Skinner wasn't impressed. "I set no one up, Agent Mulder," he said through
clenched teeth, rising himself. He was just as tall as Mulder, and almost
half again as wide. "You were sent to Illinois to investigate a series of
murders. If they didn't live up to your expectations, well, I'd think at
your age, you'd have learned to deal with disappointment." His words were
controlled, but the trembling in his arms showed the control to be tenuous.
"You waste us!" Mulder shouted. "You send us on bullshit assignments any
first year plebe could handle and expect us to bend over and smile."
"I expect you to do your jobs, Agent Mulder. I expect you to follow my
orders. This isn't the debating society, and I don't owe you explanations.
I expect you to act like professionals. That means not insulting field
agents and local law enforcement personnel. It means following the same
rules as everyone else. It means filing timely and complete reports, Agent
Mulder, not this drivel!" he shook the report for emphasis.
"What's wrong with our report?" asked Scully, indignant. She'd been up half
the night working on it.
"'We came, we solved, we kicked ass' is not my idea of a complete report,
Agent Scully." Skinner told her.
"What?" She snatched the paper from his hand to see for herself. "This
isn't the report I wrote! Mulder, dammit..."
"Oh, fuck this shit!" Mulder turned, kicked the overturned chair savagely
out of his path and stormed out of Skinner's back door.
"Sir," Scully began, breaking the ensuing silence. "Our report is on my
computer. I'll just go run it out for you..."
"E-mail it later, Scully." He sat back down, breathing deeply. Obviously
fighting for control. "Please tell me his water's drugged."
"It's not," she said in a small voice. "I checked."
"Really?" She knew what he was thinking, that this was more than a mere
Mulder-tantrum if Scully was worried enough to take water samples. "You
mean it's not just me he's trying to make crazy?"
No, she wanted to say, it's not just you, it's particularly you. Instead,
she settled for an ambiguous, "Mulder's been rather agitated lately."
"Any idea why?" She hesitated, so he went on, "It's affecting his work,
Scully."
Treading carefully, she said, "Mulder's working something out. I don't know
what it is, but you seem to symbolize something to him. You personally. Or
your position."
"He's on thin ice, Scully. You tell him that." She nodded, eyes wide.
"Dismissed."
Scully rose to leave, hesitating. "Sir. There's an explanation. I know
there is."
"There'd better be."
Fox Mulder mentally kicked himself all the way down the corridor to the
men's room. What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want to get fired? The
answer was 'no.' He didn't want to get fired. He wanted to get fucked. By
his boss.
What he didn't want was to sit in a meeting with Skinner and a hard on. The
more Skinner yelled, the harder Mulder got, the real reason he'd run out of
the office. He wasn't that angry at Skinner; he just couldn't stop himself
from antagonizing the man. He wanted Skinner's anger and Skinner's
violence. He wanted to feel...what? The back of Skinner's hand? Skinner's
belt on his back? Skinner's cock up his ass? He wanted...dark and bloody
things, and it was all Alex Krycek's fault.
Damn him.
Alex with his nightmares and his need to be beaten. Alex with his stupid
offhand comments that Mulder couldn't get out of his mind.
"You could do worse than Skinner," Alex had told him. "Don't tell me you've
never fantasized about those big hands of his having their way with your
nubile body." Well, no he hadn't, not until Krycek put the thought in his
head. And now he couldn't get it out.
Mulder stood in the blessedly empty restroom and stared at himself in the
mirror.
"You are insane," he said out loud and stared at his reflection until his
cock softened and shrank, refusing to go into one of the stalls and jack
off. He may be crazy, but he wasn't desperate. Not yet.
"Dammit, Mulder," Scully said then stopped when Mulder walked into their
office. How many conversations had she started like this in the past month?
It would be easier to count how many she hadn't. "Mulder," she began again,
softer, "you have to stop this."
"I know I do, Scully. I'm sorry...it won't happen again."
"Can't you tell me what's wrong?" She'd thought he could tell her anything.
She certainly knew way more than she ever wanted to about Fox Mulder and
his weird psyche.
He looked at her and smiled sadly, making her feel a rush of affection for
her tormented—and tormenting—partner. "Not this time."
"It's Krycek, isn't it?" she asked with a sudden stab of insight. "He's
come back, and he's done something to you."
"Half right," Mulder busied himself at his desk so as not to look at her.
"Alex came back, but he didn't do anything to me. Not really."
"Really?"
Mulder smiled. "God, you're beautiful," he told her, deflecting. "My life
would be much less complicated if I'd fallen in love with you."
"You need to talk to someone," she said, not falling for it. "Before you do
something stupid."
"Stupid?" he repeated stupidly.
"Yes, Mulder, stupid. You're getting ready to do something stupid, and I
don't want to be the one to have to bail you out or fix you up or rescue
you when you do it."
"Fine, you won't be," angry now, with visions of leather bars dancing in
the back of his head.
"Fine."
"Fine," he repeated, not wanting her to have the last word.
"Fine," daring him to repeat it again. He didn't. "And be careful of
Skinner. You're on thin ice." She looked back at him. "That's a direct
quote by the way."
Mulder simply nodded. Thin ice, indeed. It was all ice with Skinner.
The two agents worked in tense silence for the rest of the afternoon.
"You going to stay all weekend, Mulder?" Scully asked finally at 5:30.
He shook his head. "I just want to finish up these expense reports.
Honest," he said at her raised eyebrow. Mulder never did their expenses.
"I'll be good," he promised.
She sighed, nodded and finally left. A Friday night was the same as any
other to Fox Mulder. Might as well fill out nightmare expense forms.
Anything to make amends. He hated having Scully mad at him, especially when
he deserved it.
By 8 p.m. he'd run out of forms to complete. Mulder sighed, put the expense
reports neatly on Scully's desk to show her he'd been a good boy and turned
out the lights. The dark urgency that had held him tight in Skinner's
office this afternoon was back, and he knew he had to do something about
it. Scully's 'something stupid.'
He wanted, no he needed—he was sure it was need—what he'd given Alex
Krycek a month ago: sex and a brutal whipping. A temporary cure, claimed
Mulder's pet assassin, for nightmares. After what Mulder perceived to be
mind-blowing sex, Alex had fished an old belt out of his closet and said,
basically, "beat me." Mulder did (ashamed now that it hadn't taken much
coercion) and found that he not only enjoyed it, but envied it as well.
Alex, bloodied beyond belief, had been hard enough to cut diamonds. The sex
then, like "make-up" sex with a bloody edge, had been unbelievable. It was
so good, said Krycek, comforting the guilt-ridden agent, that he was sure
he'd sleep dream-free for weeks.
Ever since, Mulder had craved that bit of peace, no matter how fleeting.
Nightmares of varying content had been his nightly companions since
adolescence, beginning with the disappearance of his sister. Physical pain
seemed a small price to pay for dreamless sleep. He, very literally, lusted
after that kind of pain. But there was no one to give it to him. Alex
wouldn't—couldn't—hurt him. He'd made that very clear. Anyway, Alex
wasn't around.
