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Part 1 of A Dog in the Manger
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2020-11-05
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A Dog in the Manger

Summary:

Summary: Skinner's old friend opens his eyes by chasing something Skinner never knew he wanted.

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A Dog in the Manger
by JiM

 

 

A low whistle. "Look what's a-coming up your front walk, Walter Skinner!"

Skinner spared a glance out of the gutter he was cleaning and groaned silently. Then he looked back at his friend. "Put your tongue back in your head, Hamilton. He's one of my agents."

Hamilton grinned, raised his eyebrow and reached for another shingle. "Pity," he commented speculatively, just as Mulder came to a halt at the foot of the ladder that Skinner was working on.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Mulder." Skinner wiped an arm across his brow and put down the trowel he was using. Autumn or not, it was a hot noon on that roof and he felt unpleasantly grubby, slick with sweat. He could feel it running down his neck and chest, soaking the tank top he wore. He knew he looked nothing like the starched AD Mulder was used to seeing and he figured that accounted for the odd look on the agent's face.

"There's been a break in the Vitelli case, sir. Actually, we made the arrests this morning. Vitelli's brother, Vito, confessed to the killings."

"Just like you said he would." Skinner didn't begrudge Mulder being right this time. Or any other time, for that matter. He and Scully still had a phenomenal solve rate and that still made Skinner look damned good, even when he had spent the entire previous afternoon 'discussing' the case with Mulder -- at a volume that half the floor could hear.

Mulder shrugged, no spiteful victory dances for him. Skinner nearly smiled at the diffident frown on Mulder's face. He leaned on the top of his ladder. "So what can I do for you?" A polite version of 'Why are you here?'

"I need you to sign the go-ahead on the search of Vitelli's house, sir."

Skinner sighed and heard a stifled snicker from Hamilton. Backwards. With Mulder, it was always backwards. "Mulder, is it my imagination, or does the Bureau usually requires that an AD sign a go-ahead before the search?"

Mulder had the grace to look abashed. In fact, he looked charmingly boyish and apologetic, actually scuffing his toe in the grass. "Sorry, sir. I tried to contact you last night, here and on your cellphone, but you were out of range. And we had to get him with the evidence still fresh. Before he went after the nephew."

Skinner could feel himself flushing. He and Hamilton had gone clubbing in Baltimore last night. There would have been no way for Mulder to contact him. It had been foolishly shortsighted to put himself out of touch when this case was still so hot, but he had been so sure that Mulder was on the wrong track.

"It was my fault, Mulder. Give me the papers." He started down the ladder, only to realize that Mulder was starting up it. He heard another one of Hamilton's low chuckles when they met in the middle. "Ya'll look like a pair of chorus boys gettin' ready for the big finale."

Mulder grinned upwards. "I assume this would be an off-Broadway production?"

Skinner sighed and made the introductions. "Colonel Sam Hamilton, Special Agent Fox Mulder." Hamilton waved a hammer cheerfully and Mulder raised a hand to screen his eyes as he nodded pleasantly at Hamilton. Skinner clambered down the ladder and waited until Mulder had jumped down before asking, "So when did the Flash hit this time?"

The Flash. It was Skinner's name for that moment when everything in a case suddenly imploded in Mulder's brain and the fragments of evidence became a mural of events and motives that painted the murderer's portrait. Mulder had no other way to explain it and Skinner had grown used to waiting for it, for the insane lightning strike that brought justice or closure, or sometimes just an answer.

Mulder grimaced. "1:43 a.m. Scully was not pleased."

"I can imagine." Skinner watched Mulder patting down his pockets and groping in his rumpled suit jacket for a pen. Then he squinted up for a moment to where Hamilton was still looking over the edge of the roof, a wolfish grin on his face, watching them. "I don't hear any hammering," he said pointedly.

"They freed the slaves, Walt. Isn't it time for a beer? Or lunch?" Hamilton said hopefully, eyes fixed on Mulder's profile.

Skinner sighed and shook his head, but he knew he'd already lost this one. "Come on down, Ham. Mulder, come inside and I'll sign those forms. You want some lunch?"

Mulder's gaze seemed caught by the sweat stain on Skinner's chest and he said nothing. The sound of a thump and a body hitting the grass just beside him made him start like a high-strung racehorse.

"Jesus, Hamilton! What the hell d'you think you're doing?" Skinner growled.

Hamilton had simply jumped off the roof, dropping fifteen feet to land easily beside them. That sharp grin looked so white in his travel-tanned face and seemed to startle Mulder even more. "Used to make jumps like that all the time, Walt. The secret is all in the legs."

