Little Things (part 9 of 15)

by Mik

Skinner was actually whistling to himself as he climbed the stairs of the parking garage. Last night he had gone from the heights of Heaven to the depths of Hell and back up again. He'd been on a happiness high all morning. And now he was going home to Mulder.

Mulder. What a paradox. He could stare down a murderer, he could shoot without flinching, he wasn't above taking a swing at someone if he felt they had it coming, and he could -- willingly -- climb into the sewer of a psychopath's mind. But he could also curl up into the sweetest, cuddliest creature, he could weep for joy, he could laugh at the strangest things. Yesterday, after some mind-blowing mutual masturbation, Mulder had wound himself up in his arms and cried. But then, ever mercurial, he withdrew. He stiffened at every word, every caress, as if he was sickened. He pretended to sleep to avoid a confrontation, and when he was awake, plausible denial was the order of the day. Just act natural, Mulder, pretend it didn't happen. The mantra was repeated so often behind his eyes that eventually even Skinner could hear it.

When Skinner got out of Mulder's car last night, he felt as if his world had come to an end. Mulder was shutting the door on them before it was even fully opened. He went upstairs, slammed doors, cursed anything that got in his way, poured himself a drink and nearly threw it at the wall. And then, as suddenly as Mulder had closed the door, he was there, shoving it open, forcing his way back in.

He was sweet, apologetic, affectionate, even a bit of a tease. Skinner had a flash of how Scully's life must be filled with Mulder. They had slept together, tangled in one another's arms. In the early morning, Skinner had wakened slowly, savoring the sensation of Mulder's naked body pressed against his own. He wanted desperately to make love to him, right then, but he didn't. He caressed him, and kissed him, and held him. Mulder had made it through the night without a nightmare. He had coughed so hard sometimes that Skinner was afraid he would find Mulder's lungs on the pillow in the morning, but Mulder even slept through that.

When Skinner finally had to get up, he nuzzled Mulder's ear, pulled the blankets up around him tenderly, and whispered "I love you."

Mulder murmured something unintelligible and burrowed under the blankets.

Skinner just couldn't stay in the office the entire day. The idea of Mulder lounging around in his bed made it impossible for him to think of anything else. He made up a million excuses when only one was needed, and literally sneaked out of the building. Pulling into the parking garage of his complex, he held his breath until he saw the Ford parked in the corner where he left it. He climbed up the stairs, eschewing the elevator, just to feel his blood pumping, and let himself into the condo. Dimly, he could hear the washing machine going, could smell bleach in the air. He could also smell the faint scent of tea.

He went upstairs, eager to find his Kit in bed, reading, watching television, sleeping. The bed was made. Badly, but it was made. He came out into the hall and turned toward the den. It was dark. Mulder was sitting on the sofa, shivering. Skinner missed that. He only saw Mulder, barechested, in those great fitting jeans, sitting in the dark. He nearly said, "For me?"

Before he could say a word, Mulder lifted his eyes and said, "Houston, we have a problem."

Skinner snapped the light on. Mulder still didn't look well. His skin was even more pale than usual, and his eyes were dull and flat. He was idly rubbing an ice cube over a red spot on his neck. He looked anxious. "What's the matter?" Skinner demanded, coming into the room. "What happened?" He tipped Mulder's head to one side and looked at the spot. "What did you do?"

"I caught scalding tea with my face," Mulder answered, dropping the ice cube into a dish on the table in front of him.

"What happened? Did you fall?"

"No, it was thrown at me."

"What the hell? Who threw tea at you?"

"Sharon."

Skinner sank onto the sofa. "Tell me what happened."

Mulder related the story, word for word. Skinner would have burst out laughing at the end, except Sharon threw tea on Mulder. "It's not funny," Mulder insisted. "What if she has you followed? Taps your phone? She says she's going to find out, and she means it." He turned slightly, putting a hand on Skinner's knee. "What are we going to do, Kat?"

Kat. He had practiced it last night, and now it was as natural as breath. "I'll talk to her."

"Will she believe you?"

"I could tell her the truth," Skinner suggested.

Mulder jumped up nervously. "I don't think that's a good idea. This is a woman who wants her husband back."

