Little Things (part 8 of 15)

by Mik

"Do you want to come up?"

Mulder almost flinched at the sound of Skinner's voice. His mind was numb, had been for hours. He shook his head slightly. "I'm still not a hundred percent," he mumbled. "It's stupid, I know, but when you're sick, there's no place like home."

"Even when you're in the peak of health, there's no place like your home, Mulder," Skinner drawled.

"Snob," Mulder said. "Just because you sleep in a bed and eat at a table." He shook his head carefully. "It's been a long week, Wes. I just want to sort things out."

He felt Skinner's eyes on him, hot with anxiety. "Is something wrong? Did we go too far this morning?"

This morning. The jacuzzi. Mulder's muscles were still twitching. It was an amazing sensation to experience orgasm in the weightless environment of a hot tub, being connected to the world only through someone's hand, someone's mouth. Free fall sex … He hadn't screamed this time … he cried. "No." He kept his eyes on the steering wheel. "Just far enough, I think."

"I'm worried about you, Kit." Skinner dropped his hand across Mulder's neck, rubbing slightly. "You're not yourself."

"I have bronchitis," Mulder reminded him, barely able to keep from jerking away from the touch. "Look, don't pull a Mulder and start over analyzing things. This has been a long, bewildering week. I just need a couple of hours to sort it all out."

Skinner pulled his hand away and nodded. "Well, are you coming in tomorrow?"

Mulder nodded. "Of course."

Skinner sighed inwardly, and pushed the car door open in resignation. "I'll see you then."

Mulder nodded again. He waited until Skinner had climbed out of the car, collected his bag, and disappeared into the stairwell of the underground parking, his shoulders sagging, before he started his car and backed out. What the hell are you doing, Mulder? he demanded. This guy, this man, your boss, poured out his heart and soul this morning, and you're handing it back to him on a platter of your indifference and insecurity. You're such a jerk. He almost turned the car around, but the iron gates of the parking structure were already swinging closed. He wished he could talk to Scully, get her advice. But this wasn't something Miss Dana-By-The-Book could or would appreciate.

He had been so sick yesterday, all he wanted was to be left alone, but he had Scully and Skinner taking turns with a fucking death watch. Every four hours it was pills and water, water and pills. He was coughing so hard he thought he was going to break ribs. And they had the nerve to sit out there and talk about him as if he was a puppy, a child, an inanimate object.

But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was Skinner looking at him that way, when he thought he was asleep. There was sort of a sick longing in his eyes, a possessiveness whenever Scully was around, and a tight struggle for control, the combination of which was frightening and irritating at the same time. And Mulder wanted him to just keep on looking.

I must be sick, he told himself, heading the car toward Alexandria. I ached every time he looked at me, spoke to me, touched me. I felt like a kid with a crush, and a powerful case of hero-worship all in one. When he told me he loved me … I thought I was going to blubber like a baby.

Mulder banged his fist on the steering wheel. What's the matter with you, Skinner? You could do so much better than me. If you really want a guy, I could pick a hundred with more of what you're looking for. And if you want a woman, I know a hundred personally who would give you the world. Just stay away from Scully.

He forced his internal soliloquy into silence for a while, and drove, still seeing Skinner's eyes, still feeling the strength of him when he pulled Mulder against him. Still feeling the sensation of his hand on his cock -- on their cocks -- as he turned Mulder toward him, and pulled them together, his big hand wrapped around both of them. He shuddered at the sensation, it had been so powerful, it lasted so long. And when it was over, and he was literally weeping, Skinner gathered him close, let his body lay against his own, just floating, feeling, being free.

Mulder was still embarrassed by his reaction. He had pulled away, when he could pull the shards of his emotions together, mumbled excuses about feeling a little tired, and scrambled into the bed. He slept until it was time to get ready to go.

On the flight home, Skinner had tried to induce a little free vend conversation from him, and he tried, he really did, but he couldn't take his mind away from the jacuzzi, and the touch of Skinner's hand, even hotter than the water, so he stammered and stumbled and fell silent, until the only sound he made was the occasional spine-shifting cough. Because they were in public, Skinner couldn't even touch him. So he sat there, stiffly, at Mulder's side, while Mulder pretended to sleep. And now, when it seemed that Skinner -- yes, A.D. Walter S. Skinner -- needed some kind of reassurance, Mulder had slammed the door in his face. Mulder banged his fist on the steering wheel again. You are such a fucking jerk!