Skinner shook his head, realizing that Hamilton was feeling his oats again and there was nothing Skinner could do to hold him down. Never had been, not since they were eighteen and alone in the wilds of Saigon nights. Hell, you'd think a man nearly fifty would be ready to drop after partying until 4 a.m., but not Hamilton. He'd been up again at eight and ready to help Skinner fix storm damage.

"Come on, Agent Mulder. Come have a beer and a sandwich and tell us about this bust."

Mulder blinked a little at the stranger's friendly tone, but a tired smile worked its way onto his face finally. "OK. Some solid food is probably a good idea. I haven't slept in thirty-six hours and breakfast was one of those seven-grain bars that Scully favors."

Skinner couldn't help the grimace of commiseration that crossed his face. Hamilton said, "C'mon Walt, let's take this boy inside and feed him up right." He brushed some gravel and asphalt shingle crumbs from his bare chest, grin growing wider when Mulder's tired eyes tracked his fingers across the tanned muscles of his abdomen. "Just needs some care and feeding," Hamilton murmured, looking from Skinner to Mulder. Skinner wanted to throttle him suddenly, but instead he turned and led the way inside.

Lunch was surprisingly pleasant, once Skinner had washed up and gotten a cold beer and a thick roast beef sandwich in him. He felt like he was nearing fifty and the club circuit had worn him out, although he wouldn't have put the brakes on Ham's evening for anything. His old buddy hadn't had a night of uncomplicated loud dancing and drinking in far too long and Skinner had sat back, nursing his club soda and watching him with real pleasure. Ham was coming alive again, the spark coming back slowly and it was good to see.

It was fascinating to watch as he drew Fox Mulder out of his shell, asking intelligent questions about his cases, his career, his ideas. A lot of military personnel knew about Fox Mulder now, for better or worse. The whole Consortium/FEMA/DoD exposure two years ago had splashed all of their names and faces across the media, but Hamilton wasn't one of those who wanted to shoot the messenger. Mulder had exposed a conspiracy that threatened the country that Hamilton had loved and served proudly and he was grateful rather than hostile.

And Mulder... well, Mulder became someone Skinner hadn't ever seen before. He loosened his tie and finally took it off after merciless teasing from Hamilton. With his tie gone, Mulder started to relax and his bloodshot eyes began to light with laughter as they traded stories. By the time lunch was over, Mulder and Hamilton seemed well on their way to becoming fast friends. Which, for some obscure reason, bothered the hell out of Skinner.

He finally shooed Mulder out the door with the recommendation that he get some sleep and reminded Ham that the hole in the roof needed to be patched before the next rainfall. Grousing good-naturedly, Hamilton led the way outside, rehooking his toolbelt as he stood saying good-bye to Mulder. He started up the ladder, then stopped and reached down his hand to shake Mulder's. "Was a real pleasure gettin' to know you, Mulder."

"You, too, Colonel."

"Ham," Hamilton corrected with a smile, still holding onto Mulder's hand. "Come on back sometime and I'll tell you all kinds of stories about your boss here."

Skinner stepped closer and Hamilton let Mulder's hand drop. "Don't believe anything he says, Mulder. It'll all be lies."

"I got pictures," Hamilton said cheerfully and started back up the ladder. "I'll call you."

Mulder blinked again and Skinner watched as a frown of confusion crossed his face as he looked up into the sun after Hamilton. "Mulder. Mulder," he said, finally getting Mulder's attention again. "The go-ahead." He handed the signed papers to Mulder. "Let's try to get it in the right order on the next one."

"Yes, sir." Mulder looked befuddled and Skinner clamped down hard on the urge to put his hand on the younger man's shoulder, turn him around, guide him back into the house and tuck him into a nice cool bed for ten or twelve hours. Then wake him up and fuck him senseless.

Instead, he shook his head to clear it and remembered to say, "Good work on this one, Mulder. Scully, too."

Mulder's face lit with a shy smile that made Skinner clench his fists. He didn't praise Mulder enough, he knew, because when he did, oh when he did... the reaction was amazing. 'A kid on Christmas,' he thought disjointedly, and smiled back before he knew what he was doing.

"Walt! Get your ass back up here. I'm not gonna be the only one cooking to death on this roof!" Hamilton's raucous shout startled them both and Mulder was striding down the walk without another word before Skinner had recovered himself.

"Asshole," Skinner muttered and wasn't certain whether he meant Ham, Mulder or himself.

