Fox Mulder walked up the steps to Walter Skinner's apartment building without his usual jaunty stride. It wasn't that he was unhappy to be there. Just the opposite, in fact. Walter inviting him over for the weekend was possibly the only good thing that had happened in this whole horrific week.

No, he wasn't unhappy with his lover. He was unhappy with himself. Thanks to that E Pluribus bastard Weaver, a few hundred tobacco beetles, and Scully's inspired cure, he was not only battling a nicotine addiction, one which was achingly familiar, but he was fighting said war with lungs that could barely draw breath most of the time, a throat which ached no matter how many lozenges he took, and a general unformed
malaise that left him without appetite and unable to sleep.

Scully had given him the medical chapter and verse of what had happened to him, and what he could expect in the form of his recovery. Skinner had just favored him with one too many guilty looks, and if he had asked him if he was okay one more time, Mulder thought he might just pull out his gun and shoot him. Or himself. His target varied depending on how he felt at the moment.

And right now he felt very bad indeed.

He paused on the top step, feeling like he'd just run a marathon, set his satchel down on the concrete and fumbled through his trench coat pocket for the keys to the building. When said keys did not immediately leap into his hand, he felt uncharacteristically angry, which in turn caused his heart to beat a little faster, requiring more oxygen, and…

He fought off the cough that was tickling the back of his throat, tried to ease his breathing, and searched all his pockets, more slowly this time, but with the same negative results.

"Crap!" The exclamation came out of him in a breathy little whisper, which might have been sexy if he was Demi Moore on the set of St Elmo's Fire. But he wasn't.

"Damn!" Same whispery sound, and the tickle became a little harder to ignore. And then a lot harder, and when he pressed the door buzzer and heard Skinner's inquiring voice, he could only make a series of stifled coughing barks as he struggled to say his name.

The door lock buzzed immediately.

He caught the door, caught the elevator, caught his breath.  By the time the elevator had deposited him onto the seventeenth floor, he was breathing normally again, grimacing at the taste of two Fisherman's Friends melting on his tongue, and feeling the onset of a headache.

Skinner opened the door before he could touch it, took his arm and pulled him into the apartment. Closed the door behind him, took his satchel and coat, and steered him towards the couch, all without saying a word. Sat down beside him, loosened his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt, then touched the side of his face.

"Hey."

"Hey." He didn't think Skinner was even aware of it when he flinched at the raspy sound of his voice, but he felt too tired to comment. Instead, he added, "Thanks for letting me in-I forgot my key." He didn't know if Skinner felt the same way he did, but saying "my key" always gave him a warm shiver, one that might have been sappy in a romance novel, but in real life just felt safe and good. He leaned into his lover, and was rewarded with two strong arms around his shoulders, stroking lightly over his back while he rested his head on Skinner's chest and tried to will away the throb in his temples.

"You hungry?" Skinner asked after a while.

"Sure," Mulder replied, meaning no. He thought that if he had to slide anything more than a cough drop down the barbed wire fence that his throat had become, he would probably choke to death.

Skinner disengaged himself from Mulder, stood and held out his hand. The younger man gazed at it with mild disinterest for a moment, and Skinner added, "Come with me."

With a shrug, Mulder got up from the couch, using Skinner's hand to pull himself upright, and both men ignored the muted groan that slipped from his lips. Too much time in the hospital, too little time to recuperate after. 

Skinner guided him upstairs, walking close behind him, then steered him with a gentle hand on his arm, into the bedroom.  Mulder noticed his breathing became easier the minute he entered the room, and he wondered about that for a moment before noticing a dry humidifier set up in the corner by the bed, burbling cheerfully to itself, and he turned to Skinner with a confused but grateful smile. He knew that the older man
had never owned a humidifier. At least not until today. Skinner gave him an unreadable look and pressed a small kiss to the side of his mouth, then pushed him towards the bed. Mulder saw that his plaid pajama pants were laid out there, along with a pair of wool socks and the fluffy white bathrobe Skinner had bought him for Christmas. A part of him felt warmed by the gesture, in the same way having his own key to the apartment had warmed him, but his cranky inner teenager insisted on
voicing a typical Muldercomplaint.