"Sharon doesn't want me," Skinner said tightly.

"She does if she thinks someone else does," Mulder said. "In all honesty, I'm not surprised. It's textbook behavior."

"Thank you, Dr. Mulder," Skinner said, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. "Oh, Kit," he reached out blindly. "I didn't mean it like that. You're right. In this area, you are the expert. I trust your judgment. You were here, analyzing everything she said and did." He pulled Mulder down next to him, taking care not to touch the area that was now raised and red. "As the expert, what do you want to do?"

Mulder sighed, to the depths of his soul. "I don't know. I swear to God I don't know. The rational part of me -- if there is such a thing," he added dryly, "says, get out of this now. Back off, no damage done. Go about your business. Get back to normal. Forget it happened --"

"What does the rest of you say?" Skinner invaded the diatribe.

Mulder was quiet for a long time.

"Mulder?"

"Stay."

Skinner felt like crying, his relief was so great. "Then it's unanimous. How do we go about it?"

Mulder lifted a glance to him. "Do you trust Sharon?"

"We were married for eighteen years."

"Do you trust her?"

"If she was behaving rationally, yes, but to hear you describe her, she wasn't." Skinner let his fingers play over Mulder's cheek, the bridge of his nose, his lips. "Are you suggesting we tell her?"

"We'd be at her mercy," Mulder said. He jerked away. "Damn it, how did we get here?" He turned and looked back at Skinner. "How did two grown men with a reasonable level of intelligence get into such a predicament? And how can looking at you turn my stomach into spaghetti?"

Skinner smiled up at him. "Does it?"

"Oh, Kat, Kat, Kat," he sighed, settling beside Skinner. "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to be as discreet as we can," Skinner decided. "If Sharon finds out, she finds out." He forced Mulder up with a jerk of his shoulder. "And right this minute I'm going to go throw the deadbolt, and then we're going to fix some lunch and get into bed."

Mulder tossed him a look. And what a look. It was the first time Skinner had ever seen such openness, such vulnerability. It was as if Mulder had taken off the mask of his own arrogance and insecurity and revealed what was underneath. His eyes were wide open, not in surprise, and his lips were parted slightly, breathing through his mouth. All of his features were relaxed. He looked so young, so innocent, so hopeful. Skinner felt his knees turn to jelly. He leaned up and pressed a kiss to those parted lips. "You keep looking at me like that, and I'm apt to take out an ad in the Blade, and buy us a house in San Francisco."

The mask slipped back on. "I don't like San Francisco any more than I do Los Angeles," he murmured. He stood and collected the dish of melted ice. "But the idea does have some merit." He started for the stairs.

It took Skinner a moment to get up and follow. "Did you eat anything this morning?"

Mulder shook his head. "I didn't get up until after ten." He put the dish in the sink and went through to the pantry. The washer was done and he began tossing clothes into the dryer. Skinner came to the door and watched him. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know." He kept tossing things in the dryer.

"Are you hungry?"

Mulder shrugged.

"Mulder, are you all right?"

Mulder's hands stilled. "No," he said. He straightened. "I'm scared shitless, Mr. Skinner. I've never been this messed up in my life, and I've been messed up. I'm used to getting in trouble at work, I thrive on it. I know I've done a good job if someone jumps my ass about it. But this, this is my personal life." He paused. "Well, first off, having a personal life is weird. But having someone care about my personal life? That's too weird." He bent, tossed the last few things in the dryer and slammed the door. He stared at the machine for a moment, trying to come to some conclusion. He finally shook his head in surrender. "But the weirdest thing is that I don't want it to change."

"What do you want for lunch?"

Mulder gave him that heavy-lidded slide of a look, as if he just knew he hadn't heard what he thought he heard. He punched buttons and the dryer started to whir. "I don't know," he said tightly. "I thought we could solve one problem at a time."

"Well, let's try a problem that's solvable," Skinner suggested. "What do you want for lunch?"

"Are you cooking or calling?"

"I can call," Skinner said.

"Chinese is good," Mulder said, and then stopped. "Unless you'd --"

"Chinese." Skinner turned back into the kitchen, picked up the phone, consulted a list on the side of his refrigerator, and dialed. "What do you want?"

