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English
Series:
Part 2 of Eight Days a Week: Skinner in Hell
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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
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815
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1/1
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10
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1,053

Friday on My Mind

Summary:

"Walter Skinner had been in Hell all week and frankly, he was getting tired of it."

Work Text:

Friday on My Mind
by JiM

 

Walter Skinner had been in Hell all week and frankly, he was getting tired of it. Last Firday, Mulder had appeared on his doorstep, bulled his way in and proceeded to turn his entire world upside down with one kiss. He had spent the weekend further upsetting the natural order of Skinner's universe until early Monday morning, when he had left Skinner's apartment like a whirlwind, taking his best dress shirt, an unimpeachable tie and whatever remained of his equanimity. There was a yawning emptiness in Mulder's absence that hadn't been there before. No, that was wrong. It had always been there, but the edges hadn't seemed so sharp, nor the silence so deep.

The staff meeting on Monday morning had not helped the situation. During the meeting, dull to the point of foaming madness, Mulder had sat across the room and simply looked at him. In that moment, Walter Skinner had realized how far gone he truly was. After years of struggling, fighting, resisting, infuriating, supporting, guiding, protecting and admiring Mulder, he had fallen the last yard; now he loved the man.

It is not a comfortable thing for a sober man of nearly fifty to realize that he has lost his heart to a younger man. It is less comforting still for that sober man to realize that he has given his heart away to a man so unstable that he makes outpatients and conspiracy theorists think twice before arguing with him. Worst of all, when all he knows is that the one he loves wants him, wants him with a burning intensity that defies all rational discussion but cannot and should not be mistaken for love without very clear elucidation, well, that sober man is in dire need of simple reassurance. Reassurance and a few physical tokens; all he has is a fading hickey and a week-old stale-scented dress shirt that he is embarassed to say he slept with last night.

And why is he not sleeping with his beloved, his obsession, the disturber of his peace of mind? Because the sonofabitch was called out of that interminable staff meeting and left for a case in Iowa within forty-five minutes. And hasn't been heard of since, except for two case-related faxes and a cryptic e-mail that was blank except for the subject line "I've got Friday on my mind."

And it is Thursday; a gray, cold, sodden Thursday afternoon, the kind that lasts at least three weeks. There is no hope, he thinks, and bends to write his comments in the margins of yet another case file.

Still, he is annoyed when his intercom buzzes at 5:15. He has gotten used to the steady, miserable, plodding rhythm and is taking some parched comfort in the steadily growing pile in his out-basket. He is unjustifiably irritated at the interruption in his misery; he doesn't want to be intrigued or concerned or even mildly interested in anything anyone has to say to him -- look at what happened the last time someone did that to him.

No one responds to his curt growl into the intercom. His assistant has probably hit the button by accident. He scowls and bends to his work again. The door opens with a quiet snick and the world stops when he looks up.

Mulder closes the door behind him and leans against it for a moment. There is rain still streaming from his hair and his overcoat and his skin seems very pale in the gloom of an office lit only by one desklight and a middle-aged lover's fear. Skinner opens his mouth to say something, he doesn't know what, but is stopped when Mulder holds a finger to his own lips to silence him. He stays where he is for another long moment, the silence becoming both thicker and more brittle with every passing second. Then he is across the room and Skinner is standing and he doesn't know when he got up. Then Mulder is in his arms and kissing him and the madness is back in force.

Mulder's lips are cool and wet against his; his sodden clothing is soaking into Skinner's starched officewear and it feels so good, like rain in the desert. He doesn't want to stop, he can't stop... but Mulder is pulling away from him, pushing firmly at Skinner's shoulders. He lets him go with a kind of dumb confusion that is budding into misery just as Mulder holds up seven fingers, then points at Skinner, smiles and leaves as silently as he came.

Seven o'clock, Skinner's place.

Now Skinner knows something new -- Hell is not some place warm, nor is it a long gray week. Hell is wet and cool and silent and slick and it's waiting for him at home. And it's only Thursday.

 
end

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