He pulled to the side of the road, leaned into the back seat and scrambled around until he got his bag open and his cell out. He dialed a number he knew better than his own.

Scully's voice was weak and drowsy, as if she had just succeeded in dozing off. "Yes, Mulder?"

Mulder didn't ask how she knew. He knew. She knew. They always knew. "Sorry if I woke you."

"Are you back in town?"

"Only just. How was the rest of the symposium?"

"Well." He could hear her shift in her bed; he could hear crisp clean linens crinkle in protest at the disturbance. "I know that someone out there could figure out what motivated me if I killed you."

"Scully, a five year old could do that," Mulder said with a chuckle, which turned into a cough.

"How are you feeling?" Her tone was both solicitous and dry. "You were really out of it when we left this morning."

"Better. Between you and Skinner, I didn't dare not get well. I had the feeling that if I died, one or both of you would have chased me into the ether and beat the crap out of me for bailing on you."

"That was the plan, Mulder." She shifted again. "And speaking of Skinner, you've really got the A.D. fooled. He told me you loved me."

"I do," he said earnestly. "I adore you. You know that."

"What about her?"

"Stop calling her 'her'," he complained, annoyed. 'He' would be more to the point.

"Give me a name."

"You've got one."

"For her, Mulder," Scully drawled. "Give me a name, give me an alias, give me something to call her so I'll stop sounding like a jealous wife every time I say 'her'."

"I like it when you sound like a jealous wife," Mulder answered saucily. When he got no response from her he sighed. "All right, all right. I'll give you a name." His mind started scrambling for a long ago lesson. "Oyakata."

"She is Japanese."

"Whatever, Scully." He felt better. He felt normal.

"I'll see you in the morning."

"Right." When he heard the little blip that signaled the end of the connection, he felt alone. He put the phone down, looked over his shoulder to pull out into traffic, and impulsively, made an illegal U-turn.

I shouldn't be doing this, he told himself as he pulled the brake in front of the condominium. I really shouldn't be doing this, he insisted as he climbed out of the car, danced across the street and went up the stairs to the door. Don't, he warned himself as his finger hovered over the doorbell. Just turn around and go home. He let his finger fall on the brass button.

The door opened too fast for him to make a break. Skinner's eyes were bright, his face was flushed, and for just a second, Mulder thought he might have been crying, then he realized he knew that face. It wasn't grief, it was anger. "What do you want?" Skinner snapped.

Mulder's mouth worked uselessly. He didn't have an answer. He shrugged, helplessly.

"Well?" Skinner demanded roughly. "Agent Mulder, it's late. I haven't had much sleep, and I have to be at work in just a few hours. What the hell do you want?"

Mulder made a little sound that didn't even sound as if it could have come from him. "You."

Skinner's hand shot forward and Mulder flinched, as if he thought Skinner was going to hit him, but Skinner only caught the edge of his jacket and pulled him inside. Slamming the door shut, breathing heavily, he looked at Mulder for a moment, and then pulled him into an embrace that guaranteed to crush something.

Mulder squirmed a little. "Can I … can I breathe?" he implored, putting his hands on Skinner's shoulders and pushing, slightly.

Skinner eased his hold marginally. "I thought it was over," he murmured, clutching at Mulder's back, his hair, his face. "I thought you were through with me."

Mulder eased himself away, and touched Skinner's face tenderly. He smiled faintly. "Not by a long shot. I just needed to back up and re-evaluate. I told you I'm over-analytical. Being unconscious gives you plenty of time to crawl up in your head."

Obviously relieved, Skinner straightened, pulled himself back into control. "You want a beer?"

Mulder shook his head. "I don't think I'll be drinking anything stronger than tap water for a few days. I've got all these antibiotics roaming around." He gestured toward his chest.

"Right. I forgot." He turned and went down the hall to the kitchen. "How about some tea?"

Mulder followed. "How could you forget, Wes? You were the one cramming them down my throat." Mulder stopped. "I'm not going to call you Wes anymore."

Skinner was filling a tea kettle from the tap. "No?"

Mulder was smiling again, just that faint shadow of amusement. "No, I'm going to call you Kat. It goes with Kit, right?"

"Is there an etymology for that word?" Skinner asked, pulling a cup and saucer from the cupboard.

