Mulder continued to pound on the thick steel door of the office even as Frohike was unlocking the various deadbolts, chain locks and padlocks that kept the Lone Gunmen feeling safe. 

“All right, Mulder, keep yer shorts on.” He pulled open the door and Mulder nearly knocked him over as he dashed into the dingy warehouse that housed all that the public had a right to know. Langly glanced up briefly from his computer game, Jimmy approached the door, and Byers set aside the article he was editing.

“I’m in trouble, guys!” Mulder gasped, and Frohike wondered if the man had run all the way here from his apartment in Alexandria. He hoped not, as that could lead to a charley horse, and they were fresh out of Watkins.

“What is it, Mulder?” Byers glanced past Mulder, trying to get a glimpse of the army that might be chasing his friend. All he saw was Frohike re-locking the door.

“You have to let me stay here for a while.”

Langly didn’t even look up from the computer, where he was currently taking out a mess of zombie orc marines with his new and improved sword of wounding “Why, did Scully find out you’ve had her ova in your desk drawer all this time?”

“Worse.”

“Oh, man!” exclaimed Jimmy, “Were you probed by aliens?” Mulder never had told him about the ‘nose thing’, or the ‘big one’, and he was as much curious as concerned. 

Only Frohike noticed the blush that crept up Mulder’s cheeks when he replied, “Uh, not exactly…”

“Mulder, calm down and tell us what this is all about.” Frohike pushed the taller man into one of the various mismatched chairs that added more clutter than class to the office. 

“I just need a place to lay low for a couple of days,” said Mulder.

“Why?” asked Byers.

“What kind of trouble are you in, man?” asked Frohike.

“I am not giving up my bed,” declared Langly.

Jimmy gave him his best exasperated look. “Shut up, Langly! The man could be in a real world of hurt here.” He looked back at Mulder, and his tone became suddenly suspicious. “Hey, man, you’re crying!” He reached out a hand, and Mulder slapped it away, then wiped his eyes.

“I am not!” he sounded scandalized by the very notion, and swiped at his eyes again.

Frohike squatted down next to Mulder. “Tell us what’s going on, Mulder,” he said in a soft voice.

Byers put a hand on Mulder’s shoulder. “You can trust us.”

“What the hell was I thinking?” Mulder muttered. He took a deep breath. “I—I…”

The Gunmen all leaned forward expectantly, and even Langly put the orc invasion on hold to hear what Mulder had to say. 

“I told Walter I loved him tonight.” There was a sad note of fatality in Mulder’s tone.

Dead silence greeted this statement for a moment. Then a snort. Then a giggle, cut off abruptly, and Langly immediately ran from the room, clapping his hand over his mouth to stifle braying laughter. Then silence again. Mulder put his face in his hands, and Jimmy and Byers shared a relieved smile, but Frohike still looked concerned.

“Guys, this is serious.”

Jimmy put on his serious face.

“Of course you can stay here, Mulder,” Byers said, moving closer to Jimmy and sneaking an arm around the big man’s waist. “In fact, I insist that you use my room.”

Jimmy’s serious face turned into Jimmy’s I’m-getting-lucky-tonight face.

“Come on, buddy, I’ll hook ya up.” Frohike tugged on Mulder’s arm, and dragged him off to the rooms behind the office. As they passed the first door, they could hear muffled whoops of laughter emanating from it. Frohike paused long enough to slam one gloved hand against the door, making it shudder.

“Put a sock in it, Blondie!” he yelled. Then he continued leading Mulder down the hall to Byers room. Mulder was not surprised to find the small room was compulsively neat, and he had a stray thought of Skinner, which set him to sniffling again.

Frohike pushed him down on a single bed covered by a blanket pulled tight enough to bounce quarters off of. 

“Okay, Mulder, now that we’re alone…” Frohike said. Mulder gave him a startled glance.

“What?” He drew back mistrustfully as Frohike moved forward, severely invading his personal space.