Mulder answered with a vague wave of his hand, and went through to the living room, to stand near the floor to ceiling windows, facing the terrace.

Skinner watched him as he listened to the phone ring. He was a wild beauty; bare-backed, barefoot, those black jeans slung low on slim hips, fitting snug around that firm, round ass. The amazing thing about him was that he had no idea how beautiful he was. He once described himself as skinny, with a big nose and an overbite.

The restaurant answered, and Skinner stammered. He had no idea what to order. He knew his tastes leaned toward extremely spicy entrees, but he couldn't ever remember Mulder showing any preferences one way or the other. In fact, he didn't have any real memories of Mulder eating, except the pancakes at his stepfather's lodge. Mostly he had images of Mulder picking at things, pushing things around on his plate, playing with his food (if Scully was around). The only thing he was ever really aware of Mulder eating was sunflower seeds, and he had heard through the grapevine (i.e., Scully) that he could consume a large bag in an afternoon. Flustered, he ordered a little of everything; something spicy and something mild with beef, and with pork, and with chicken.

Putting the phone down, he came into the living room, brushing his hand across Mulder's back.

Mulder shivered. "I feel like she's out there, with binocs, watching the windows for some female form to show up."

"That's not Sharon's style," Skinner assured him. "Aren't you cold? Mulder, you've been sick as a dog for three days, and now you're running around half naked."

Mulder shivered again, as if only just realizing his discomfort. "Well, my shirt ended up wet," he mumbled.

Skinner caught his arm as he started for the stairs. "The rest of the day is for us, okay? Sharon's not coming back today."

Mulder gave him an unreadable look. "What do you have on the agenda, sir?"

Skinner didn't really have anything specific in mind, just plenty of Mulder. "Something I've always wanted to do. I want to eat in bed and watch television, and read, and waste time."

Mulder blinked, aghast. "You waste time, sir?"

"Don't you?"

"All the time, according to all my superiors," he retorted.

"I mean, during your off hours," Skinner persisted.

"I'm always off -- just ask Scully."

"Haven't you ever wasted an entire afternoon watching television, or reading or staring into space?" Skinner thought, this poor kid, his whole life is so driven, so filled with purpose.

"It all depends on what you consider a waste of time, I suppose," Mulder admitted going toward the stairs. "I know people who think the fact that I show up for work is a waste of time."

"Get upstairs," Skinner barked. "I'm going to give you a lesson in the fine art of goofing off."

Mulder snapped a smart salute. "Yes, sir."

The food came a little while later -- fifty six dollars worth. Skinner decided against filling plates. He just lined the cartons up on a tray, dug out chopsticks and went upstairs.

Mulder was on his knees beside the bed, considering books on the shelf of Skinner's bedside table. He looked over his shoulder, blinked, and looked again. "Expecting an invasion, Kat? Should I get my gun?"

Skinner handed him a pair of chopsticks. "I like leftovers," he answered. He opened the television cabinet. "What are you in the mood for?"

Mulder came around beside him, tapping the chopsticks against his chin. "Let's see, John Wayne wins World War Two. John Wayne wins Korea. John Wayne wins the Civil War. John Wayne wins the interstellar battle for total domination of Earth. Don't you have anything besides -- hey." He snatched up a video. "Lethal Weapon. The first one was the best." He handed the box to Skinner.

Skinner put the video on. "Now, put a shirt on and get on the bed," he said.

"Ooh, Walter, you're getting me hot." Mulder tugged a black sweater from his bag and climbed up in the middle of the bed.

Skinner smacked the back of his head as he walked by. "Watch that Walter crap," he warned, pushing the doors of his closet back and going in.

"Ow." Mulder rubbed the back of his head, but he was chuckling. He picked up a carton. "Hey, Kat, this Chinese food is rated X."

"That means it's extra spicy," Skinner said from the closet.

A few moments later, Skinner was in gray sweats and a long-sleeved tee shirt. He climbed up beside Mulder, who was sitting cross-legged in front of the tray. Using his chopsticks, he expertly scooped up sauteed onions, carrots and beef and conveyed the mixture to his mouth.