AD Skinner had become the focus of Mulder's violent fantasies. For one, he
fit the part physically. Plus, he was one of the very few people that
Mulder actually respected and almost trusted. He didn't know anyone else he
could even fantasize about. Trying to picture any of the Gunmen in a
whip-wielding role was just strange. Mulder could only think of them
together, anyway, and that was a place he just wasn't willing to go, not
even in his imagination. His partner was out of the question, too. No doubt
Scully would be devastating in SM accoutrements, but it was embarrassing
enough sometimes having to work with her knowing some of the things she
knew about him already.
Mulder had never cruised for sex, but he was quickly reaching that point.
Alex said you could buy what he'd needed, but where? He'd never said, and
Mulder could only guess. It was a dangerous business. How to tell the
sickos from the mere perverts?
Horny, agitated, scared and on edge, Fox Mulder walked into the nearly
empty parking garage and ran smack dab into Assistant Director Walter
Skinner.
"Fuck!" said Agent Mulder.
Assistant Director Skinner growled, reached out a lazy arm and SLAM! Mulder
found himself thrown hard against a wall, pinned by a large, meaty forearm
and a linebacker's body.
"I have a headache," said the AD. "It started when you walked into my
office this afternoon. It got worse during the three hours I spent with the
budget committee, pretty much on my knees, extolling the virtue of your
X-Files. And all you can say to me is 'fuck'?"
"Fuck," Mulder said again, softly.
Skinner increased the pressure against Mulder. "You really don't want to
piss me off," he said.
There was a snarl on Skinner's face, and it was close to Mulder's. Close
enough to kiss. Mulder felt himself harden. Skinner must have felt it too,
because the snarl turned to surprise and the grip loosened. "You'd be
surprised at what I want," Mulder whispered back, ducking under the
restraining arm and making his escape. Embarrassed, humiliated and oh-so
turned on, he felt Skinner's eyes follow him as he all but ran to his car.
Fox Mulder sat in his dark apartment talking to his three-legged cat and
sipping indifferently from a half-empty bottle of vodka. He'd consumed the
first half a month ago with Alex Krycek between rounds of mind-blowing sex.
Now he sat with the cat in the dark, contemplating the inextricable
relationships in his life and worrying about how to word his resignation.
This at the same time he was reliving each and every time AD Skinner had
restrained him, contained him, or made eye contact with him in the past
five years. The curse of an eidetic memory.
He was achingly hard.
Just punishment, he thought, for the sin of wanting his boss. Damn Krycek!
This was his fault. Mulder was doing just fine, thank you very much, with
his porn collection and firm right hand. Then comes
Alex-I-want-you-to-love-me-Krycek battering his way through all of Mulder's
thoughtfully constructed defenses. Making him feel. Making him want.
Want what? Alex Krycek in his bed. Someone to hold onto in the dark.
Someone stronger than either Mulder or his damaged lover. Someone to punish
him for his sins, to wash away his guilt with pain and blood. Someone to
fight the demons that plagued his nights and haunted his days.
"Shit!" The knocking on his front door was insistent. Just drunk and horny
enough
to be snarly, Mulder stalked to his door and tore it open, not bothering to
look out the peephole first.
"This had better." he began then stopped, the presence of his boss
rendering him speechless. He blinked once, but the Skinner apparition
didn't go away. "God hates me," was all Mulder said before turning around
and heading back for his couch, leaning with his back against the far arm,
covering his jutting erection with a sequined throw pillow brought home
from his last sojourn to Graceland.
Skinner followed him, still silent. They stared at one another, Mulder from
his couch and Skinner standing off to the side.
Mulder broke first. "What?"
"I want an explanation."
"An explanation? From me?" Mulder glared up at his boss, working at the
anger, needing its protection. Skinner stayed silent. "As I recall, I
wasn't the one assaulting subordinates."
"No," Skinner agreed amiably. "You were the one with the hard-on."
Mulder opened his mouth for a retort, but nothing came out. He met
Skinner's unrelenting gaze for as long as he could stand it, then
collapsed, sagging into his tacky pillow. He groaned audibly, then mumbled,
"You'll have my resignation Monday."
"I don't want your resignation, Agent Mulder," said the AD, not changing
expression. "I want an explanation."
"I don't have one."
Silence. Stretching, stretching, like Mulder's nerves, taut and brittle,
ready to snap.
"I'm waiting, Agent Mulder."
Mulder gave a little yip, startled. He forced himself to look up into the
unyielding gaze. "What do you want me to say?" he whispered. "That I can't
walk into a room with you in it without getting an erection? That just
hearing your voice makes me so horny I could scream? Hell, Skinner, someone
says your name in my hearing and my cock twitches. That what you want to
hear?" Mulder was shouting by the end of his tirade. He stared up at
Skinner, swore and grabbed the vodka from off the coffee table. He took a
big swig and set it back down with a bang.
Unfazed, Skinner merely watched for a moment before saying, "I never
pictured you as a vodka drinker."
Surprised, Mulder replied, "I'm not, usually. It was just here. Someone
left it."
"Someone?"
"Yeah, someone." Alex-fucking-Krycek-someone. At that moment,
Alex-fucking-Krycek's namesake walked in from the bedroom and stalked
across the floor. If a three-legged cat could be said to stalk. It had a
curious gate, oddly graceful in its way, and somewhat jaunty.
Skinner watched the cat, kitten really, standing unmoving as it twined its
way around his legs.
"This is the infamous Alex, I take it," said Skinner.
"Alex-the-Cat," supplied Mulder. "Not to be confused with Alex-the-Rat."
Said cat jumped onto the cushions, then up to the back of the couch where
he settled comfortably and proceeded to groom his tail.
"The vodka drinker." It was not a question.
Mulder looked, then nodded. What was the downside?
"So," Skinner went on. "Back to our situation."
Mulder merely looked at him.
"Mulder, we've worked together for more than five years. This
little.problem of yours has been going on for what? Four weeks? What
happened?"
More silence.
"Scully's afraid you're going to go do something stupid, and I have to
agree with her."
Mulder found his voice. "Scully!? She talked to you? She had no right! I
can't believe."
"Scully didn't have to say anything to me, Mulder, and she didn't.
Wouldn't. I recognize that little line she gets between her eyes. She only
has it when she knows you're going to go off on a tear, and she knows she
can't stop you." He paused for a moment, appraising. "What did Alex Krycek
do to you?"
God! I'm transparent, Mulder thought.
"Mulder?" The voice was kind now.
Mulder closed his eyes, remembering. "It was Friday. I came home and went
for a run. A long run. When I got back," he hesitated. What part to tell?
All of it? None of it? "Krycek was here."
"And?"
"We talked. He fucked me."
Mulder stared at Skinner, gauging the reaction.
"And?"
"And we talked some more. Drank some vodka."
"Uh huh. Then what?"
"What do you want? A play by play?"
"An explanation, Agent Mulder."
"Okay, you want it all? Here it is: He broke in here. We talked. We fucked.
We drank. He rummaged through my closet and found a belt. I beat the shit
out of him with it. We fucked. End of story. Anything else?"
If Skinner was shocked, he didn't show it. "Did you enjoy it?"
"The fucking? Oh, yeah. It was great." Mulder's try at sarcasm was sadly
lacking.
"No. Did you enjoy beating him?"