“Now you’re going to tell me what’s so bad about telling the Skinman how you feel about him.” Frohike was glaring at him now, and Mulder wasn’t sure how to reply. Suddenly, a football jersey the size of a vehicle tarp hit him in the side of the head.

“Wha-fuck?” He uncovered himself from the shirt and held it up, noting the name BOND in capital letters on the back above the number 69. He didn’t recognize the green and white team colours, or the logo either, and he turned to the doorway, where Jimmy was grinning sheepishly at him.

“Saskatchewan Roughriders,” he said by way of explanation. “CFL. They haven’t won a game since 1991. I have a soft spot for underdogs.” He and Frohike shared a look, then he added, “I thought you might need something to sleep in.”

Mulder looked at the jersey again, thought that he and Walter could probably both sleep comfortably in it, then smiled wistfully and said, “Thanks, Jimmy.”

Jimmy beamed at him. “All right then. Have a good night. Breakfast is at nine. Hope you like pancakes.” He disappeared down the hall.

“Okay, Mulder, no more fooling around. What happened?”

“I told you, Melvin.” Mulder stood up and began to pace. “I didn’t mean to say anything. It just sort of slipped out.”

“I’m guessing you two weren’t just holding hands and talking.” Frohike tried to resolve his mind’s image of the porno king of Virginia with the miserable blushing man in front of him, and was having a hard time of it. 

“Listen, Mulder,” he continued. “Lots of things get said in the heat of the moment, as it were. Hell, you should have been here last week. Byers accidentally called Jimmy ‘Marilyn’ at a rather delicate juncture.”

Mulder laughed, and Frohike joined in a minute later, adding, “Yeah, breakfast was a treat that day, let me tell you.” He immediately turned serious again. “But, Mulder, what’s the big deal? I know Walt. He’s never going to be a swinging party animal, but he’s a good man. And good for you. Now tell me what’s so wrong with loving a man like that?”

“I told Samantha I loved her all the time.” 

For a minute Frohike didn’t make the connection, but almost immediately he understood what Mulder was saying. He was all set to argue the issue, but let Mulder finish his point first.

“’Course, all that did was make Dad call me a pansy every time he heard me.”

“Swell fella,” Frohike muttered.

“I even told Scully I loved her.” Mulder continued. “And look what happened with that whole alien-abducting, ova sucking, bee stinging, heart-ripping, sister killing, cancer causing mess!”

Frohike had heard enough. “Listen buddy,” he exclaimed, pushing Mulder back onto the bed forcefully. “I don’t know what ego-planet you just arrived from, but if you think that you are responsible for everything that isn’t sunshine and roses in the lives of the people you know, then you need to seriously re-evaluate the world and your importance in it!”

Mulder just stared at him.

“Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Doom and Gloom, that bad things happen to good people once in a while, and that maybe they’d happen with or without you?”

“But—“

Frohike was on a roll now. “But nothing! The only thing that makes a difference is that you were one of the good things in the midst of all the crap. You *are* one of the good things. And your loving someone can only be a good thing.” He emphasized his words with a little shake of Mulder’s shoulders, and then stepped back with a small frown of self-disgust. “Now look at this—you’ve got me talking like Martha Stewart, for God’s sake!”

Mulder smiled at that, and in a quiet voice said, “I don’t think anyone will ever mistake you for Martha Stewart, Melvin.”

“Mulder, you can stay here, tonight. But I want you to consider what’s happened, and what you think is going to happen. We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.” He walked over to the door, paused a moment, and said, “Like I said, Mulder. He’s a good man. A strong man. And hey, maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way. Did ya ever think about that?” And he left the room.

Mulder considered that for a moment. Fretted over it for a moment more. Tried out panic, but it wasn’t his style. Went back to considering. Finally had to admit to himself that he had acted rashly, and that despite it’s end-of-the-world repercussions, maybe Frohike was right. That in itself was cause for more consideration. Finally he looked down at the shirt in his hands, had a stray thought about Jimmy and Byers that made him smile, frown and blush, all at the same time, then stood up from the bed and went in search of the bathroom.

