“Sir, may I speak with you a moment?”

Skinner looked up from the files on his desk, surprised to see Fox Mulder standing in his doorway. He glanced at his watch and realized that he had sent Kim home hours ago, and had lost track of time mired down in paperwork. He looked back up at Mulder.

He looks like hell, he thought.

Mulder was leaning heavily on the doorframe. His eyes were clear, but dark smudges beneath them bespoke of either great fatigue, or an experiment with eyeliner gone horribly wrong, and Skinner didn’t think that Mulder wore makeup.

His suit was clean and pressed, but hung on his slim frame, the shirt looked to be a size too big as well, and his ‘I dress in the dark’ choice of tie was garish even by Mulder’s standards.

Skinner suddenly remembered that Mulder was still on sick leave. He’d been given a week to recuperate from his adventure in the Bermuda Triangle, but apparently he felt that two days was plenty.

Skinner disagreed.

“Agent Mulder,” he said, rising from his chair and moving to greet the younger man. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Mulder smiled lamely. “You can’t keep a good man down, sir,” he muttered. He was still leaning on the doorframe for support, and as Skinner got closer to him, he extended his hand.

“Come in and sit down, Agent Mulder, before you fall down.”

Mulder took his hand and allowed himself to be discreetly guided to one of the two chairs in front of Skinner’s desk.

Skinner remembered having Mulder help him in much the same way after he’d been shot by Luis Cardinal, and then he remembered that he hadn’t taken all of his sick leave either. He put aside his patented ‘you need to take care of yourself’ speech for the time being, and sat on the corner of the desk, looking down at his agent.

“What can I do for you, Mulder?” he asked, not smiling, but rearranging his features into something non-threatening and almost kind.

Mulder rubbed the non-existent bruise on his cheek, concentrated on his shoes, and didn’t reply.

“Should you even be here?” Skinner’s voice held it’s usual surly tone, overlaid with shades of disbelief, but Mulder thought he heard something else there. Something that spoke of caring beyond a supervisor/agent relationship. It was why he was here now, and why he suddenly found himself at a loss for words.

“Fox—“

That got his attention. He looked up at Skinner and saw that a worried frown was creasing his features.

“Are you okay?” Concerned words that soothed him slightly and helped him find his voice.

“I’m fine, sir,” he replied. “I just had something that I needed to ask you. Something about last week.”

Skinner’s mind was suddenly awash with a barrage of images: Arguing with Agent Scully in his office, watching her stalk out angrily, her last words pounding in his head. Then making the calls against all good judgment, getting the information for her, trying to reach her on the phone. The kiss in the elevator…”What you’ve done…for Mulder.” Putting on his best pussy-whipped face for the powers that be on the fifth floor, wanting to wring Kersh’s fat neck the whole time. Still in his office hours later when a hasty phone call from Frohike sent him rushing for the hospital. Stopping at the florist shop on a whim…

He realized that Mulder was staring at him, and he shook off the memories.

“Sorry, Agent. What was it?”

Again there was a pause, just too long to be comfortable, and Mulder renewed his fascination with his shoes. 

“Sir, I just—I wanted to ask you about—I—“ He gave Skinner a mixed look, part anguish, part hope. “Sir, the flowers…?” 

Skinner suddenly found himself blushing, something he reckoned he hadn’t done since around the fifth grade. He opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, then closed it with a snap and looked away from Mulder, towards the cabinet in the corner, where the video recorder sat behind locked walnut doors.

With no hesitation, he stood and moved behind the desk, saying, “Right. I have that information for you, Agent Mulder.”

“Wha-?” Skinner’s odd reaction did nothing to alleviate Mulder’s distress and confusion.

“Right,” Skinner said again as he reached for a pen and a pad of paper. “No problem. Everything is in order.” He scribbled something hastily on the paper, pushed it across the desk. “I think you’ll find this will help your investigation immensely.”

Written on the paper were the words, NOT HERE. MEET ME AT CASEY’S IN ONE HOUR.

Mulder took the note, stood shakily, and locked eyes with the older man.

“Thank you, sir.” He turned without another word and walked slowly out of the room. Skinner’s gaze never wavered until he heard the outer door close. Then he sat down in his chair with an audible sigh, realizing he had less than an hour to figure out what he was going to say to Mulder. How he was going to explain himself. He supposed he would do well to try and explain it to himself, first.