Mulder watched him, fascinated. "You didn't spill a drop. How do you do that?"

Skinner licked a taste of kung pao sauce from the corner of his mouth. "Don't you know how to use chopsticks? I'll get you --"

"I know how to use it for big stuff, shrimp, things like that, but what you just did …" he shook his head.

Skinner reached out, taking Mulder's right hand into his. "Here." He positioned Mulder's fingers around the bamboo spears. "Like a pencil." He maneuvered Mulder's index finger, making the chopstick move as well. "See?"

Mulder tried it, tentatively, spilled something and was instantly apologetic.

"Don't worry about it," Skinner soothed. "I brought plenty of napkins."

"Where did you learn that?" Mulder asked, watching him handle rice with equal ease.

"Viet Nam." Skinner swallowed. "Haven't you ever been to Asia?"

"I was in Hong Kong once," Mulder said. He made a face. "I was almost killed in Hong Kong."

"Agent Mulder," Skinner said with a sigh, "is there any place in the entire world you haven't almost been killed?"

Mulder rolled onto his stomach as he thought about it. "Greater Jerkoff, Wisconsin."

Skinner raised a brow. "Does that imply that there was a Lesser Jerkoff, Wisconsin?"

Mulder nodded, and got that look in his eyes (the one that was just short of demonic, the one Skinner had learned to dread when facing him across the expanse of his desk). "But there was that incident with the bellhop …"

Skinner felt for a moment as if he was going to choke. He got it under control. He swallowed rice. "Think you can handle those now?"

Mulder clicked the chopsticks together and selected a pea from the fried rice, holding it up as delicately as if it was a soap bubble. "I think so." He let his attention go back to the movie. "We should make buddy pictures, Kat," he said a few moments later.

Skinner couldn't watch the movie. He had a much more entertaining program before him. Mulder, hazel eyes riveted to the manic antics on the screen, was methodically selecting every pea in the rice, and lining them up on the tray. After a while, the search for peas exhausted, he actually lifted the chopsticks to his lips, one … pea … at … a … time. Skinner had a pea epiphany. Mulder didn't eat. He nibbled, he snacked, he grazed. A pile of Chinese food couldn't tempt him, but a row of Schezuan peas could sate him for hours.

Lazily, he reached out and ran a hand across the small of Mulder's back, and then, tentatively, over the roundness of that great ass.

Mulder wiggled at him, but that was the only indication that he knew they were on the same planet.

Skinner left his hand there, but shifted, so that he could lay beside Mulder. Occasionally, he would squeeze, but Mulder didn't respond. Drowsily, he rested his head against Mulder's shoulder, and then let his cheek rest against the small of Mulder's back. And then …

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

"Um … Kat? Walter? Sir?"

Skinner opened his eyes. The room was dark, the movie was over, the television was off. Mulder was laying flat, his long arms over the end of the bed. Skinner lifted his head.

With a groan, Mulder rolled away and darted for the bathroom.

For a moment, Skinner was concerned. Then he realized that he had fallen asleep … (he lifted his wrist to check his watch) … three hours ago, and Mulder had just endured it, rather than disturb him.

Mulder came out of the bathroom, the roar of the low flush toilet behind him. "Almost didn't make it there," he said, trying to deal with the embarrassment of his own body's limitations. He could take Skinner's dick into his mouth, but he didn't want anyone to know he might, occasionally, need to pee.

"Are you all right?" Skinner asked, rolling slowly into a sitting position.

Mulder nodded. He didn't look all right. He looked ravaged. He probably needed aspirin and cough suppressant, and a glass of water.

"You should have made me wake up," Skinner scolded, sliding off the bed.

Mulder did the one arm shrug again. "I liked it." His voice was rough, as if he had been struggling against a cough for hours.

Skinner touched his face. Feverish, but not too bad. "Get back in bed. I'll get you some tea and your meds." He caught the collar of Mulder's sweater. "And next time, you little jerk, wake me up."

Mulder nodded, and slid under bedclothes, jeans and all, while Skinner gathered up the tray. When Skinner looked back, he was huddled and shivering.