***

He returned to the bedroom some time later, having found a place to shower. Just wearing a towel, he tossed his sweaty t-shirt and pants into a corner of the room, realized just what Byers would think of that, decided that the last thing on Byers mind tonight would be the feng shui of his bedroom, and ignored the urge to pick up the clothes and fold them. Instead he reached for the jersey Jimmy had given him, shook his head as he held it up to himself, then slipped the garment over his head, thinking that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Mulder was no Kimmy the Geek, but he wasn’t wearing twenty pounds of football padding either, and the jersey hung from his shoulders almost down to his knees. The sleeves of the shirt draped well past his wrists, and he pushed them up, trying to find his hands. A shift of his hips, and the towel dropped from under the shirt, and he turned to consider himself in the mirror.

On a cheerleader it might have been a sexy look. He just felt slightly ridiculous, although he couldn’t completely dispel the warm feeling of comfort that he got from the oversized shirt, and his thoughts wandered back to the big man in his life, and what had happened tonight. He did love Walter Skinner. And the concept terrified him. He wished fervently that he could just rewind the evening to that point in time, when he’d let his feelings slip. Why couldn’t he have found something else to say? Something safer. Something no less truthful, but far less personal. 

“You could have just said “Fuck me hard, Skinman!”” he told his reflection.

“I thought that’s what I was doing.”

Mulder whirled at the sound of Walter Skinner’s voice, to find his lover standing in the doorway, a cautious but hopeful smile on his face.

“Oh, crap,” the words came out in a choked little whisper. “How--?”

“Langly called me. He said he was worried about you.”

Mulder simultaneously forgave Langly for his earlier laughter, and squelched the urge to find the blonde hacker and pull his lungs out through his nose.

Skinner entered the room hesitantly, grinning a little more now, but still choosing his words carefully.

“That’s a good look for you. All you’re missing are the pom-poms and the “I just did the quarterback” afterglow.”

Mulder gave him a sour look. “So would that make you the captain of the team, then?”

“I hope so.” He moved a little closer to Mulder, regarded him seriously, backed off a little and then moved in touching-close.

Mulder backpedaled. Skinner followed him.

“Please talk to me, Fox,” he said quietly, closing the distance between them. Mulder gritted his teeth and stood his ground. Skinner raised a hand, pressed it softly to his lover’s chest and felt the nervous staccato heart beat of a scared man.

Mulder didn’t move away, but couldn’t find words either. He just stared solemnly at Skinner, who gazed back with just as much intent. The hand on his chest stroked the worn warm garment almost compulsively. Mulder found himself instinctively leaning into the strong touch.

“Did I do something wrong, Fox?” Skinner’s words caught Mulder off-guard.

“What? Walter, no! It’s me-I-“ He paused.

“I must have done something to make you want to spend the night here at Casa del Stooges. Tell me what it was.” When no answer was immediately forthcoming, Skinner took his hand away from Mulder’s chest, reached down and slid the same hand under the hem of the shirt, pushing it up enough to rest his fingertips on the bare flesh of Mulder’s thigh.

Mulder sighed, and Skinner upped the ante, making slow deliberate circles with his hand. Mulder lifted his arms to put them around the older man’s neck, and the sleeves flapped when he moved. They shared a smile at that, and Mulder felt a little bit safe.

“Walter,” he kept his voice low, as though every word were a state secret. “Tonight, when we—when I—that is—“

“Did I hurt you?” Skinner suddenly frowned, concerned. “I thought you were all right. I mean, we’ve done it that way before, and you never said—that is,” Man of action that he was, Skinner found himself stumbling over his words. It was one thing to do it, another thing entirely to talk about it. But he persevered regardless, clumsy but determined to find out how they had gone from “that was great—be right back” to “yeah, you better get over here, your lover’s freaking out.”