Mulder opened his mouth to say 'fuckin' A, I liked it' or 'betcherass' or
some such, but that all died. "Yes," he said in a small confessional voice.
Ashamed.
"How did it make you feel?"
"Like God."
"And you want to do it again." A statement.
This got Mulder's attention. "No! No, I don't. I don't think I could. I
want.I don't want.to do that. Again. I don't."
"What do you want?"
"What?"
"You don't want to do that. What do you want?"
"I want.I want." Mulder closed his eyes, misery overwhelming him. "I
want.someone to do that to me.I want."
"You want?"
"You. I want you." Raw now. Naked. Nothing left to lose. "I want you."
And now Skinner's eyes closed. "Oh, god, Mulder. Do you have any idea how
addicting that is? Do you?" This last emphatically, "Do you?"
Mulder shook his head. Helpless.
"It's like a hundred times worse than cocaine. You have no idea."
"And you do?"
"Oh, yeah. I do." Waiting again, the two of them, and this time it was
Skinner who broke first. "You know something about Viet Nam," he began.
"You can imagine how guilty I was. Surviving. I needed." He sat finally and
reached for the vodka. "There was a place in Saigon that answered my needs.
Where I could be punished for being alive. Absolved of the sin of
surviving. I learned things there. I learned real well."
"Teach me."
"You're drunk. You don't know what you're asking."
"So are you, or you wouldn't be here."
"Fuck you, Mulder," Skinner growled, glaring. He took a long pull at the
vodka, head tipped back, throat working, and Mulder thought he'd come from
the sight. He dug his fingers into the pillow on his lap to keep from
lunging for that throat, his mouth watering for a taste of Skinner-skin.
The AD slammed the bottle down on the coffee table with a loud crack,
making Mulder jump and the cat hiss. He stood, never breaking the glare.
"You still want this tomorrow, Mulder, after you're sober, you come to my
place. Plan on spending the weekend." He turned abruptly and strode toward
the door.
"Wait!" Mulder was up on his feet, protective pillow forgotten. "Sir," he
began when Skinner stopped. "Uh, you've moved, uh, since.I.don't know where
you live."
"You're a trained investigator, Mulder. Figure it out."
Anger flared, a sharp, fine companion to the lust. "Jesus, you're a son of
a bitch. If you don't want this so much, why do it?" Mulder clung to his
anger, breathing hard, using it to keep from whimpering.
Skinner's glare softened into one of his rarely seen almost-smiles. He
looked nearly.kind. "You think you're the only one in staff meetings
sportin' a woody, Mulder?"
Mulder opened his mouth, but nothing emerged, his mind refusing to explore
the ramifications of that statement. He stood silent until Skinner was out
the door, then sagged against the wall, hyperventilating silently.
Walter Skinner excelled at waiting. It was something he was good at. He
waited all Saturday morning while he mowed his postage-stamp-sized lawn and
did his laundry. He waited while he dug his way through the pile of
paperwork he'd brought home from the office. He waited with confidence,
knowing that as soon as Fox Mulder methodically catalogued and discounted
all the good, logical reasons not to come to Skinner's, he'd come.
Skinner wondered idly, as he redlined extraneous charges on some green
agent's tardy expense report, how many times Mulder would actually turn the
car around and head back for home. He'd give himself two points for each
turnaround Mulder admitted to, and a bonus of 10 points if he brought the
cat. Skinner played this tallying game often, making bets with himself over
this or that, amusing himself with how closely he knew his people.
Mulder had no problem finding out Walter Skinner's new address, but he
resented like hell having to do it. It felt like homework. A small part of
him wanted to say to hell with it and let Skinner think he'd come to his
senses. The rest of him, the parts that housed his darker fantasies and
more covert obsessions, ruled, however, and he found himself parked outside
Walter Skinner's townhouse.
The thirty-minute trip had taken him two-and-a-half hours. The first time
out he'd made it almost halfway before deciding he couldn't leave Alex
alone overnight. So it was back to the apartment to gather up the cat and
all its necessities. He didn't make it out of the parking lot the second
time before running back up to the apartment to change clothes. The third
time he was just outside of Alexandria when the thought hit him that he
should bring something, a bottle of wine perhaps, and turned back to get
the two bottles of Kendall James Merlot that his mother had given him.
The fourth time had taken him all the way to Skinner's, although he still
hadn't turned off the car.
Alex, unhappy in his buckled-in cardboard cat carrier, yowled continuously
while Mulder hit his head softly against the steering wheel. Fearing
Skinner's discovery in this state more than brain damage, he turned off the
ignition and gathered his courage.
"Stay," he told Alex, needing to feel in control of something.
Skinner waited for the second ring of the doorbell before rising from his
desk to answer it. His agent leaned against the jam, looking like a sullen
teenager sent to the principal's office. Mulder was dressed in black jeans,
a faded Grateful Dead t-shirt and Reeboks that were too broken down to be
any good for running. The big man looked him up and down for a time before
saying, "Pull your car into the garage," by way of greeting. He shut the
door in Mulder's face, giving him no chance to respond.
Mulder looked even more pouty when he exited his car in Skinner's oversized
garage. Skinner had to work at not grinning at his agent's expression,
opting instead for a neutral, "You can put the catbox in here; we'll leave
the door open for him." He came close to losing it at Mulder's stunned
look.
"How did." Mulder began, then stopped with a visible effort.
Ten points, Skinner thought. "Come into the living room when you get Alex
settled, Mulder. I've got some work to finish up." He started to walk away
but turned back to say, "There's beer in the refrigerator. You may have
one."
"I brought wine."
Skinner allowed himself a small smile. "Good," he said, leaving Mulder to
his tasks.
Mulder followed Alex-the-Cat into the living room where Walter Skinner was
working at his desk. It was cozy. There were more books than videos on the
shelves of the tri-sectioned entertainment center, the TV/VCR large but not
obnoxiously so, the stereo system good and the furniture designed for a
tall man's comfort. The gas fireplace had the look of something often used.
Mulder was a little uneasy about letting the cat loose, but Skinner had all
but implied that it'd have the run of the place. Still, he relaxed somewhat
when the AD smiled at the little cat's territorial rubbing of his
khaki-clad legs.
"I've got another half-hour or so to go," Skinner told Mulder after
properly greeting the cat. "Just relax and stay quiet. I'm trying to make
sense of Donelly's latest tome. How that woman can convolute the most
straightforward of kidnappings is a mystery I may have you look into."
Mulder snorted but stayed dutifully quiet. He was familiar with Agent
Donelly's written histrionics. A bright, steady field agent, her
melodramatic reports were the stuff of legend.
Anyway, Mulder needed the time to think about what he was doing. He'd been
running on hormones and adrenaline since Friday afternoon, his obsessive
cravings ruling him. Here, in Walter Skinner's homey townhouse, reality
began to seem too.real. He wondered if Cinderella had ever looked into the
eyes of her fairy godmother and seen the face of Death. He wondered who the
hell this man was and what he'd done with Assistant Director Skinner. He
wondered if he was crazy.
He was, after all, the FBI's most brilliant profiler, a psychologist who
specialized in aberrant behavior, and he was totally clueless as to why he
was sitting on his boss's plaid couch drinking his boss's imported beer
waiting patiently to get beaten and/or fucked by same said boss.