ONE HOUR LATER:

Mulder stood in the bathroom at Casey’s, contemplating his reflection in the spotty vanity mirror and wishing like hell that he’d gotten that satanic nose job he’d been considering a couple of years ago.

‘He won’t show up,’ he thought bitterly, then ran his hands through his short spiky hair, failing to neaten it at all.

Skinner glanced at himself in the rearview mirror of his car, and willed his hair to grow. Immediately, nothing happened, and he shut off the vehicle and got out of it with a sigh.

‘He won’t show up,’ he thought bitterly, then straightened his tie almost without thinking and walked into Casey’s.

He scanned the room and felt his heart sink as he recognized a dozen faces, all of them colleagues, but none of them Mulder.  He took the opportunity to curse his own optimistic stupidity, then, not feeling selfish, took a moment more to think a few dark thoughts about Mulder himself. Not satisfied, he continued his inner monologue as he continued to look around the bar, adding several choice curses for Mulder’s partner and how she’d entangled him in this, the flowers that he hadn’t even planned to buy, and finally, the Christless Bermuda Triangle that had started this whole mess.

“Sir?”

Skinner turned abruptly at the sound of Mulder’s voice and discovered his agent striding quickly up the back hall from the bathroom. A relieved half-grin formed on his face, and he saw it reflected back at him in Mulder’s eyes.

“Agent Mulder, I’m glad you came. I didn’t know—that is—“ he floundered for a moment, then recovered more or less with, “Can I get you a drink?”

“I have one sir. I came right over from the office—I didn’t want you—I mean—Can we sit?”

They stared helplessly at one another for a moment, then with a shrug of what he hoped was supreme indifference, Mulder set off through the throng to the booth he had appropriated for himself at the back of the room.

An untouched bottle of Sam Adams sat on the table, and Mulder’s trench coat lay in a heap on the seat.

Skinner slid into the booth on the other side of the table from Mulder’s coat and drink, shrugged off his own jacket, and a waitress materialized out of the crowd to take his order.

Mulder looked on with envy as Skinner exchanged pleasantries with the girl, made her laugh, and ordered scotch.  He himself had spent most of the time prior to Skinner’s arrival just trying to flag down the same waitress, and when he’d finally managed to order a beer that he didn’t really want in the first place, she’d barely been polite, and hadn’t even thanked him for the tip.

Mulder waited until the waitress had left, then slipped into the booth across from Skinner. He toyed with his beer bottle, but didn’t drink. He studied the label on the bottle as thought it were the Rosetta Stone, while Skinner contemplated the rings of condensation the bottle was leaving on the table, and neither man seemed pre-disposed to talk until Skinner’s drink arrived.

Skinner shared another smile with the waitress, and Mulder wondered if he had ever seen Walter Skinner smile before. Watching a small dimple appear in one of Skinner’s cheeks, he knew he had not; even without his photographic memory, that wasn’t a sight he would have forgotten.

The waitress moved off and Skinner took a sip of his scotch.

“Glenfiddich,” he informed Mulder needlessly.

“Sir…?” Mulder looked back down at his beer bottle, frowned at it, then raised the frown to Skinner’s eye level. “About the flowers…”

“It—uh—they seemed appropriate.”

Mulder snorted and Skinner frowned.

“Sorry, sir. That must be a new definition of appropriate that wasn’t in my copy of Webster’s.”

“I just meant that it’s good form to take flowers if you are visiting someone who is in the hospital.”

“Oh.” 

Skinner thought Mulder sounded disappointed, and he felt like he should say something more. He hesitated, and then chastised himself mentally. Wasn’t that why they were here? So that they might speak freely, away from the office, away from the walls with ears?

“Well, thank you, sir.” A weight seemed to settle on Mulder’s shoulders, making him look even more haggard than when he had first entered Skinner’s office. “Your ‘good form’ was appreciated.” He pushed his beer aside and reached for his coat, mentally cursing himself for his stupid hopes.

Skinner saw that Mulder was intending to leave, and he realized that he’d be taking their one good chance with him.

“Mulder, wait.” He almost reached out for the younger man, then saw he’d gotten his attention without getting physical, and he clutched at his glass instead. “Let me explain.”