"There is." Mulder leaned in the doorway. "Scully demanded a name for 'her'."

"Scully? Why would Scully want a name?"

"No, 'her'." Mulder emphasized the word slightly more. "You know, as in keeper of the boytoy?"

"Oh." Skinner held up a box of Sleepy Tyme Tea. To Mulder, he looked just like the teddy bear on the box. Mulder nodded in approval. "And you told her Kat?"

"No, I told her Oyakata." Mulder frowned slightly. "Did I pronounce that right?"

Skinner had to think a minute. "Boss."

Mulder nodded. "Kit and Kat. What do you think?"

"It will look great on the monograms," Skinner agreed cheerfully. "Sugar or honey?"

"Baby," Mulder answered and levered himself away from the door. "Honey. It would be good for my throat."

"Yes, we do want to keep that throat in good condition," Skinner agreed with a chuckle.

"Well, I know how we could get the honey right to it," Mulder said with a wicked little grin.

Skinner blinked. "Mulder, you surprise me."

"Wait." Mulder promised. "It gets worse." He came up behind Skinner and leaned into him, rubbing his hands over the starched cotton of Skinner's shirt. The man was built like a tank. The strength was intoxicating.

Skinner put a hand up on one of his wrists and held it in place. "Are you staying the night?"

Mulder shook his head. "My car's parked out front. It wouldn't do to leave it there all night."

Skinner's hold tightened on his wrist. "I'll move it inside, and bring your bag up. Do you want to stay the night?"

Mulder nodded against Skinner's shoulder. "Yes, I do. Very much."

He thought he felt Skinner shudder against him. "You finish the tea. I'll go move the car. Where are your keys?"

Mulder wanted so much to make this man happy that he was willing to do anything, including play the fool. He turned slightly and thrust his hips forward. "Come and get them," he teased.

Skinner's eyes got very wide. "Agent Mulder, I think you have more than antibiotics running around in you right now." He slid a hand forward and worked it into the pocket of the very snug jeans. He deliberately let his fingers wander, and it was Mulder's turn to shudder. He pulled the keys free. "I'll be back in a minute."

"Do you want some of this?" Mulder asked, as the tea kettle started to whistle.

"No, I've got a drink in the living room." He got as far as the door, and turned back, catching Mulder by surprise, and giving him a deep kiss. "I'm very glad you came back tonight."

Mulder sighed and settled against the counter, watching Skinner leave. So am I, he thought. So am I.

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

They went to bed almost immediately. Mulder carried his cup upstairs, and sat on the edge of the bed, stirring idly, while Skinner dug through his bag for sweats and tee shirt. "These are pretty rank, Kit," he warned. "Do you really need something to sleep in?"

Mulder pursed his lips as he looked over his shoulder at the expanse of bed, unaware of how the expression was affecting the boss. "I guess not," he decided. "It would be just a little too precious to borrow a pair of your pajamas."

Skinner shrugged and dumped the dirty clothes into his hamper. "If it will make you feel better, I'll skip them, too."

"Your generosity never ceases to amaze me," Mulder drawled, tucking one jean-clad leg up under him as he shifted back to lean against the headboard. He took a drink of the tea. The warm, sweet liquid really did feel good on his throat. "Thanks for the tea, by the way."

Skinner nodded. He came close enough to brush unruly hair back from Mulder's eyes. They still seemed fever bright. "Are you sure you're up to going to work tomorrow?"

"Sure." At least, that's what Mulder started to say. Instead, it came out a rough cough.

"Stay here," Skinner said. "Just spend the day relaxing. No one will bother you."

"Until you get home," Mulder retorted, but with a little grin.

Skinner missed the grin. He was running his fingers through Mulder's hair. "It would be nice to come home to you," he said quietly, letting his hand fall and caress Mulder's cheek. He took the teacup from Mulder's fingers. "Come on, let's go to bed. Did you take your pills?"

Mulder patted the pocket of his jacket. "I forgot."