He then wondered if he was assuming too much. Skinner had never said
exactly what was going to happen. Maybe, maybe Skinner wouldn't do
anything. Maybe he was here just to talk. Then again, maybe Skinner was a
really discrete psychopath (who better to hide nefarious deeds than an
assistant director of the FBI?). Perhaps Mulder was to be the headline act
in some shady government sex club. Skinner had probably invited all the
other assistant directors over to witness Mulder's humiliation. He'd be
bound and gagged, probably blindfolded, and unseen government denizens
would torture him and use him. If he started smelling cigarette smoke, he
knew he'd scream like a girl and wet himself.
He whimpered.
"If you're going to torture yourself, Mulder, what do you need me for?"
Skinner asked him without turning around.
Mulder tried to stammer out an answer. He stopped when Skinner turned and
smiled at him, feeling himself blush.
"Relax, Mulder. I'm almost done. Why don't you play with the cat for
awhile." It wasn't a request.
"I, um, I'm not sure where he is."
"Under here," Skinner said, tearing a sheet of paper off the yellow legal
pad he'd been making notes on, "battling the phone cord." Skinner wadded up
the paper, reaching under the desk with it. Mulder could see his arm
moving, then it shot backwards, sending the ball of paper flying across the
living room with Alex in hot pursuit. Skinner grinned at Mulder, looking
pleased with himself, then turned back to his report.
Mulder knew he had to get himself under control. He'd known Skinner for
years. The man wasn't going to hurt him. Much. He didn't think. He didn't
think, hadn't thought, and that was the problem. God, why am I here? Mulder
fell off the couch onto his knees, hoping to hide another whimper, and
crawled off to pursue the cat and its paper ball.
Mulder intercepted the paper wad and thwacked it back to Alex, starting a
pretty decent volley. While it didn't look easy for the cat, only having
one front leg with which to bat, Alex seemed to enjoy himself. Mulder lost
himself in the silliness of the game, focusing entirely on the yellow wad
of paper and the little gray cat. He forgot Skinner and where he was and
even the partial erection he'd endured since first leaving Alexandria.
"He's got you trained," Skinner said, startling him after one particularly
athletic "save" that had Mulder almost somersaulting across the living
room.
Mulder froze, then rose slowly to stand before the man he'd been lusting
after for the past month. "Think you'll do as well?" he asked softly.
Skinner moved very close. Mulder smelled fabric softener from his shirt,
fresh grass and the slight tang of beer breath. "I'm not much into slaves,
Mulder," he said reaching a hand out to trace a path down the side of the
agent's face. Skinner searched his eyes, making Mulder wonder what he saw
there. "Being called 'master' makes me giggle." His hand moved into
Mulder's hair, combing through it, moving down to the back of his neck,
around to his throat, stroking, petting, making Mulder swell. "It's not a
pleasant sound."
Skinner kissed him then, and he thought he'd die.
Skinner's kiss was like the rest of him, substantial and strong, nothing
frivolous or fancy, just welcoming, secure. Not the scalding fire of Alex
Krycek's kisses, this was more like breathing crisp, clean air on a bright
mountain morning. Skinner's kiss felt like home was supposed to, and Fox
Mulder felt like Moses coming out of the desert after 40 years of
wandering.
He moaned with loss when the kiss ended, closing his eyes to lean into
Skinner's touch. This was so much more than he'd expected. Skinner turned
him around so Mulder's back leaned against his chest, reached around and
traced the outline of Jerry Garcia's young face saying, "I never figured
you for a Dead Head," while nuzzling tender skin under Mulder's ear.
"Not mine," Mulder moaned, trying for coherency. "Wore it for—oh, god!
Yeah, right there." Skinner was gently chewing on his lobe, tongue swirling
sometimes in his ear, behind it, back of neck, alternating chews with
licks, not enough to mark, just.sensation. ".for courage."
Skinner stopped for a moment. "Courage?" he asked the back of Mulder's
neck. "Jesus, Mulder. You're the most fearless man I know." He chuckled,
sending small vibrating shivers down Mulder's already vibrating frame.
"Courage, Christ. Well then, let's give you something to be frightened of."
He bit down on Mulder's shoulder, through the shirt, gnawing hard. His
hands pulled the shirt free of the jeans and roamed his chest, fingers
combing through the sparse chest hair, kneading at tight stomach muscles,
caressing hard nipples.
"This game has but one rule, Mulder, and that's honesty. Your reactions,
our reactions, must be honest, or there's no point. Can you do that,
Mulder? Does Krycek's shirt make you that brave?"
"How did," Mulder began, trying hard to make his mouth work past his
lust-induced stupor. Fear and adrenaline contributed to his state, also,
making the formation of words nearly impossible.
"Who else's shirt would it be? You wouldn't fit into Scully's." Skinner
pinched one aroused nipple hard at the same time he bit into the opposite
shoulder. He released both when Mulder screamed, moving one hand down to
rub the denim-covered erection that was so boldly straining at the buttons
of Mulder's 501's.
"Do you use it to masturbate, Mulder? Do you? Do you sit alone at night and
caress yourself with Alex Krycek's old t-shirt, rubbing yourself, picturing
him? And after you come, do you bring the shirt to your face, pretending
it's his spunk you're smelling and not your own? Do you taste it?"
Skinner's voice was down to a harsh whisper, almost brutal in its
intensity. One large hand massaging tense neck muscles while the other
kneaded Mulder's groin and thighs.
Mulder moaned, lost in the images and memories, and would have fallen but
for Skinner's support. It was overwhelming, this, the thought of Alex and
the feel of Skinner. Heaven and hell, melding. And he felt guilty, as if he
were betraying a lover, but couldn't tell who it was he was betraying,
Skinner or Krycek, and his balls were tightening under Skinner's hands.
"Don't," he managed to say //or you'll make me come// "make me choose."
His words froze them both. They were words he'd not intended to say, had no
thought to say, and they frightened him. They meant that he wanted more,
felt deeper, than he'd ever consciously known. Mulder despaired under
Skinner's silence until he heard the whispered "all right," and the hands
began again.
"Let's get you upstairs," Skinner said finally, just in time to keep Mulder
from creaming in his pants, using his low, almost-whisper voice. "It's time
to start. Before we both lose it." His hands stopped their roaming caress.
They rested lightly on Mulder's shoulders.
"Shouldn't we.shouldn't we talk about.about.negotiate what's gonna."
Although he could now form words, Mulder wasn't yet capable of complete
sentences.
"Negotiate?" Skinner turned him until they were face to face. "There's
nothing to negotiate, Mulder. You either trust me or you don't."
And there it was. Trust. Could he? He stared for half an eternity into
those deep chocolate orbs replaying all the times this man had put his
career on the line on Mulder's—or Scully's— say-so, thinking about how
many times he'd awakened in nameless hospitals to this face, how many lives
he owed. Did he trust Skinner?
How could he not?
A nod and they were moving, Skinner in the lead. Mulder was so frightened
he tasted copper and realized he'd chewed the inside of his cheek open. It
was then he knew that it was not Skinner he was afraid of, but himself. He
feared failing and disappointing, not measuring up. He feared not being
able to take whatever Skinner would dish out. But most of all he feared
losing himself, which was what he so badly wanted, and it was a conundrum
to which there was no answer, no solution.