“No need, sir. I understand. It was my mistake.” He was speaking through clenched teeth, and Skinner recognized his own defense mechanism in the other man—disguising hurt as anger. And the last thing he had wanted to do tonight was hurt Mulder. Hadn’t he been hurt enough already?

“You weren’t mistaken.” His voice was so low Mulder had to lean forward and strain to hear him. He spoke the words into the depths of his highball, then looked up at Mulder, who was startled by the raw need his saw smoldering in Skinner’s dark eyes.

“Please, Mulder. Sit down.”

Mulder found himself taking his seat, unable to pull his gaze from Skinner’s.

“Sir…”

“You know,” Skinner was still speaking quietly, almost to himself. “You could call me Walter. We’re not in the office. I’m not even your direct supervisor anymore.” Both men flinched, remembering all the trouble that had resulted in Mulder’s current reassignment.

“Hell,” Skinner continued, “Maybe that’s what finally gave me the guts to—“

“Bring me flowers?” Mulder couldn’t help but grin at the ridiculousness of that statement.

Skinner smiled back, the same easy quirk of the lips that he’d offered the waitress, and Mulder was suddenly and selfishly glad that this one was for him.

“Fraternization will definitely be harder to prove now.”

“Is that what we’re doing, sir—Walter?”

“Well, maybe not yet, but I’m hoping that’s where we’re headed.” The smile remained intact, but Mulder read something more serious is Skinner’s eyes, and he realized that beneath the gruff, assured words, the older man was floundering, maybe just as badly as he himself was. Somehow this comforted him, and he said, “I was pretty out of it when you came to the hospital.”

“I don’t doubt it. From the reports, it sounds like you nearly swallowed half the Atlantic.”

“I had to ask Scully where the flowers came from,” Mulder continued. “I knew the roses were from her—yellow for friendship, you know—and I knew the generic “get-well-soon –so-we-can-give-you-more-shit-work” bouquet was from the bureau.” A pause, a creased brow. “But the wildflowers had me stumped. No card.” He tried sipping his now warm beer, felt the small taste settle like a rock in his stomach, and pushed the bottle away again.

“You were awake when I brought them.” Skinner finished his scotch and signaled to the waitress for another. “I thought you knew. You were talking to all of us. Of course, Langly said you were delirious, but he’s never had to listen to any of your 302 requests. How was I supposed to know he was right?” He gave Mulder a teasing grin, and the younger man added it to his growing collection of Skinnersmiles, a list he couldn’t have imagined even existing just an hour ago. Then he realized Skinner was speaking again. 

“So Scully told you they were from me?” 

“Yeah. She thought the gesture was odd but sweet. Of course, that’s her general opinion of me, as well.” He shrugged a little self consciously, and Skinner thought Scully’s opinion was spot-on.

“How odd did she think it was, Mulder?” he asked, suddenly concerned about the perceptive nature of Mulder’s partner, and what she might have made of the situation—or more importantly, who she might have told.

“Pretty odd,” Mulder said. “But we’ve talked about you.”

“Oh?” Skinner raised an eyebrow. The waitress brought him a fresh scotch, and they waited until she was gone to continue their conversation.

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with the implications of that, Mulder,” Skinner said, picking up his new drink.

“I have no secrets from Scully,” Mulder replied, quickly and defensively. “I trust her completely.” ‘And you better, too’ was the implied end of the sentence, and although neither one of them had come right out and said “Dana Scully knows we’re hot for each other but she’s not telling!”, Skinner felt better hearing Mulder’s affirmation of trust in his partner.

“So, Agent Scully thought that the flowers were odd. Not surprising, I suppose, but the real question here, Mulder, is what did you think?” Skinner sat back with his drink, sipping nonchalantly and trying to appear cool as he waited for Mulder’s reply.

Mulder didn’t answer right away. He thought back to the exact moment that he’d asked Scully about the flowers, and her somewhat sarcastic response:

“Those delicate blossoms, my friend, are courtesy of one obviously not-so-surly assistant director.”

He remembered blushing, something he never did, and Scully teasing him about an office affair. He’d been unable to rise to the bait, though, and it didn’t take her long to get serious.