Skinner gave him the kind of look that would have made Scully proud. "Mulder, you have to take the entire --"

"I know, I know." Mulder stood, tugging the bottle from his pocket. "I work with a doctor, remember? I know the rules regarding antibiotics. In fact," he added, rolling his eyes. "There isn't a health issue in the world that I don't know intimately." He reached for the teacup and gulped down antibiotics with the last of his tea. He stood and went to the bathroom. Skinner had pulled out his toothbrush. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, and even ran a brush through his hair. Then he undressed, slowly, knowing that Skinner, already undressed and in bed, was watching every move. He stopped as he reached for the waistband of his boxers. "Just so there's no misunderstanding, after this morning, I'm not really up to --"

"Do you think I am?" Skinner asked, incredulous. "I'm ten years older than you. If you couldn't do it, how do you think I could?"

Mulder dropped the shorts, a little smile on his face. "I think you could do anything you put your mind to. Sir."

Skinner pulled the bedclothes back.

Mulder went around the bed and climbed in on 'his' side, settling down with a contented groan.

Skinner came over to curl around him, locking his legs over Mulder's thighs.

Mulder let out a little screech and tried to scramble away. "Jeesh, Wes, your feet are freezing!"

Skinner didn't move. "What happened to Kat?"

"Oh, right, Kat," Mulder corrected, relaxing into the embrace. "Kat, Kat, Kat, Kat."

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

Mulder woke slowly, savoring warmth and comfort and a pillow that didn't consist of his own arm. If he kept this up, he wouldn't be able to fall asleep on his futon anymore. Skinner was gone. He was alone in the bed. He turned and sprawled out, trying to make himself fill the entire bed. He couldn't do it. He eased up. He didn't feel too bad. Still a little congested, still a painful tightness in his chest, but that spike through the head pain was gone. And he felt rested. He glanced around. The clock on the bedside table said ten o'clock. Could that be right?

He worked his way to the edge of the bed, and collected clothing. Dressing, he went into the bathroom. There was a note on the mirror: Take your Meds. Grinning he pulled it down and dumped it in the wastebasket. He brushed his teeth, because he hated morning mouth, and combed his hair. Having accomplished that, he went back into the bedroom and looked around. He picked up his garment bag and put his things away. Then, impulsively, he went to the huge bed and made it. It didn't look as good as when Skinner did it, but that's because he was a Marine, and weren't they taught how to make a bed? But at least Skinner would know that he tried.

He prowled a little. There was a den that was so masculine it almost attacked him. This was the core of Skinner, he realized. His laptop was gone, so apparently he carried that back and forth, but there were hundreds of books and pictures and mementos on the bookshelves that lined the room. Mulder made a swift but complete inventory, finding some of Skinner as a child, and as a Marine -- with hair! Mulder shook his head. He liked Skinner the way he was. There was an intensity about him that was so compelling. There was a strong, silent strength that kept Mulder coming back for more, even when everything in him screamed to stay away. To his complete surprise, there was a picture of himself on the shelves; a small one, taken at some recognition dinner or another. He looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to be somewhere else (which he did). He was the only one in the picture who wasn't smiling.

Downstairs, he went through the kitchen to the pantry, and found a washer and dryer. He decided he would do A.D. Skinner a favor and catch up on the laundry that had been left for at least a week. He started a load of whites (and remembered to put the bleach in, much to his own pride), and then made another cup of tea for himself.

He was just stirring honey into the cup when he heard something in the hallway. His hand went to his hip, and he realized his gun was upstairs, in the garment bag. He turned around sharply, just as he heard a little gasp of surprise from the doorway.

She was blond, a faded beauty a little younger than the A.D. himself. She had a puzzled frown on her face. "Oh." She put a hand to her throat. "I know you, don't I?" she said.

Mulder nodded. "I think so. You're the A.D.'s ex-wife, Sharon, right?" Ver -- ry tactful, Mulder.

She nodded. "And you're …"

"Agent Mulder." He wiped the stickiness of honey from his fingers and extended a hand. "Nice to see you again."

She took his hand, a firm grip. "Agent Mulder, what are you doing here?" she asked, coolly.

"Making tea," he answered, gesturing toward the kettle. "Do you want some?"

"Please." Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you here?"

He had been given enough time now to develop a plausible denial and he used it, shaking his head. "I'm not sure. We were in Los Angeles over the weekend, and I got sick. When we got back to Dulles, I didn't feel like driving. I gave him my keys, and I woke up on the sofa in the den this morning." The kettle whistled and he turned back to it, wondering how she was accepting this information.

"Why were you in Los Angeles with my husband?"

