring it down. We're supposed to go home tomorrow."

Skinner nodded and let her go. After she shut the door, he went back to the bedroom.

Mulder was laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. But he knew Skinner came into the room. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled.

"For what? You got sick. That's not your fault." Skinner wondered how much of the conversation Mulder heard. Did he know how Scully felt about him? If he knew he had a chance with Scully, it would be all over between them before it ever really started.

"I know." Mulder sighed, restlessly, and this made him cough. "But you went to so much trouble."

"For what?" Skinner demanded, roughly. "I got basketball tickets. It might surprise you to know, Agent Mulder, but you are not the only basketball fan in the Bureau."

Mulder closed his eyes. "Yes, sir."

"Stop saying 'sir'. It makes me feel as if you feel like you've been a naughty boy at school."

A smile curled up one corner of Mulder's mouth. "That's exactly how I feel."

Skinner smiled, too, a bit sadly. "So, what are you going to do with this older … person in your life, Kit?" he asked quietly.

Mulder shrugged. "I'm going to be a boytoy, I suppose." He opened his eyes. "Isn't thirty-seven a little old to be a boytoy?"

"Yes," Skinner agreed. "And I don't want one anyway."

Mulder's eyes widened. "You don't?"

"No. I want you, just the way you are; exasperating, brilliant, passionate, strong-minded --"

"Stubborn."

"In the extreme."

Mulder pulled an arm free from the bedclothes and reached out to touch Skinner's hand. "Okay."

Impulsively, Skinner's fingers tightened around his. "And I'll send you roses, whether I've screwed up or not."

"Scully will love that."

"Let her."

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

Scully and Ridge went back to DC on Sunday afternoon, as scheduled. But Mulder's fever hadn't broken by early Sunday morning, so Skinner announced he and his other agent were going to stay one more day. As a doctor, Scully had to agree that it wasn't wise to try and make him travel in his condition. As his friend, she wanted to be the one to stay.

Mulder's shivering stopped around eleven in the morning. And by one o'clock he was sweating. Scully said that would be a good sign. The antibiotics and cough suppressants were working to make him a little more human, and by two o'clock he was even willing to sit up and consider some food.

Skinner was so pleased to see this that he was ready to order champagne, but Mulder said coffee and toast would be fine. Skinner sat on the bed and watched him sip coffee with the same kind of care one diffused bombs. "Throat still hurt?" he asked sympathetically.

Mulder nodded. "A little. Where's Scully?"

"She and Agent Ridge went home this morning."

"And left me here with you, sick and defenseless?"

"It's comforting to know you're feeling better," Skinner drawled. "You scared us to death yesterday, when your fever spiked at 104.6. Even your partner was ready to call an ambulance."

Mulder lowered his eyes. "Sorry."

Skinner threw a pillow at him. "What are you apologizing for? Did you plan on getting sick?"

Mulder pushed the pillow away. "I hate being sick," he said flatly.

"Don't worry, Mulder. Considering what you had, you weren't that bad off. Agent Scully says the usual recovery time for this strain of bronchitis is two weeks. You'll be ready to go home in two days."

Mulder bit into the triangle of toast, swallowed and made a face. "It's a nice hotel room," he murmured. "Shame it had to go to waste."

Skinner frowned. "I wanted to talk to you about that, Mulder."

Mulder's expression was a heartbreaking mixture of terror and relief. "Yes, sir?"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking the past couple of days. What we're considering is dangerous; for our careers, for our families, maybe even for our health."

"If you're talking about HIV," Mulder said quickly, "I'm negative."

Skinner was surprised by this outburst. "Why would …"

"I donate blood," Mulder explained. "I get tested on a regular basis."

Skinner smiled softly. Yet another veil falling to reveal a little more of that amazing soul. "Well, that's good. But it isn't exactly what I meant."

Mulder surprised him again, nodding nonchalantly. "You're talking about the risks of that particular kind of intercourse, the damage it can do."

Skinner felt his cheeks going pink. "How did --"

"My partner's a doctor," Mulder pointed out. "She's walked me through a couple of autopsies. I've learned a few things." He took another careful, painful sip of coffee. "Is that what you meant?"

"Yes." Skinner drew a deep breath. "I don't want to hurt you, emotionally, physically or professionally."

Mulder absorbed this. "I don't think you could hurt me, Wes," he said carefully. "I think I could hurt myself. I know I'm not ready to give up what we've already got. And I think I was ready to go forward this weekend."

"Was?"

Mulder lowered his eyes, guiltily.

"Mulder?"

Mulder sighed, pushing the tray aside. "Look, I know why you did all this, the suite, the tickets, the jacuzzi. I know and I was prepared to …"

"Come across?" Skinner suggested darkly.

Mulder nodded. "Basically."

Skinner stood up, his fists clenching. "If you weren't sick I'd put you in a hospital," he seethed.

Mulder looked up, bewildered. "I was being honest."

"And so was I." Skinner turned away. "I wasn't trying to seduce you, Mulder. I was just trying to show you how much you matter to me."

"Oh, but, Wes, I already knew that."

Skinner turned slightly.

Mulder was sitting forward, his long fingers tangled in the bedclothes, those mercurial eyes fixed on the breakfast tray. "You listen to me. Endlessly." He chuckled, ruefully. "Even Scully can only take so much. You went to find Uncle Francis, because you thought what he would say I'd find comforting. You don't push me for more than I give, but you give everything I ask for. No one, male or female, young or old has ever done that for me." He lifted a hand and pressed it against his sternum. "Oh, God, Wes, I'm so twisted up inside. I don't know what to do. This is all so new, so strange, this sensation of having someone care. I don't know if I can handle it." His voice was suddenly fragile. "I'm so afraid of fucking up and losing it."