Skinner went downstairs and started the tea kettle while he put leftovers away. Opening the refrigerator, he considered the contents with the mind of putting something else in front of Mulder. Fifty-odd peas did not a meal make. He saw he had some grapes, and he pulled them out, rinsed them off and put them in a bowl. He found an unopened bag of pretzels in the pantry, and he put some of those in a bowl. And then he saw that half empty bag of sunflower seeds. Throat constricting, he picked them up and threw them in the trash. He put the bowls and the teacup on the tray and waited for the water to boil.

His phone rang. It startled him, made him feel guilty. He let the machine get it. He heard his own gruff voice bark out a command to leave a message. There was a moment of silence and then a hesitant, "Sir?" Scully waited a moment. "I didn't mean to disturb you at home, but Mulder didn't come to work today and I was --"

Skinner snatched up the phone. "Skinner," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I --"

He softened his voice. "It's all right, Agent Scully. What do you need?"

Scully sounded as if she was too worried to gauge her words to protect her partner. "Well, I talked to Agent Mulder last night, when you two got back into D.C., and he said he was coming into work today. Well, sir, he didn't. I've been trying to call him at home all day, but he doesn't answer. He doesn't answer his cell and this evening I went by his apartment, and he's not there." Her voice rose plaintively. "I'm very concerned, sir. He was so sick. How was he when you got home last night?"

Skinner had tried three times during her almost desperate rush of words to interrupt and reassure her, but he didn't know exactly what he could say without telling the truth. So he decided to go with what he knew best -- the truth -- at least a version of it. "Agent Scully, you don't need to -- how did you know he wasn't home?"

"I have a key, sir," Scully answered as if that should be obvious. "There's no sign that he even made it home last night."

"He didn't," Skinner told her. "You're right, he's been sick. After he dropped me off, I could see he was in no condition to drive, so I made him stay here last night."

"Oh." There was a note of disbelief along with the relief. "And now, sir?"

Skinner looked back toward the stairwell. He could hear Mulder coughing. "He's still here. I came home this afternoon, and he was still out of it. I think it's the cough suppressant you prescribed, Agent Scully. It might be too strong for someone with such a low tolerance to alcohol and drugs." That's it, make her feel guilty for a change.

"Oh, you don't need to bother with him, sir," Scully said quickly. "I'll come and get him."

"Agent Scully, he's asleep. I'm not going to try lugging him back downstairs. Leave him alone." Skinner chuckled. "I never thought I'd ever be saying this about Agent Mulder, but he isn't bothering me."

Scully laughed too. "Well, if you change your mind, sir …"

"If I do, you'll be the first to know."

"Good night, sir."

"Good night, Agent Scully."

The kettle started to whistle, and he filled the teacup and stirred honey into it, before carrying it back upstairs.

Mulder was sitting at the side of the bed, coughing so hard that tears were running down his face. Skinner put the tray down and knelt at his side. "What is it, baby?" he demanded roughly. "What's wrong?"

"Coughing," Mulder coughed out. "Just coughing. I feel like I'm going to dislocate something -- like my spleen."

"Here." Skinner got up and went into the bathroom, bringing all his meds back. He poured out a tablespoon of bilious green liquid and directed it to Mulder's mouth. Mulder opened his mouth obediently, swallowed and made a face. "Now, take these. Agent Scully said that it would be a good sign when your coughing became productive. You're getting better." He snatched up tissues from the box in the bedside table drawer and dabbed Mulder's cheeks and eyes. "You shouldn't have tried to suppress it for so long."

Mulder nodded in agreement, gulping water and tossing back the antibiotics and aspirin. Skinner held up the bedclothes and he swung back under and let Skinner drape the blankets snugly around him. He smiled sweetly. "Are you going to read me a story now?"

"Sorry, I don't have any pornography," Skinner retorted, putting the tray over Mulder's lap.

Mulder's eyes danced wickedly, albeit without as much evil as usual. "I could give you some websites …"

"Agent Mulder," Skinner said, in the weary tone he normally used when saying that name. "By the way, Agent Scully called. She was concerned that you didn't make it into work today, after you promised you would."

Mulder looked intrigued, reaching for a handful of grapes and popping one in his mouth. "What did you tell her?"