Top of the stairs and to the right. Mulder passed through the gates of hell
into Walter Skinner's bedroom. Beautiful place, a suite really. More large
furniture and a step-down into an open bathing area. Enclosed shower stall
and a big whirlpool tub. Skylights. It was the bedroom of a sensualist, not
strait-arrow AD Skinner.
"I have a few vices," Skinner answered Mulder's dumbstruck look. "This is
one of them." He gripped Mulder's chin and turned him away from the tub.
"You're another." He reached in for another kiss, this one hard and
demanding. Claiming. Mulder moaned under the assault. "This is it, Mulder,"
Skinner said when he broke the kiss. "From now until Monday morning you're
mine. You make no decisions. Have no obligations. Answer only to me. And
nothing, nothing that happens within the next 24 hours is your fault. It
can't be because you have no control. That belongs to me. You belong to me.
Any blame is mine."
Mulder looked at him, stunned. "But I came here," he whispered.
"Finally," Skinner said to his neck, breathing deeply. He peeled Alex
Krycek's t-shirt off Mulder's lanky frame and explored the bared flesh with
his lips and tongue while his hands busied themselves with the buttons of
Mulder's 501's.
Mulder stood naked beside the bed while Skinner turned down the spread. He
shivered, cold, although the air conditioning was not turned up, misery and
lust vying for domination. Then the big hands were on him again, soothing
rather than arousing.
"You'll be fine, Fox," Skinner said while stroking him. Down his arms and
back, around his buttocks to his groin, stroking Mulder's erection,
smearing the pre-come on his hand. While Mulder watched, transfixed,
Skinner licked it clean. He grinned at Mulder's expression. "Appetizer," he
said, making Mulder harder than he'd ever thought was possible.
"Kneel here," Skinner went on to say. "Crosswise on the bed. Butt up. Yeah,
like that." Mulder let himself be positioned with his knees on the edge of
the bed, chest down, legs apart, ass high. It was the most vulnerable
position a man could be in, and if there were still any coherent thoughts
in his head, he would have cried with the humiliation. As it was, his
perception had narrowed to the sound of Skinner's voice, the feel of
Skinner's hands and the waves of adrenaline pounding through his chest.
"Beautiful Fox, listen to me. We'll start slowly. Baby steps. Nothing will
touch you but me. This time. I want to take you some place that you've
never been before. Where you can find the peace you so desperately want.
There're no answers where we're going, Fox, so don't bother trying to find
any. There's only sensation, and if we do it right, peace for a little
while. A little bit of oblivion." He massaged Mulder's buttocks, bringing
his thumbs down into the crease, spreading the cheeks apart. "Stay in this
position as long as you can, Fox. And don't worry about noise. This place
is soundproof, so yell if you want to. Cuss me. Whatever. Remember: Nothing
you do is wrong. Here," he placed Krycek's black shirt within Mulder's
reach. "Hold onto this if you'd like. For courage." Skinner laid a gentle
kiss on his right butt cheek, lingered briefly before moving to the other
one.
Mulder grasped the shirt convulsively, totally without words for one of the
few times in his life. He wanted punishment. He wanted this man. He was so
frightened and so aroused and so not wanting to be where he was.
The first slap caught him completely off guard. He yelped with the
suddenness of it, but before he really registered what was happening,
Skinner gave another sharp slap to the opposite cheek. Back and forth, in
the same place usually, until his ass was hot and numb with pain. He'd
wanted this, loved the idea of pain, was turned on by it, but he had no
idea that it would hurt so much.
Intellectual pain and real pain were so different.
The slaps landed on the same spot mostly, numbing and dull, but every
fourth or seventh slap was placed elsewhere, and that pain would be sharp
and new, exaggerated somehow. At first, it was erotic, strangely intimate.
But under the inexorable blows, the intimacy became a violation, the pain a
knife, skinning away layers upon layers of walls. Here was a place where
his sharp intellect and biting wit held no sway. He felt naked and exposed.
Mulder knew in his very soul that once all his layers had been peeled away,
at the very core of his existence, would be nothing worthwhile. Like an
onion, he would peel away to nothing. But as Skinner and his blows stripped
away those layers, the pain stayed, letting Mulder know that he was still
there. Even without his disguises, underneath it all, Mulder was still
Mulder. And Skinner was there with him, an agent of that peace-giving
torment. He felt the heat radiating off the big man's body, smelled his
arousal and the sweat from his exertion. For once in his life, Mulder was
not alone.
He heard sobs, overriding the sounds of skin slapping skin and Skinner's
heavy breathing. They soothed him for a time, made him grateful that
Skinner was crying for him. When he became aware that they were his own
sobs, he was appalled, ashamed. Men don't cry, he heard his father say and
braced himself for William Mulder's drunken derision and ready right hand.
Which never came. All he heard through the sobs were murmured words of
comfort, telling him that he was brave and strong and wonderful. They were
wrong, of course, but it was still lovely to hear.
He was stretched out across the bed, on his stomach, and that was wrong,
too. He cried in earnest then. Skinner had told him to stay on his knees
and he hadn't. He'd fucked up again, as always. Couldn't even take a
beating right. It's no wonder people died because of him and his too-slow
profiles, because he wasn't fast enough or smart enough. No wonder his
sister was taken, his partner abducted.
But Skinner didn't seem disappointed. He'd stopped the blows and was
rubbing something cool on Mulder's enflamed ass, telling Mulder how proud
he was, how no one else had ever been as good.
"I'm sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry," Mulder sobbed out, apologizing for not
following orders, for crying, for so many failures.
"I know you are, Fox. It's okay. I forgive you." No one had ever forgiven
him before.
His weeping slowed after a time, as it had to, with Mulder wiping his tears
and snot with Krycek's shirt. He giggled a little, thinking how pissed Alex
would be when he found out the uses Mulder put his shirt to. Skinner was
still caressing his backside, and Mulder leaned into it, pain and pleasure
all fused together in the glowing warmth. Skinner chuckled, then said,
"Back on your knees, boy. You're not done, yet."
Mulder obeyed with some effort, sighing regretfully at the loss of his
current euphoria but willing to follow the big man's edicts no matter where
they took him. He positioned himself as best he could, ass high and knees
spread, waiting for the blows to begin again.
He started when the first dribbles of cool lube hit his hot butt and
trickled into the crease. Oh, yeah. That's what comes next. Fucking.
Wonderful. Mulder opened himself even wider, grunting in appreciation when
the first finger entered him. Slow fucking with that finger, and then there
were two and they curved up to his prostate and oh, my, that was nice. He
was very hard and wondered if touching himself was allowed. Before he could
think how to form the question, Skinner was leaning over him, free hand
moving up his back and down his arm and gentling coaxing Alex Krycek's
t-shirt out of his grip.
"Shh," he soothed at Mulder's wordless protest. "I need this now." He
rubbed Mulder with the shirt, arms and back, around to the chest, covering
Mulder with Krycek's shirt, finally using it to engulf Mulder's straining
erection. He milked Mulder in a slow counterpoint to his finger fucking,
making Mulder feel every stroke and movement. It was such sweet torture
that Mulder didn't ever want it to end, but he hadn't the reserves to stave
off the orgasm that shoved him clear into a hard-won oblivion.