About halfway through the afternoon, and he and Ham had switched to drinking Cokes, Ham had tossed down his hammer and said speculatively, "Pretty boy."

He knew what Hamilton was asking. "No," he said around the roofing nails he gripped between his teeth.

"So he's free?"

Skinner spat out the nails. "What, you thinking of checking out the lay of the land?"

"Just doing some recon, Walt. But if he's off-limits, just say the word. I won't poach."

Skinner was trying to nail down a shingle and the nail had bent sideways before he realized he was trying to pound it through a knot. He jerked it out with the claw hammer and reached for a new one before saying, "As far as I know, he's not seeing anyone. But I don't know if he's...."

Ham chuckled. "He is, Walt, trust me. The way he was checking you out, he is."

Skinner put the hammer down carefully, then set the nail next to it. "What are you talking about?" he said calmly.

There was a hoot of laughter from Hamilton. "You haven't changed, have you, Walt? Never could see what's right in front of your face. Jimmy had to push you up against a tree, Sharon had to practically club you over the head...."

"Fuck you, Hamilton."

"Nope, you're not my type. But he is. He most surely is." Hamilton whistled again softly. "So, to go back to the original question...?"

"Go for it," Skinner said shortly. "If you're ready to get back in the game, go for it."

"Hey, Walt," Ham said softly. "Toddy is dead. I think I'm finally done with my grieving. I need to feel alive again, you know?"

"Yeah, I do. I'm glad," he said. He was. But his hand still twitched when he wrote out Mulder's phone number for Hamilton later that night.

It wasn't just his hand twitching when Sam Hamilton showed up in his office on Tuesday afternoon, it was his whole damned jaw. Hamilton looked crisp and handsome in his greens, just as if he hadn't spent an entire day in Senate committee hearings. Skinner watched Kimberly's eyes do a long slow glide down the visitor's body and back up to his face before smiling brightly at him. He sighed and, when the door had closed behind his assistant, said, "You're going to corrupt my entire staff, you know that?"

Ham just smiled and shrugged in that aw-shucks way that had slain thousands in its time. Until he'd met Todd and been firmly collared and domesticated and those good looks and glad eyes had been focused in only one direction for more than twenty years.

"Just dropped in to say I won't be home for dinner tonight, Walt. Gonna take your agent out, get him liquored up and see what kind of stories he tells then."

Skinner shook his head, smiling to hide his unease. "You won't believe half of them and the hell of it is, I think they're all true."

"Should be a fun evening, then." Hamilton smiled and turned to go.

"Ham...." Hamilton turned back at the door. "He's got to work tomorrow. Not too much liquor, OK?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Skinner. I'll have your boy home by ten o'clock, I promise." Hamilton pulled on his forelock and slipped out the door, laughing when Skinner flipped him the bird.

Hamilton came in around 10:30 and laughed about Skinner waiting up for him. He offered to let Skinner check for hickeys and lipstick stains and returned the pillow heaved at him with deadly accuracy. The pillow fight lasted for ten minutes, not including the five minutes spent picking up the pieces of the overturned lamp. Mulder's name was not mentioned.

So Skinner was a bit surprised to hear himself asking Mulder the next morning, "How was dinner?"

So was Mulder apparently, but he covered it well. "He's quite a character, sir. He said you were in the service together."

"We were in the Marines together, until he was posted to a different unit. Eventually, he switched branches and moved over to the Rangers."

"He has some interesting stories to tell, sir," and there was a speculative gleam in Mulder's eye now and Skinner wondered what the hell Hamilton had been telling him.

"As do you, Agent Mulder."

"True," Mulder said, grin growing wider. "But his are more fun. You should come with us next time."

"At least I'd be able to keep him from his more egregious lies," Skinner said, inexplicably heartened.

"I don't think he lies, sir. I'd say it was more that he dresses up reality so that it looks more appealing from his angle."

"Trust me, Mulder, he lies."

"He said you'd helped him a lot since his lover died." Mulder's voice was suddenly gentle.

"He told you about Todd?" Skinner was surprised for a moment, then remembered how easy most people found talking to Mulder. It was only Walter Skinner who ever seemed to become tongue-tied around him.

"Sam didn't tell me his name, or even that it was a man, but that seemed fairly likely from other things he said."

"Shit," Skinner said fervently. "Mulder...."

Mulder shook his head. "Don't worry, sir. I'm used to secrets." He gave a small smile that held just a touch of bitterness.

"It wasn't my secret to tell."