"The truth."

Mulder did a spit-take with the grape. "What?"

"I told her I could see you were too sick to drive after you dropped me off, so I had you stay here. When I left this morning, you were still sick, and I also told her that I thought the cough suppressant she prescribed for you was too strong, because you seemed to be sleeping too much."

"Did she offer to come take me off your hands?" Mulder said, abandoning that grape for another.

Skinner was surprised. "As a matter of fact, she did."

Mulder dropped the rest of the grapes back in the bowl and started to push the bedclothes back. "When will she be here?"

Skinner put a hand on his shoulder. "She's not. I told her you weren't bothering me."

Mulder smirked. "That's a first."

Skinner chuckled again. "I know. I told her that too."

Mulder looked down at the tray. "She'll come anyway." He frowned. "What's all this?"

"Food. Something to put in your stomach along with all that medication."

"But we just ate --"

"No, I just ate. You had a handful of peas. You need to eat more than that if you're going to get well." Skinner settled the tray back into place. "Are you sure she'll come?"

Mulder nodded and reached for a pretzel. "She'll come."

"Could you try to look sick?"

Mulder sighed, and Skinner could see it wouldn't be much of a stretch. "I think so."

"Fine. I'll start another movie for you, and then I'll go back downstairs." He went to the television cabinet. "I have Lethal Weapon II?"

Mulder nodded. "But not III."

"Fine."

Skinner started the movie and went downstairs. He fixed himself a drink, and sat down at the sofa, his briefcase on the table before him, and started reviewing field reports, the evening news in the background, and occasionally one of Mulder's spleen splitting coughs.

Mulder was right. Scully was there an hour later, tentatively knocking at the door. Skinner let her in, trying so hard not to find the situation humorous. "Agent Scully, what brings you here, as if I didn't know?" he asked, grimly amused. "I told you I could handle him. I was a Marine, remember? That skinny little brat isn't going to cause me any trouble."

Scully actually laughed. Her eyes had been going around the condo, noting every detail, the way a woman would note things: the lack of dust, the minimalist style, the leather furniture, the white carpet. But as she laughed, she brought those blue lasers to Skinner. "I don't doubt you could wrap him up and toss him off --" she stopped, horrified. "Anyway, I know you could handle him, but he's not your favorite person, so why should you?"

"He's under my responsibility," Skinner said stiffly. He remembered what she almost referred to and it made him uncomfortable, even if he hadn't been the one to do it. "I'd do the same for you … well, I'd make sure it was done," he amended. "It's different because you're a woman and … and …" He stopped. She had him stammering. "Well, I'm sure you understand what I mean."

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Would you like a drink?"

She shook her head. "Well, coffee, if you've got it."

"I'll make some," Skinner said, indicating that she take the chair where he had assaulted Mulder.

"Oh, sir, you're working." She said it so differently. They were the same, and unalike.

"It's all right, I could use a break."

She followed him to the kitchen. "Could I see him?"

Skinner nodded. "Upstairs, first door on the right."

She murmured a faint 'thank you' and went upstairs. She was down a moment later, looking bemused.

He looked up from the coffee grinder. "Something wrong?"

"He's asleep."

"I told you," Skinner protested.

"I'll prescribe something else," she promised.

"The coffee will be a minute."

"I can go --"

"Sit. You just drove down from D.C. The least I can do is offer you a cup of coffee before you get back on the road." He urged her, without touching her, back into the chair. "Why did you come? Did you really think I'd throw him off the balcony?"

"No, sir," she answered. "But I know he can make you want to." She laced her fingers together in her lap. "You two have such a tenuous relationship anyway, I'm just afraid of that being destroyed by too much … exposure."

Skinner chose his words carefully. "Actually, he's been almost pleasant to be around this weekend. Of course, he's been sick, but even so …" He flicked a glance at Scully. "Do you suppose it would be ethical to keep him slightly drugged at all times?"

Scully laughed again. "He's really not such a pain in the -- such a pain. I know all you see are the write-ups and the bizarre field reports and the expense, but there's a great guy underneath all that turmoil. I guess that's why I'm here, to protect him."