He knew there was something missing even as he felt Skinner cleaning him
off and maneuvering him into the bed. He thought hard, fighting his way
through satiated exhaustion and an overload of orgasm-induced serotonin.
"You didn't come," he said, finally putting words to the concept.
"I will later," said the assistant director, stroking his hair.
"You should come now," Mulder said sleepily, fighting to keep his eyes
open. "In Krycek's shirt."
"You're a fucking pervert, Mulder," Skinner said, brushing his temples with
a kiss.
"Yeah, I know. You gonna jack off for me? Let me smell you while I sleep?"
"You're too old for a security blanket," Skinner said, not really
protesting and starting to undo his jeans. His organ was big and red and
looked angry. Mulder had to admire his self-control; that couldn't have
been comfortable. Skinner wrapped his cock in Krycek's well-used shirt and
started stroking, keeping eye contact with an almost unconscious Mulder. It
didn't take long for his strokes to become erratic. He came cursing, ending
with an "oh god Fox" on the final spasm.
Mulder smiled and reached out for the shirt, caressing Skinner's sensitive
organ as he took it from the now slack grip. "Never had a security
blanket," he said, inhaling deeply and cuddling the nasty shirt under his
chin. "Making up for lost time." Skinner's deep chuckle was the last thing
he heard before giving up consciousness.
It was dark when Mulder woke up in a large, strange bed in a large,
luxurious bedroom. He smelled sex and of sex and his face was sticky with
semen. Sometime during his deep, dreamless sleep, he'd turned and nuzzled
his face into Alex Krycek's old Grateful Dead t-shirt and was now splotched
with jism. His and.Walter Skinner's.oh, god.and his butt hurt and that
brought everything flooding back. Oh, god.
He got quietly out of bed and listened, hearing the faint sound of a
television. Feeling comforted, Mulder stepped down into the bathroom and
headed for the oversized shower stall. It was built, he decided, for giants
who liked to party. There were crannies for soaps and shampoos, places to
set drinks, nooks for a wet-n-dry radio and built-in seats in opposite
corners. And best of all, two separate nozzles, both equipped with
hand-held, adjustable massagers. Heaven.
He stood in the water and tried to process what had happened to him. He
felt.relaxed. It was a strange feeling. He wasn't even drugged,
just.relaxed.calm.very.very unlike himself. He thought maybe he liked it.
He wondered why he wasn't embarrassed or humiliated. Trying to conjure up
those feelings, he thought of his father, but even that wasn't enough to
cause more than a feeble jolt of shame.
Shame or no, he couldn't spend the rest of the weekend in the shower. He
tried to dress slowly, but all he really had to wear were his jeans. He
couldn't put on Krycek's t-shirt, and he thought searching out one of
Skinner's would be overstepping. Socks and shoes when he was shirtless
seemed overdressed, so Mulder made his way downstairs both barefoot and
barechested, feeling somewhat like a stray harem boy.
He found Skinner in the living room with the newspaper spread over his lap,
although he didn't appear to be reading. The AD grinned up at Mulder and
then thwacked the center of the paper with his thumb and forefinger. An
answering thwack came from underneath the paper.
Puzzled, Mulder made his silent way to the couch, sinking to his knees in
front of Skinner. A peek under the newspaper revealed his cat lying on its
back in the secure valley formed by the AD's legs. Alex narrowed his eyes
and flattened his ears at Mulder's intrusion. Kicking off from Skinner's
hard stomach, he flipped over on his way to the floor and went careening
around the living room to disappear somewhere in the kitchen.
Skinner raised his eyebrows at Mulder, who stayed on the floor and lowered
his head to his boss's knees.
"That's not necessary, Fox," Skinner said, putting aside the paper to run
his hand through Mulder's still-damp hair.
"I know," Mulder sighed. "Just let me...adore you for a minute."
Skinner snorted. "I take it you slept well?"
"Like the dead," Mulder replied without looking up. "How long was I out?"
"Little over five hours."
Mulder looked up, stunned, "I never sleep that long. Ever."
Skinner merely smiled. "You hungry?"
The lanky agent considered. "Yeah." This, too, was an anomaly.
"Well, come on then. I've got ribs in the crock pot and cornbread in the
oven."
"Crock pot?"
"Yeah. Lazy man's barbecue. Come on, Mulder. You're going to need your
strength."
That comment dried his mouth and woke up his cock. He could only stare at
Skinner rising from the couch, his mind a cloud of lust. "Fox," the big man
urged, offering a hand up. Still speechless, Mulder rose and followed his
boss into the kitchen once again wondering just when exactly he'd lost his
mind.
Dinner was wonderful. The meat was fall-apart tender with a sweetly spicy
sauce. The cornbread contained real kernels of corn and bits of jalepeno
peppers. Skinner rounded out the dinner with creamy coleslaw from a local
delicatessen. Mulder ate like he hadn't touched food in days, which, in
fact, he hadn't. His mother's wine topped the meal.
The men ate in companionable silence, Mulder for once without any
fascinating trivia. As they slowed to a finish, Skinner broke the silence.
"May I ask you a personal question?"
Mulder stopped in mid-chew. Here it comes, he thought, and wondered wildly
how he could explain Krycek without seeming either pathetic or insane,
knowing that no one who wasn't them could understand. He nodded slowly, not
trusting his voice.
"How many times did you turn back before you actually got here?"
Mulder laughed in relief. "Christ! I don't know. Three, I think. Once for
the cat, once to change clothes and once for the wine. How did you know?"
Skinner smiled and shrugged. "It's a game I play, making bets with myself
about what people are going to do."
"Sounds like a profiler in the making. How often do you win?"
"More often than I lose. But then, I only do it about people I know. I'm
not that insightful otherwise."
Mulder emptied the wine bottle, then looked inquiringly at Skinner. "Shall
I open the second one?"
"Why not? We're not going anywhere."
Their eyes locked, and Mulder's cock twitched. He continued to stare into
Skinner's dark eyes until the big man broke the spell. "The wine, Mulder?"
He took a steadying breath before attempting to stand, grateful for
something to do. Opening wine was something he could control. He took his
time, clearing his mind even as he twisted the cork out of the bottle. If
he started to think, to wonder about what would happen next, he feared,
well, he didn't know what he feared. He just knew that his world, yet
again, had changed. It was scary how right and comfortable all this seemed.
Scary and exhilarating. No wonder Krycek got off on it.
He refilled glasses. They sipped leisurely as they cleaned up, Mulder
following Skinner's lead, feeling like a kid at a sleepover, making sure he
didn't disgrace his upbringing.
"You like baseball, Mulder?" Skinner asked when they retired to the living
room, flipping through channels to find a game. They watched the last half
of a double header, cheering for different teams but vilifying the same
announcers.
It was a relaxed interlude. Alex slept in a long stretch on the back of the
couch, and Mulder could almost forget the bizarre circumstance under which
he was here. Almost. He couldn't seem to stop anticipating though. By the
bottom of the ninth, he'd ratcheted up his tension to the breaking point.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Mulder?"