'My husband'? Mulder was annoyed by the possessive tone in her voice, as if Skinner was still her property. He's mine now, you left him, he wanted to say, but he didn't. "Conference."

"How was it?" She took the cup he held out to her.

"I don't know. I spent the whole time out cold with bronchitis." He felt like the Other Woman having a confrontation with the wronged wife.

"Pity," she said.

"I guess." He stirred the tea.

She chose words carefully. "I want you to be totally honest with me, Agent Mulder."

He swallowed. "Of course."

"Who is my husband seeing?"

"S -- seeing?"

She gave him an impatient look. "I know he's been seeing someone recently. I want to know who. I suspect it's your partner. What do you think about that?"

Mulder bit down on the inside of his lips to keep from grinning. "I don't think. A.D. Skinner's personal life is none of my business."

Sharon considered his words. "You'd do a lot to protect him, wouldn't you?" she asked thoughtfully.

"Not lie for him," Mulder lied.

She shrugged. "I just think it's curious that here you are." She paused and made a generous gesture with her fingers. "Making yourself at home in his house when he's not here. That's a lot of leniency for someone in his position to allow someone in your position. He must owe you something."

Mulder felt his ears burn in indignation. "I taught him how to spin straw into gold. Now he owes me his first-born son."

She surprised him. She laughed. "Let's not be adversarial, Agent Mulder. We both want the same thing; to protect him. Who did he sleep with in Los Angeles?"

"In the Biblical sense?" Mulder shook his head. "No one, that I know of. We ended up sharing a suite, but he didn't sleep with me. And," he added defiantly, "Agent Scully was sharing a room with another agent."

Her pale eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "But you said you were 'out cold' didn't you?"

Mulder nodded. "In the bedroom. If they were sleeping together, on the bed, I probably would have noticed it, regardless of my condition. And that sofa wasn't very comfortable."

She sipped tea, in an overly dainty way. "I'm going to find out who it is, Agent Mulder," she assured him.

Something in her tone told him she meant it. "Why are you so sure there is someone?" he asked. "He's sure not giving away anything around me. I mean, he's the same grumpy S.O.B. every day in the office."

"Oh, I know," she said with a little note of mystery in her voice, as if to say, a wife always knows.

"How?" He leaned in. "I've always been fascinated by psychic phenomenon. Do you hear voices or get visions?"

She threw the tea at him. He stepped back, spluttering as the still hot liquid splashed his face and seeped through his tee shirt. She put the teacup down on the counter carefully and flounced out. He'd never seen flouncing, but he recognized it.

He had to put a little ice on the spot on his collarbone that took most of the scalding splash, and then he pulled off his tee shirt, and sopped up the liquid that ended up on the floor and counter. Then he put the teacup in the dishwasher and went into the living room to sit and think for a moment. Finally, he went upstairs and dug his cell phone out and dialed Skinner's office.

Kimberly answered. "Assistant Director Skinner's office."

Mulder was glad his voice was still a little husky. It made his call a little more believable. "Is he in? This is Agent Mulder."

"Agent Mulder?" Kimberly's voice actually thawed two or three degrees to convey concern. "I thought you were out sick today."

"I am, but I got a message to call him. Kim, is he really pissed?"

"Oh, no. In fact, he said it was a good thing you didn't try to come in. He said you were very sick this weekend."

"Well, I was, I am. I have bronchitis. Is he in?"

"No. He went home."

"Home?"

"He said he was very tired, that he didn't get any sleep this weekend, and that he was still suffering from jet lag."

"How long ago did he leave?" Is he going to run into Sharon in the parking structure? "Should I try calling him at home?"

"No, I don't think so. He should be home soon, and he didn't leave any instructions for when you called. Don't worry," she soothed. "I'll let him know you did return his call."

"Thanks." Mulder shut his phone, and went into the den and settled down on the sofa, and waited, unaware that he was shivering, in part because he was still barechested and in part because he was very afraid of what was about to happen. If Sharon made up her mind to find out just who Skinner was seeing, she wouldn't have any compulsion against hiring a detective, staking out the condo, having Skinner followed.

He didn't have to wait too long. Within twenty minutes, he heard the key in the lock. He heard Skinner drop things on the table by the door. He heard him bound up the stairs. He heard him go into the bedroom, look around and come back out into the hall. He heard him push the door open.

Mulder looked up. "Houston, we have a problem."

- END part 8 of 15 -
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