"It's fine," Mulder said with a touch of exasperation. "It's not like I didn't notice that we were out on a date."

"Oh," Skinner said. "Well."

After a short silence, Mulder nodded pleasantly, then left. Skinner found that he had snapped a pencil in half. He tossed the two pieces into the trash and told himself to calm the fuck down and keep his nose out of other people's business.

Which resolution he kept for exactly four days. Saturday night, or rather, very early Sunday morning, he was awakened by Hamilton stumbling around in the living room. There was a small crash and a drunken snicker, then the light clicked on. A golden slice filtered down the hallway and into his room through the partially open bedroom door.

"Have a seat, Fox," he heard Hamilton say.

Fox? Since when did anyone get to call Mulder by his first name? He'd done it exactly once and the results had not been promising.

"You want something to drink?"

"No, I'd say we've had more than enough," came Mulder's warm tenor.

"Now that might be true, boy, it might be true." There was a thump, the sound of a large man dropping onto the leather sofa, then the slight squeaks as he arranged his body more comfortably. "Let's see," he heard Hamilton purr, "if I remember how to do this." There were some rustling noises, then silence. Skinner's mind tortured him with images of what might be happening in his living room, then his conscience scourged him for eavesdropping.

He heard Hamilton say, voice low and a little breathless, "OK, that seemed like it went well, for a test run. Want to try again?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to base my opinion on only one sample. Statistically speaking... mmmph."

Skinner nearly grinned at the thought of Hamilton finding a surefire way to shut Mulder up. Then his hands clenched and he gritted his teeth at the slight squeaks of cloth on leather that filtered down the hall to his bedroom.

"Oh yeah, I'd say you remember how this works just fine." Now Mulder sounded breathless and Skinner stared blindly at the ceiling and wondered what petty god he had pissed off that he was reduced to listening to his oldest friend making love to his... to his....

'Agent,' his rational mind supplied. 'Subordinate,' was also presented for inspection. But it was two in the morning and Skinner told his rational mind to go fuck itself. Mulder was just... his. But what to do about it?

Especially since Mulder was so obviously enjoying attentions that no one else had paid him in too long.

He was debating reaching for his gun when he heard the sounds of movement and soft laughter from the living room. He was prepared to make a complete ass of himself if those voices came down the hallway toward the guest bedroom. His muscles began to unclench, one by one, when he heard the front door open, another spate of soft laughter, and then he heard it close again. There were the faint beeps of Hamilton setting the burglar alarm, then the light in the living room clicked off and darkness descended to hide Skinner and his new knowledge. He fell asleep only after he heard the water running in the shower.

Sunday morning found him slumped over his third mug of coffee and dodging phrases like "dog in the manger" and "joy killer." Ham wasn't even up yet but Skinner was amusing himself with working out everything his friend might reasonably say to him if he ever got up enough nerve to make a play for Mulder.

He sighed, remembering how good it felt to see Hamilton back to himself again, bright-eyed and laughing and ready to tackle the newest flavors in life once more. How could he take that away from him? The answer was simple; he couldn't. Miserably, Skinner got up to mix pancake batter and wound up beating it until it was a sticky mass. He was just pouring it down the drain when Hamilton stumbled into the kitchen, sleepy and cheerful and beard-burnt. Firming his resolve, Skinner growled only a little as he told Hamilton to get dressed, they were going out to breakfast.

His resolve was tempered and tested over brunch. Gregarious and buoyant, Hamilton shared tidbits of his date with Mulder, relating anecdotes and stories that Mulder had told him. Skinner was surprised to hear the funny sides of some of the stolid case reports he had received.

Sometime around their third Bloody Mary, Hamilton started talking about the man himself, pumping for background details. So Skinner pulled out every unclassified bit of Fox Mulder trivia he could think of and was a little surprised to find that he knew so little of the man himself. He knew all Mulder's vital data, but he'd known this person for eight years, gone through hell and high water with him and he couldn't tell Ham the first thing about his likes and dislikes, what he wanted from life, nothing truly important. Hell, he hadn't even known Mulder was into men.

Skinner knew that the game was over when Hamilton said, "Sweet boy. Funny and wounded and smart as a whip, Walt. And deep down, a real sweet boy."

He could only nod and stare at the tabletop, fingertip drawing aimless patterns in the condensation running down his glass. When Sam Hamilton referred to someone as "sweet," it meant he was dragging out the heavy guns. And Skinner had never seen him miss.