"Are you...are we...uh...are you gonna fuck me?"
"Yes, Mulder." Skinner's lips twitched in an almost-smile. Mulder frowned
at him, annoyed the big man was finding this so amusing. The deeper his
frown, the wider Skinner's smile.
"Mulder?"
"What?" Very annoyed.
"Stop thinking."
Skinner reached across the couch to run his hand down Mulder's bare chest.
"This is a good look on you," he said, tweaking a nipple.
Mulder gasped, annoyance forgotten. "Rent boys R us," he managed to say.
Skinner slid over and replaced his pinching fingers with a sucking mouth.
"Do you like that?" he asked, moving over to the next one. "Tell me what
you like."
"That. Oh, god yeah. Suck harder." Mulder arched back into Skinner's mouth,
throwing his head back and disturbing the cat. Alex stretched and yawned,
stepping down onto Mulder's shoulder to butt his furry head against
Skinner's bald one, purring loudly.
Skinner made a grand effort to ignore it and keep the mood, but the little
cat's insistent nuzzling was too much. The big man collapsed into Mulder's
lap laughing and swearing, which caused a not unpleasant sensation in
Mulder's groin.
"I'm gonna kill him," Mulder said, joining in the laughter. Alex had
followed Skinner down and was sitting on his back purring loudly and
kneading the back of Skinner's neck with his one, sharp-nailed front paw.
"Ow!" Skinner yelped, still laughing. "Get him off me, Mulder. Ow!"
While Fox disentangled the cat's tiny claws and attempted to discourage his
interest in their activity, Skinner turned his face into Mulder's crotch
and nuzzled his jean-clad groin, biting at the denim and pulling at the
buttons.
"Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom," Mulder chanted while gently tossing the cat to
the far end of the couch.
"Good idea," Skinner rasped, getting up and pulling Mulder with him.
They raced up the stairs, falling on the bed to grope each other like
teenagers. Once naked, they calmed. Mulder seemed fascinated with Skinner's
furred chest and the planes and valleys of his muscles, mapping that
topography with tongue and lips, fingertips exploring this strange new
world.
"It seems like I've wanted this forever," said Mulder, nipping at the taut
skin just under his ribcage.
"Really?" Skinner tugged at his hair, pulling him up for a kiss. Long legs
entwined while they leisurely ground against each other. Neither wanted to
fire up the urgency, preferring to drag out the foreplay for as long as
they could stand it.
A glib lie was ready to tumble from Mulder's lips, but Skinner's early
caveat for honesty stopped him. "No. You were in the category of People I
Never Fantasized About. Inviolate. Until..."
"Until you decided I'd be good at wielding a whip." The words were rueful,
tinged with sadness.
Mulder buried his head in an armpit, tugging at the hair with his teeth. He
shook his head. "Until Alex suggested you, it never occurred to me that you
might be anything other than totally straight. That you might be
available."
"Krycek suggested me. For this?" He removed Mulder's face from his
armpit, where the agent was hiding to avoid eye contact.
"For this. Not for...the other. He doesn't know about...my
wanting...that." He propped himself up on an elbow so he could see Skinner
better, twined his top leg between Skinner's. "He told me that you'd take
care of me. That he wouldn't like it, but then he wouldn't worry about me
so much. I remember being shocked at his assumption that you'd even be
interested." His free hand stroked Skinner's chest while he watched his
lover's face. He could see the wheels turning, knew what Skinner was
thinking.
"I don't think it means that they know anything about...anything. It's
just that Alex...well, Alex looks at the world through bisexual eyes."
Skinner snorted. "Since he'll fuck anybody, he assumes everybody else will,
too."
"Yeah." Mulder leaned in for a quick kiss. "He said something about
thinking of those big hands of yours having your way with my nubile body.
Once he put the thought in my head, I couldn't get it out."
"So, here we are."
"Yeah," he moved down to Skinner's chest, latched onto a nipple, worrying
it gently with his teeth. "Are you sorry?" he asked, coming up for air.
A sigh. "I should be." A big hand combed through Mulder's hair. "But I'm
not. I've wanted you for a long time."
Mulder rolled over to cover Skinner's body with his own. "Then take me," he
said, grinding. They kissed, long and hard, and the urgency was back.
Skinner flipped them, growling deep in his throat, to put Mulder
underneath. "Back or knees?" The big man bit him, hard, where neck meets
shoulder, and that delicious pain sent a load of precome shooting down
Mulder's cock.
"Knee...knees," Mulder managed to get out. "Ass hurts."
A deep chuckle, another bite at his neck and Skinner was off him, letting
him turn over and position himself. He was back in his spanking position,
and that was almost enough to make him come. Part of his mind, the
psychologist, noted how quickly his body had learned to react to just this,
being on his knees, vulnerable and open to this man.
A cool dribble of lube made him stop breathing until Skinner's fingers on
his anus made him start again. He knew what this felt like, and his body
remembered, too, relaxing into the probe of those long, thick fingers. He
wanted this, wanted Skinner and wished for Alex, sending a thought—he'd
never call it prayer—out to the universe to find and protect that lover
even as he thanked whatever random forces shaped and formed this one.
Then Skinner was entering him and all thought fled, leaving only sensation.
First there was the burn, pain-pleasure warring sweetly, heightening
desire, generating pre-come almost continuously. He was so hard, and it
felt so good. Skinner was singing to him, too, a Gregorian chant of 'so
good so good so good' over and over, interspersed with his name, said in a
way that wasn't the least bit annoying.
Skinner set a driving pace, using him hard, leaving bruises like
fingerprints on his hips. It didn't take long, once he reached around to
grasp Mulder, for the red-assed man to come, which triggered Skinner's own
orgasm. Mulder felt him spasm, thinking with the tiny part of his brain
that still functioned that they'd done okay for a first time. Way okay.
They lay together afterwards, silent and sated. Skinner stirred eventually,
rising to perform the clean up. Mulder watched him wring out washcloths,
wondering about the future. The food, the wine and the sex combined to make
that worry distant and intellectual. He was emotionally unable, at that
point, to care. But he did wonder. He smiled as Skinner wiped him.
"You okay?" the AD asked.
Mulder nodded. "You?"
Skinner wadded up the cloth and tossed it, with bulls-eye accuracy, into
the sink. "Yeah." He laid back down, tugging at Mulder, who let himself be
draped like a quilt over Skinner's body. "I think we're insane."
"Certifiably," Mulder agreed, nuzzling into Skinner's chest hair, breathing
deep. He fell asleep that way, and his dreams were gentle, and filled with
hope.
Mulder woke and found himself staring into emerald green eyes. Alex-the-Cat
had found his way into bed with them, and draped himself around Skinner's
bald pate. His long, gray-striped tail slapped leisurely across Skinner's
face.
"Laugh, Mulder, and I'll kick your butt," the AD said without opening his
eyes.
Fox chuckled. "It's a good look on you." A gentle payback for Mulder's
shirtless state the night before.
"Don't get uppity, boy," Skinner growled, sending delightful shivers of
lust through Mulder.
With eyes still closed, Skinner reached above his head to pet the cat and
gently nudge him away. Alex gave an interrogatory chirrup before moving
into a bone-cracking stretch. Then he stepped across Skinner's head to
Mulder's chest, walked down the agent's torso to settle on a hip and begin
grooming himself.