"I'm fine, Walter. Scully wouldn't have let them let me out of the hospital if I wasn't, you know." More sounds in that "I've just been gargling glass" voice, and they both winced. Mulder felt that familiar tickle again as he forced the words out. Skinner shushed him with another kiss.

"I know. I just thought you might want to rest a little. It's been a long week, don't you think?" He gave Mulder a look somewhere between love and consternation, and Mulder suspected that Skinner could see right through his "I'm fine" routine, and he wondered for a moment if Scully hadn't had a hand in this somehow. The worst of his coughing fits and nicotine-deprived rants had all taken place in the basement this
week, with only his best friend and partner as witness. When he'd had to meet with other agents, or with Skinner, he'd been careful to keep his voice low, his temper in check and his face neutral whenever he was asked how he felt. He gave the bed a longing look, shivered as he felt Skinner undoing another button on his shirt and swallowed painfully. Two more buttons later he found himself justifying his actions by thinking that maybe Skinner had had a long week, too, and this was his way of relaxing, offering his own needs to Mulder. He ignored the voice of honesty trying to tell him that this was for him because he needed it, and smiled and kissed Skinner back, mouth opening just enough to share his nasty cough drop experience.

" I thought we were eating." He moved back and finished the job of unbuttoning his shirt himself.

Skinner handed him the television remote from the bedside table and said. "I ordered in. Find us something good to watch, and I'll bring you something to drink." He turned and left the room. Mulder stared after him as he removed the rest of his clothes, had a brief moment of utter gratefulness so strong it made him shudder, then shoved the needy thought away and slipped on the pants and socks. He breathed humid air deeply and smiled as he crawled into the large bed, noting the extra
pillows and blankets that hadn't been there last time he'd spent the night. He turned on the television and leaned back with a sigh.

He'd found CNN and was absorbing baseball scores when Skinner returned with an oversized mug steaming in one hand, and a rocks glass choked with ice and scotch in the other. Mulder took the cup from him without looking away from the TV, grunted something that was almost a thank you, then had to hand the cup back when sharp hacking coughs burst from him.

Skinner set the cup and his glass on the nightstand, sat down on the bed next to Mulder and ran one large hand soothingly over the younger man's back, trying to help ease the coughing spell. Mulder was gasping for breath, as each deep inhale just produced another cough.

"Slow down, Fox. Shallow breaths. Come on, buddy, nice and slow."

Eventually Mulder got himself under control. Skinner wiped inadvertent tears off his cheeks, kissed his forehead, and handed him back the mug, which was still steaming slightly.

"Fucking bugs," he muttered as he sipped at the contents of the cup, discovering blueberry tea-not the fruity herbal kind, but the amaretto and grand Marnier kind. He felt honeyed warmth soothe his throat, then settle gently onto his overtaxed abdominals, which had set up a continuous ache since that first coughing spell so many days ago.

"Thanks." 

Skinner suspected there was an "I'm sorry" trying to get out along with the thanks, and he was grateful when the door buzzer sounded, heralding the arrival of their supper.

"Drink your tea, I'll be right back."

Mulder had already turned back to the television, and didn't reply.

He'd just finished the hot drink, and was flipping channels idly when Skinner re-entered the room, two plates balanced on a pizza box in one hand and a large glass of iced tea in the other. He handed the glass to Mulder, set the pizza box on the covers, and sat down on the bed.

"Triple Eight?" Mulder asked.

"Yes."

"Pepperoni and mushroom?"

"Yes."

"Extra cheese?"

"Yes."

Skinner handed him a plate, took one for himself and opened the pizza box. Mulder sipped the cold tea, which tasted and felt just as good as the hot tea had, and Skinner put two inside pieces of the square cut pizza onto his plate. They exchanged a look, one that spoke more than any words could have. Skinner took three pieces for himself, moved the box and sat back next to Mulder.

Mulder managed both pieces of pizza and half the glass of tea, and then cozied up to Skinner as they watched television.

When Skinner finished eating, he got up from the bed. Mulder gave him a grumpy look, which he matched with an apologetic grin, then began clearing away the detritus of their meal.

"More tea?" 

Mulder shook his head and Skinner added his glass to the items in his hands.

"Be right back," he promised, then before Mulder could protest, he added, "No horror movies here, Fox."