"One of the requirements of being an Assistant Director, Agent Scully, is the ability to discern the true conditions despite the circumstances." He leaned forward. "Don't you think I know Agent Mulder is a 'great guy'? Do you think I'd put up with so much, if I thought he was such a jerk all the way through?"

Scully seemed to need to consider this. "I guess not." She looked up at him again. "But I sure would like to know how he convinced you to give up your bed?" she blurted out.

Skinner met her eyes evenly. "Where I was raised, guests always get the best bed."

"I understand that, but …" her carefully respectful demeanor crumbled. "Come on, sir, Agent Mulder?"

Skinner managed a beleaguered sigh. "I invited him, that made him a guest." He heard the coffee-maker grumble to a stop. "There's your coffee. Let's see, you take it a little sweet?"

She nodded, flushed with a pleasant surprise that the A.D. would remember such an innocuous little detail.

Skinner brought her a cup and saucer. She smiled her thanks and he went back to his seat on the sofa and began to push papers around on his coffee table, waiting for her to say whatever it was that she really wanted to say. "There's something else, isn't there, Agent Scully?"

She fussed with a fingernail. "Well, sir, I was just wondering if he mentioned any more about Oyakata?"

Skinner was glad he wasn't looking directly at her, she would have seen the reaction in his eyes. "I'm not sure I know who you're referring to," he said, keeping his tone indifferent. "Is this relevant to a case you two are working on?"

He could feel her skin flush from where he sat. "No, sir, it's that woman I told you about on Saturday. I thought, since he was here, and kind of out of it …" she let it go. "Forget I asked."

Skinner looked up at her, sternly, surprised that Scully would betray Mulder's privacy like this. "In the first place, Agent Scully, he has not mentioned -- in or out -- any of his personal matters, and even if he had, I would not be in any position to share them with you." He paused, knowing his tone had been scolding, and he didn't want to hurt her. "I think, however, based on observations I have made, which are my own property, that whoever it is he's involved with, there is a great deal of affection on both sides."

"Really?" She didn't look particularly relieved by this revelation. "Well, that's good to know."

Skinner took a deep breath. He knew he was about to slit his own wrists, but he plunged ahead -- as Mulder once said, 'love makes you stupid'. "Agent -- Dana, you know the Bureau has a very strict policy about fraternization, but it is really to protect women -- and men -- who do not wish to be harassed. Consenting adults do have a little leeway. If you feel that strongly about him, tell him. I know he feels strongly about you." He settled back against the sofa. "I've known it for years. When he looks at you … he smolders."

Another little blush came to her cheeks, it was very becoming. "Oh, that's … he just …"

"Loves you, Dana. He loves you. He thinks you don't take him seriously, so he doesn't let himself get serious." Skinner coughed, feeling awkward. "Now, that's the last of my advice to the lovelorn. If you want him, get him now, because I think his relationship with this … Oyakata, you said? I think it's going to get serious soon."

Scully nodded and stood, smoothing down the creases in her dark blue pantsuit. "Thank you for the coffee, sir. And the advice." She moved down the hall. "Do you think he'll be in tomorrow?"

"I suppose it depends on how he's feeling," Skinner said, opening the door for her. "I think … if he has another night like last night, no. But, we'll see. Shall I call you?"

She nodded. "Thank you, sir." She pulled the door closed.

Skinner threw the bolt and went back into the living room, feeling very sad. Scully was going to make her move, and Mulder was going to move out of his life before he had ever really come in, and Skinner was helping him pack. He picked up his drink and finished it in a gulp, resisting an urge to fling the empty glass at the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He went upstairs, ready to tell Mulder he could cut the sham, it was all clear, but one look at him, and Skinner knew it wasn't a sham. The tray had been put on the floor, virtually untouched, and Mulder was burrowed under the blankets, with only a little tuft of chestnut hair showing. There was a faint trembling evident, and his breath was light and raspy. When Skinner touched his forehead, it was hot to the touch. It amazed him that this was an indication that the antibiotics were working. He almost wished Scully would come back and confirm that Mulder was going to be all right. At that moment, he wasn't sure anyone was going to be all right. He turned off the television and went back downstairs.

- END part 9 of 15 -
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