"Are we going to play some more?" Mulder asked tentatively.
Skinner finally opened his eyes. "No. We're going to clean out rain
gutters." At Mulder's raised eyebrows he added, "It's all part of the
torture."
"No games?"
Skinner shook his head.
"No sex?"
Another shake.
"None?"
"Nope." Skinner shooed the cat off Mulder, then rolled over to cover him.
He bit Fox' neck gently, then moved lower, below the collar line, to suckle
hard, marking. He moved lower, biting and sucking his way to Mulder's
groin. Mulder arched when Skinner's mouth engulfed him.
"This isn't sex?" he managed to gasp.
"Uh uh," Skinner replied around the cock in his mouth, sending lovely
vibrations through Mulder's cock and balls.
"I could get used to this kind of celibacy," Mulder murmured, closing his
eyes and giving into the sensations.
"Chirrup?" Alex was back, bumping his head alternately between Skinner's
head and Mulder's hip, his purr annoyingly insistent.
Mulder opened his eyes, groaning in protest when Skinner's mouth abandoned
him. His boss and his cat were engaged in a stare down.
"You really need to talk to this beast about the appropriateness of
audience participation."
"I think he's hungry."
Skinner broke eye contact with the cat to level his best glare on Mulder.
"Then feed him," he said in a low, dangerous voice.
Mulder stifled a protest, recognizing food as the only way to get rid of
the cat. If they locked him out of the room, he'd just sit outside the door
and yowl, a sound hardly conducive to romantic encounters.
"Then what?" he asked rising from the bed to look down on his scowling
lover.
"Then I'm going to feed you," Skinner replied rolling over on his back and
taking his own rampantly hard erection in hand.
Mulder swallowed, then turned and fled downstairs. The quicker the cat was
fed, the quicker...well, he just intended to be damn fast.
Dana Scully sat in the Monday morning staff meeting puzzled. Her partner
and their boss both behaved as if the Friday afternoon staff meeting had
never taken place. There seemed to be no repercussions for Mulder's temper
tantrum and arrogant dismissal of protocol and form, his snotty behavior
and smart-ass report. Nothing was said about his calling AD Skinner a son
of a bitch or storming out of the office before being dismissed.
He'd come into the office after her. Not late, exactly, just late for
Mulder. He brought her a six-grain muffin, latte (tall, skinny with
hazelnut) and a miniature rosebush of a color that matched her hair planted
in an exquisite porcelain space ship. He kissed her chastely, on the cheek,
and apologized.
He was relaxed and cheerful. His nose was sunburnt.
She fought the urge to cut him open to see if he'd bleed green.
And then there was Assistant Director Skinner. The surly, taciturn AD was
positively...Jesus!...jovial was the only word she could come up with. He
all but beamed while listening to Mulder talk about the apparent possession
of a twelve-year-old Science Fair winner by Abraham Lincoln's illegitimate
bi-racial daughter.
"Mulder, Abe Lincoln never had an illegitimate daughter, black or any other
color," she pointed out, since the AD didn't seem inclined to.
"That we know of," Mulder countered amiably.
Skinner preened like the proud owner of a prize-winning poodle.
Scully looked from one to the other, thinking that they both looked as if
they'd gotten laid this weekend. Then she looked again, from Skinner's
benevolent half-smile to Mulder's earnest recitation of outrageous
incidents by a precocious pre-teen. They were intent on each other, with
Mulder performing and Skinner appreciating.
She watched them, back and forth, as if at a tennis match. No, she thought,
attempting to squelch the image that popped into her head. Impossible.
Skinner's not...that way. And even if he were, he wouldn't. Not with
Mulder. Spooky Mulder. A subordinate. The person who almost single-handedly
derailed Skinner's high-rise career. Not possible.
The image wouldn't leave.
"Agent Scully?"
"Sir?" she met his eyes and felt herself blush.
"Do you have anything to add, Agent?"
Her face burned. "No, Sir. Not at this time."
Skinner nodded and dismissed them, asking only for some more documentation
for their expense report. As soon as the two agents entered the hallway,
Scully turned to Mulder and punched him. Hard. In the arm.
"Are you insane?" she hissed.
"What'd I do?" Mulder rubbed his injured limb.
"Lunch, Mulder. Out. Now."
"Scully, it's 10:30."
"Now, Mulder." She stalked down the hall to the elevator, jabbed the "down"
button and stood impatiently, seething.
"What'd I do?" Mulder began again, coming up behind her.
"Not. Another. Sound." She jabbed him in the chest, emphasizing each word.
The agent who entered the elevator on the next floor down took one look at
Scully's stormy face and Mulder's patented "who me?" expression and wisely
backed out.
She kept him silent all the way out of the Hoover building and across
Pennsylvania, making an emphatic "uh" noise each time he opened his mouth
to speak.
Once they reached the park-like Mall that runs between the Capitol and
Washington Monument, Scully turned and slugged him again. "Skinner? You're
fucking Skinner? I knew you were going to go and do something stupid,
Mulder, but this? Are you crazy? Is he? What are you two thinking? Or
thinking with? Answer me, Mulder!"
She glared up at him, hands on hips, watching a parade of emotions cross
his face and finally settle on bemused confusion. "Scully, what are you
saying? You surely can't be implying..."
"Don't. Even. Think. About. Lying. To. Me." A jab with a lethal-looking
copper-colored talon emphasized each word. "Did you even think about your
career, Mulder? Or his? Did you? Did you?" The last was accompanied by a
particularly vicious stab, causing an involuntary "ow."
He deflected the next stab, conceding defeat. "All right, I'll spill. How
did you know?"
"Jesus, Mulder, you two positively glowed. If you were female, I'd swear
you were pregnant. When did this start?"
"Friday. Sort of." They began to walk, keeping close to noise sources,
hopefully defeating any directional mikes that happened to be pointed their
way.
"Friday? Mulder, Friday afternoon he was ready to fire you."
"Well, Friday night we had an...encounter...in the parking lot."
Scully's jaw dropped, and she stopped. "You fucked in the parking lot!?"
"We did not!" Mulder seemed shocked at the suggestion. "I ran into him.
Literally, I mean." He slapped his hands together to demonstrate.
"So what? You made a date?" They began walking again.
"Not exactly. You know, Scully, this really isn't any of your business."
She snorted, dismissing that statement as irrelevant. "Just start at the
beginning, Mulder."
"In the beginning," he began, "Alex Krycek broke into my apartment and gave
me a hickey."
She started to protest that as old news, but stopped herself, allowing him
to tell his story in his own way. Which he did. Eventually.
"Oh, God, Mulder." She opened her mouth but couldn't think of anything else
to say. Giving up she said, "Come on."
"Where to now?" he asked, following her back toward the Hoover Building.
"Chocolate, Mulder. I need chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate."
end...
Strays III
by moco
"You knew this wasn't an X-File when you sent us there!" said Fox Mulder in
full rant mode. He stood so quickly he overturned his chair, causing Scully
to jump and yelp. "You set us up, you son of a bitch!" He leaned over
Skinner's desk, eyes blazing, invading his supervisor's space.