Walter Skinner was a good friend. He and Sam Hamilton had been friends for long decades and never failed each other, in war or in peace. He had invited Hamilton to come and stay with him for a few months while in town for Senate hearings and to help him get over Todd's death. It was good to have someone to come home to, someone to share stupid household tasks again, someone to crack a beer with.

He had sometimes thought it would have been so much easier if he and Ham could have paired up, but that little spark that would have turned a fine friendship into a warm romance was just missing. So they shared a house, Skinner bought the groceries, Hamilton bought the liquor and did the housework. They watched CNN and the Sports Network and bitched about politics and government bureaucracy on the evenings that Hamilton wasn't taking Mulder out to quiet restaurants, noisy clubs, or intimate nightspots. Skinner had refused two invitations to join them.

On those evenings, Skinner stayed home and read a book, the TV chattering in front of him, one thumb rhythmically drumming on the arm of the easy chair until Hamilton wandered in. Sometimes he brought Mulder with him and the three of them sat around shooting the bull until Mulder recollected that he had to work in the morning and left. Other times, Hamilton came in, tie hanging askew and a secret smile on his face that made Skinner want to beat his good friend until he bled.

This state of affairs continued for two weeks until the Friday morning that Skinner snapped.

It was a little thing that did it. They had finished a case review meeting and he had been soothed by Dana Scully's cheerful smile and yet another successful file closure. Mulder had been professional and courteous and hadn't annoyed him even once. At the door, Mulder had sent his partner on ahead and turned back to ask a question, thumb still absently worrying at a spot just under his jaw. He had been rubbing at it all through the meeting and Skinner was finally distracted enough to ask, "Cut yourself shaving, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder smiled. "Uh, yeah, sir," and had taken his hand away, fidgeting with a pencil instead. Then Skinner could see and his teeth clenched together when he saw the bite mark on Mulder's jaw. Something inside gave way suddenly and through the roaring in his ears, Skinner heard himself say, "Mulder. Come over and have dinner tonight. Seven o'clock." Only it wasn't really an invitation he heard echoing around his office after Mulder's departure, it was more of a growling order and he had to wonder at the bravery of Mulder's startled acceptance.

Dinner was good, the conversation a little stilted at first when Mulder discovered that Hamilton was out all evening at some Pentagon-sponsored black-tie banquet. But they had relaxed into one another's company eventually. The food was good, the wine better, but best of all was the chance collision as they cleared the table. Skinner put his hands on Mulder's shoulders to steady him and Mulder just melted against him. Then there was nothing to do but kiss him, so Skinner did.

Christ, the man's mouth was hot and the taste was rich and sweet and now he finally knew what Hamilton meant when he drawled "sweeeeeet" about someone. Mulder made these small sounds, bitten-off sighs, escaped moans and whimpers that made Skinner hot and crazy. He heard himself growling again, but this time it was a triumphant sound as Mulder pulled him down the hall toward the bedroom, shirt hanging off his shoulders, chest bare and sweat-slick and strong.

They made love for hours, fast and hard, then slow and long and it was all good, all sweet, every groan and sigh and murmur and howl. Sweetest of all, though, was the feeling of Mulder sighing and dropping into a deep sleep pillowed on Skinner's chest, his arms wrapped tightly around him. And Walter Skinner lay awake for hours, trying to feel some guilt over poaching, trying to feel badly about stealing Mulder from Hamilton, but it kept getting swallowed up in the wild singing of his blood, in the victorious whisper of Mulder's sleeping breath against his throat.

He slept some, but was still awake at first light, as usual. Mulder had slipped out of his arms sometime in the night. He was now sleeping deeply, sprawled out on his back, a slight smile on his face. Skinner pulled on a pair of discarded jeans and went to the bathroom, then wandered out into the kitchen. He was drinking the last of the orange juice from the carton when Hamilton came in and Skinner nearly choked on the guilt that had gotten lost in the dark last night.

Hamilton smacked him a couple of times between the shoulder-blades until he stopped coughing. "What happened, Walt, you forget how to swallow after all these years?" The cheerfully lecherous twinkle in Hamilton's eye undid him.

"Ham, I...," but he didn't know what to say. Hamilton's bright gaze was fixed upon him and there was nothing to say.

"I see Mulder's car in the driveway, Walt."

Skinner swallowed. "Yeah."

"Was it good?"

He couldn't lie, not now, not even about this. "Oh yeah, Ham. It was real good." He wished he could stop the stupid grin that he could feel creeping onto his face, but he couldn't. He figured that Hamilton would knock it off for him and so he was beyond startled when Hamilton just smiled gently and said, "I knew it'd be good between you two."