“Maybe he likes you,” she had suggested.

He’d laughed derisively

“Okay, maybe he wants to get laid.”

This made him roll his eyes.

“All right then, smart guy, what’s your theory?” she’d demanded.

He’d shrugged then, unable to imagine why the hell Walter Skinner had bought him flowers. He couldn’t imagine Skinner harboring any loving feelings for him, even if he felt that way about the older man.

After Scully had left him for the night, he’d spent a long time just smiling stupidly at that paper spill of flowers, letting the emotions they evoked wash over him and thinking that it was enough. Even if nothing came of it, even if they never spoke of it. He’d fallen asleep feeling comforted and at peace.

And woken with a million questions poised on his lips. He wanted it to be enough, and he couldn’t. It was a blessing and a curse, this desperate need in him to pursue the truth, and he knew that his disappointments were as frequent as his victories whenever he crossed the line, forcing others to confront the truth of a situation, no matter the consequences. But he couldn’t imagine life any other way, and when he thought about those flowers again, and what they could mean, he knew he had to press. And if this particular sleeping dog had a bite worse than it’s bark, well, so be it. At least he’d know.

When he’d gone to Skinner’s office, feeling like crap and probably looking it, too, he’d expected to be soundly rebuffed, maybe mocked, even, but it hadn’t deterred him.

And now here they were. No one had bitten, or even barked for that matter. And Skinner wanted to know what he thought of the flowers.

“They were a surprise,” he said hesitantly. “A pleasant one to be sure, but shocking nevertheless.”

“Why such a surprise?” Skinner sounded somewhere between dismayed and relieved. “Surely you must have had some idea…” He trailed off thinking of all the giveaways in the past: too many lingering looks; pats on the back that turned into strokes; approving all those crazy 302s…

“No, sir—Walter.” ‘Old habits die hard’, he thought. “Not a clue. How could I?” Before Skinner could reply, he started ticking off points on his fingers. “Supervisor…former Marine…boxer…married!”

Skinner chuckled ruefully, as much at Mulder’s accurate description of his duplicity as at his own confused status.

“Fair enough,” he said. “So I guess that makes us even.”

“You didn’t suspect?” Mulder looked skeptical. “I thought office gossip had me firmly entrenched in the Judy Garland fan club.”

“Mulder, I keep an ear to the ground, as you may or may not be aware, and I have to tell you that the most persistent rumours about you tend to center on which employee bathroom you and your pretty little partner are favoring for a quick round of Hide The Salami this month.”

“Christ!” Mulder looked more disgusted than amused, but Skinner thought he saw a gleam in those changeable hazel eyes. After a moment, Mulder gave him a level look and asked, “So…?”

“So, what?”

“So, which bathroom are we using?”

Skinner laughed, then soberly announced, “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

They both laughed at that, and Skinner felt an absurd urge to reach out and take Mulder’s hand. Before he could move, Mulder beat him to it. It was a brief motion, just a quick touch of Mulder’s palm over the back of his hand, and then it was gone, and he saw that Mulder was scanning the room, trying to see if anyone had noticed. 

As paranoid as Skinner sometimes thought Mulder was, he thought his caution now was perfectly legitimate, especially in light of his own compromised situation at work, and he suddenly had an idea of how important this had to have been to the man to make him confront him on it in the office the way he had. Some of his awkwardness seem to fall away at this revelation, and he finished his drink in one quick swallow, then gazed frankly at Mulder.

“Well, I’ve done the flowers, and the drinks. If I offer you dinner and a movie, do I have a chance?”

Mulder smiled, but it seemed sad to him somehow.

“Dinner and a movie, huh? Let me see…” He pulled an invisible day minder out of the air and flipped imaginary pages. “Oh, look, I can pencil you in here between ‘no life’ and ‘playing with myself’.”

“That sounds just about right. For both of us.” Skinner risked brushing his own hand across the back of Mulder’s, and the younger man sighed noisily.

“Dinner and a movie…I can’t even think of the last time I…”the words trailed off and he stood up abruptly. Skinner stood with him, let him collect his coat and his thoughts, then, summoning up all his courage, he leaned in close to Mulder and whispered,

“I have a DVD player and a dozen take-out menus at home.”

Mulder froze, staring wide-eyed at the other man.