Skinner came across the bed to gather him to his chest. "You don't ever have to be afraid of that. Ever. There's nothing you could do that would change how I feel right now."

Mulder eased back. "You don't know me very well."

Skinner bent down enough to press a kiss to the top of Mulder's head. "Let's change that, shall we?" He tipped Mulder's face up and kissed his brow. "You're all sticky from your fever. I think you need a bath."

The expression in Mulder's eyes went from wide-eyed wonder to a slightly veiled concern. Skinner saw it and made a sound of exasperation. "No sex. Just a jacuzzi." He pulled at Mulder's wrists. "Come on."

Skinner tested the water as Mulder stripped out of his sweats and tee shirt. It was the first time Skinner had seen him completely naked (unless he counted seeing him in the pool, in a barely-there Speedo), and he was in awe of that long, lithe body, muscular and strong, with only a slight but consistent dusting of brown hair, like fox fur. He slid out of his jeans and tugged his polo over his head. "Come on," he encouraged, putting out a hand for Mulder.

Mulder came down into the bath, hesitantly.

"Too hot?" Skinner asked, solicitously.

"No." Mulder found one of the tiled benches and settled there, near Skinner but not by him. He let his arms reach out into the hot, bubbly water. "Nice." He settled back against the rim, and draped his arms around the edges, and watched as Skinner emulated his pose on the other side of the tub. They were just two guys hanging out in a hot tub … "Do you think we could keep it a secret?" he asked, after a while.

"Maybe," Skinner decided. "We would have to be careful."

Mulder nodded in agreement. "Even from our families?"

"I think so," Skinner said sadly.

"Even your ex-wife?"

Skinner looked at him. "Even Scully?"

Mulder shrugged that one shoulder shrug. "She'll just think I'm being a boytoy."

Skinner nudged his knee. "You're not, you know."

Mulder nodded again. "I know that."

Skinner scooted closer, but not too close. "You asked me what it was about you that I was drawn to. I've had a chance to give it a lot of thought this weekend, and I think I've figured it out."

Mulder leaned forward, intently. "Yeah?"

Skinner pulled his hands before them and studied them. "I've always been a physical kind of guy; played football, was in the Marines, was a field agent for more years that I care to remember, always having to live on the balls of my feet, or just plain on my balls. From the first time I met you, I realized I could break your neck like that," he snapped his fingers, making Mulder flinch. "But, I'd have to figure out how to get close enough to do it. But, you, you could sneak into me and break me from the inside. That's where your strength is, and it's amazing. Your mind moves like lightning. And you play all your emotions right out in front. You think you're spooky, you're not. You're not enigmatic, either. I sit across my desk from you, day after day, year after year, and listen to how much of yourself you put into your work. It's hypnotic, it's heartbreaking, it's superhuman. I want to be like you, I want to be with you. I want to see things through your eyes."

Skinner shrugged. "But, the physical thing? That started on the basketball court a few weeks ago when I wanted to put you back in your place. It was for your own good. But there I was sitting on top of that great ass, and I started having fantasies I've never had in my life."

Mulder blushed.

Skinner pursed his lips. "What happened that night, it wasn't supposed to be that way. I would never have hurt you. But I did. I saw your honor, and I realized the Marines got nothin' on Fox Mulder. I was hooked. Deeply embedded by my own shame and desires, and the go-to-hell spit in your eyes." He settled back. "That's why."

Mulder absorbed this quietly.

Skinner wanted a reaction. "The more time I spent with you, the more I wanted you, but I didn't just want the sex. I wanted to have you, hold you, be with you. And then I realized I had done it; I had fallen in love with you."

Mulder avoided his eyes.

Skinner tensed. Had he gone too far, revealed too much?

"I hated you when we first met," Mulder confessed on a sigh. "You seemed to be the embodiment of everything I was fighting against; bureaucracy, red tape, power. But, you always tricked me, at the last minute, making me believe that you really cared about what we -- about what I cared about. You made choices I despised you for, but I understood and admired what drove you to them. I guess, when you put that choice in front of me, I was trying to do what you would have done. I hated you and I wanted you to be proud of me, all at the same time." He winced. "I told you, father-figure."

"I am proud of you, Kit."

Mulder snorted.

Skinner answered by tapping the back of his head with his hand. Impulsively, he caught Mulder's hair and pulled him backward, until his head was under water.

Mulder came up spluttering. "You," he said, blowing water from his nose, "have an unfair advantage."

Skinner smiled at him. And stopped smiling the minute he felt five strong fingers curl around his cock. Suddenly he was tugged forward and under water. When he came up, he was laughing. He caught Mulder at the shoulder and spun him back until he had his back against Skinner's chest. He found that place behind Mulder's ear and licked it, and felt Mulder relax against him. Then he reached out and caressed Mulder's groin. To his surprise and pleasure, there was something waiting for him there.

Mulder started to stiffen and pull away, but Skinner held him tight. "This is as far as it goes today, Kitsune," he promised, kissing that spot again. "Just relax and let me do this for you."

Mulder leaned back obediently and gave into the feelings.

- END part 7 of 15 -
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