Mulder grinned sheepishly and coughed weakly.

Mulder could hear Skinner moving around the apartment. Dishes clashed and the dishwasher hummed. He thought he could hear his lover talking to himself, but couldn't be sure. Then he was coming back up the stairs with that customary light tread that still surprised Mulder. He always pictured Skinner as a man who bullied his way through life, and often
forgot the subtleties that his lover was capable of. Then he spared a thought for the brand-new humidifier, the spiked tea and an old conversation they'd had where he'd explained to Walter just why square-cut pizza tasted better, and he realized just how subtle the man really was.

He was smiling when Skinner re-entered the room. He returned Mulder's smile with a confused but pleased one of his own and came around to the far side of the bed. He set yet another glass on the nightstand-this one full of ice water-and pressed two small yellow pills into Mulder's hand, saying, "I'm going to grab a shower-do you need anything?"

Mulder thought a moment. "Mmmm…a new set of lungs?"

Skinner laughed. "I'll see what I can do." He pressed a kiss to his lover's brow and left the room. Mulder slid down under the covers, put aside the painkillers and found the remote.

He jerked awake with a groan and a cough when he heard the bathroom door open, and thought that if he'd known just how good a cure "Roswell" could be for his sleeplessness, he'd have started watching it years ago.

Skinner approached the bed in nothing more than a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, a look which Mulder did not fail to appreciate, even if he wasn't feeling quite up to his usual party games. He managed a half-hearted leer and whispered. "Ooh, that's hot…"

His lover gave him a stern though indulgent look and sat down on the bed next to him.

"Don't think for a moment that I'm not sorely tempted, Fox," he said. "It's been a long time-too long."

Mulder felt himself blushing under the unexpected compliment.

"But," Skinner continued, "Do you really think you want to try anything that athletic while your lungs are still doing their corned beef impression?"

"It's not that bad," Mulder argued weakly, the harsh whisper of his tone giving away the lie.

"And besides that, despite my love for your new dog-sled pulling voice, I think I'd miss your usual vocalizations." He grinned suddenly and, in an eerily perfect imitation of his lover, cried out "Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh Walter!"

"Asshole," But he was smiling when he said it.

"Why don't we see what the morning brings? And in the meantime…" Skinner pushed back the covers, revealing Mulder's bare chest and stomach. The younger man shivered, and Skinner held out a small octagonal glass jar for him to see.  Tiger Balm. 

"Roll over," Skinner's low tone turned the order into something more loving and less military, and Mulder complied.

He groaned at the first touch of Skinner's large hands on his back, and immediately felt the tingle of the analgesic liniment as Skinner began rubbing it into his skin. Tendrils of heat stole under his skin, through his muscles and into his lungs, opening and soothing them, and he took his first deep breath without coughing in over a week.

Skinner worked over every inch of available skin, from his neck and shoulders to the base of his spine. Strong blunt fingers worked out stress-related kinks and knots even as they stroked in the strong liniment.

A kiss brushed his hair and a finger tapped his shoulder and he rolled bonelessly onto his back, offered his lover a sleepy smile, and was given a soft kiss for his efforts. He felt a stirring in his groin but wastoo lazy to do anything about it.

Skinner repeated the thorough massage on his front, working more balm into his throat, his chest and his stomach. His touch was lighter now, as Mulder relaxed fully under his ministrations, but still as relentless, stroking and petting and kneading until he realized that Mulder had fallen asleep.

Skinner stood up then and replaced the covers over his lover's body. He took a moment to shut off the bedroom light, but left the television on, knowing Mulder preferred it and figuring he could live with it for one night. He set his glasses on the nightstand and slid under the duvet next to Mulder. Turned to gaze myopically at the man next to him, run a hand through his hair and touch the side of his face. A kiss on the forehead, and when he leaned back, Mulder followed him, still mostly asleep, but aware enough to curl up with his head on Skinner's chest and long arms and legs wrapped around the older man. Skinner slipped an arm around his back to support him, and got a sleep muddled sound and a sigh for his efforts. He closed his eyes and didn't let himself think about what would have happened if they hadn't been able to save "his boy". Just before sleep claimed him, he thought he heard Mulder murmur
something like "…jsh wait…morning…"