"What?!" Lead-eyed shock was wrestling with the grin now and winning, two falls out of three.

"That boy's been pining for you for years, Walt, and you never noticed. Same old Skinner, always gotta be hit over the head with something before you see it. Or someone."

Understanding hit, a lightning bolt of clarity that burned away the guilt and left him clean and clear and ready for some strong emotion to fill him. "You set me up!"

Hamilton grinned and held up one thumb. "Got it in one, Walt."

"You son of a bitch," Skinner said softly, still trying to figure out what emotion was spilling through him.

"True enough," Hamilton said cheerfully. "He's a good man, Walt. You treat him well, you hear? Or I'll kick your sorry ass."

Skinner shook his head sharply, trying to clear it. "What the hell was all that business with making out on my damned couch? And the...," he stopped, not even sure how to describe Hamilton's air of cat-with-the-cream during the past two weeks.

"Call it a tutorial, if you want. Mulder spent that whole first night talking about you, Walt, so I sort of figured out which way the wind was blowing. I know you -- you would have just stared and licked your lips and never done a damned thing to help yourself. And he's so cherry that he practically glows, you know? So I thought I'd just help you two out; a little honest jealousy is good for the soul." Hamilton was rummaging around in the cupboard, taking out coffee and mugs. "I let him feel his way around a little, showed him how to touch another man and not be scared, that kind of thing." He filled the coffeepot and turned it on. "He kisses real well, though. Don't think I could teach him a damned thing in that department." He stopped and took a good look at Skinner, who was slumped back against the counter, holding on for support. "You don't look so good, boy. What's the matter, Walt?"

"Cherry?" he said faintly.

"Oh, Walter, what did you do?" Hamilton was shaking his head, one eyebrow raised.

"He never said anything."

"Well, shit, Walt, what did you expect him to say? You know anyone who's gonna admit to being a forty-three year old virgin?"

"Forty-two," he said weakly.

"Walter S. Skinner, get your ass back into that bedroom and wake him up and you make sure you didn't hurt him. Because if you did, I swear to you that I will beat the shit out of you and make you beg for more."

Skinner was already in motion. "If I have, Ham, I'll let you."

He let himself back into the bedroom, dim and cool with early morning light creeping around the edges of the drapes. Mulder was still sleeping soundly, still smiling faintly, lips parted and just a little swollen. He slid onto the bed and brushed the hair away from Mulder's forehead, caressing a little. Then he ran his hand down the bristly cheek and jaw, watching as Mulder shifted a little, swimming his way up to consciousness.

"Hey," he said as he opened his eyes, still hazy and dreamy.

"Hey," Skinner said softly, then leaned down to kiss him gently. "You OK?" he asked, indescribably relieved when Mulder tried to deepen the kiss into something more purposeful than 'good morning.'

A slow sexy smile then, and Skinner thought he must have learned that expression from Hamilton. "Oh yeah, I'm good." He reached up and pulled Skinner down firmly on top of him.

"You're good," Skinner agreed fervently, head resting over Mulder's heart. "But you should have told me."

Mulder stiffened a little beneath him and Skinner raised his head to meet Mulder's suddenly shy gaze. "It wasn't a problem."

"Idiot! I could have really hurt you." Worry gave birth to annoyance and he sat up, running a hand over his scalp.

Mulder looked away, hands playing with the edge of the sheet. "I'm not some delicate kid, Walt, so lay off the daddy act. I'm fine."

Skinner groaned and reached for him. He dragged Mulder half into his lap, settling himself against the headboard and shifting and pushing at Mulder until they fit together perfectly. "Fox, it's not that, I swear. You're the toughest man I know. It's just.... I don't ever want to hurt you. You tell me, next time. Got it?" God, it was good to whisper that name, to feel Mulder relax, then smile against his throat and nod.

"There's no bleeding, but my back is kind of sore," he admitted.

Skinner, remembering just how hard they had gone at one another, chuckled. "I'll bet. A hot bath'll help. So will a massage. After breakfast, I'll give you one."

"My old coach used to say that the best cure for sore muscles is more of what made them sore in the first place," Mulder said, squirming suggestively.

"Fox, no. No." At the grumble of protest, Skinner relented. "Well, OK then. Later on, you can fuck me. That ought to give all those stiff muscles a decent workout."

Mulder went very still for a moment, then his arms tightened around Skinner's neck. "OK," he said softly.

And they sat there, wordless, until Hamilton called them to breakfast.

 

end

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