“What I mean to say, Fox,” he continued, still holding Mulder close. “is that you seemed to enjoy it as much as me. You even said—“He stopped, eyes widening behind his glasses, as he recalled just what Mulder had said. “Oh, Fox…” he murmured.

Mulder just blushed and looked miserable.

Skinner pulled his hand away, pulled Mulder’s arms from around his neck, pulled back from the other man. Taking hold of the collar of the shirt, he dragged Mulder roughly over to the bed and pushed him down on it, then crouched down in front of him, found his hands in the draped length of the sleeves of the jersey and squeezed them tightly.

“I’m not your sister,” he said. “I’m not Scully.” 

Mulder opened his mouth to protest and Skinner cut him off.

“I’m not a Riticulan that the powers that be are going to shoot in some international conspiracy of silence.”

He almost got a smile for that one.

“I’m not even the ghost of Elvis, despite what you may have heard coming from the shower the other day.”

He did get a smile then, and he stood, still holding Mulder’s hands tightly enough to bring the other man up with him.

“I’m your lover, emphasis on the ‘love’ part. In case you hadn’t noticed, and really, Fox, you’re usually a better profiler than this--I love you.” He felt Mulder shiver in his grip, knew he’d hit the mark, and pressed on. “If I didn’t say it before, well, I’m saying it now.” Again, Mulder started to say something, and Skinner pressed a hard kiss to his mouth. “Maybe I didn’t say it because I was scared of the repercussions. But look—“ He paused, holding Mulder’s gaze, and said it again, very slowly. “I…love…you…” Silence for a moment, and then he grinned. “You will note, please, that the world has not ended. The heavens have not fallen. Hell, I didn’t even get struck by lightning.” Now he leaned forward and gave his lover a more thorough kiss, hard and demanding and soft and giving, all at the same time, and Mulder was breathing hard when it ended. He was giving Skinner a look that combined the wide-eyed little boy he still harbored inside himself, and the hard-edged cynical profiler he used to protect that little boy. 

Mulder pulled himself close for another kiss and murmured something unintelligible.

Skinner reached up and tangled his fingers in still-damp hair, and pulled him back so they were face to face.

“What was that, Fox?” He pressed carefully, anxiously aware of the battle going on within his lover, but determined to bring about a resolution.

Mulder offered him a half-grin and hugged him tightly, rested his head on Skinner’s shoulder, which had apparently been built for just this occasion, then turned his head just enough that his lips were brushing the other man’s ear. He made Skinner shiver as he whispered softly, but very deliberately: 

“I…love…you…”

Again, the earth remained stubbornly turning on its axis, plagues refused to rain down on them, and Skinner was still standing there as the last word tumbled from his lips.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Skinner replied.

***

Melvin Frohike checked the front door locks for the last time, shut down the office lights, and made his way down the darkened hall to his bedroom with just two small emergency lights to illuminate his passage. He paused at Langly’s door, heard the combined whisper of a running modem and light snoring, and moved on with a smile. The door to Byers’ room was slightly ajar, and he reached for the doorknob to close it, then paused for a moment, and peeked his head in, telling himself it was strictly for security reasons.

The two big men would have been cramped on Byers tiny single bed if they hadn’t been so thoroughly intertwined. Lit only by the glow of Byers American flag nightlight, Frohike could just make out the large form of Walter Skinner, thoroughly naked, if the pile of clothes at the end of the bed was any indication, covered partially by a blanket, and partially by Mulder, who was curled up around the big man. Frohike noticed that he was wearing the football jersey, and that one of Skinner’s hands was lost under its voluminous folds, while the other was holding him around his shoulders. 

He pulled the door shut with a soft click, thinking breakfast was going to be interesting.

Another pause at the last door before his own, and here he heard a rhythmic squeaking that made him grin, soft groans that made him smile more, and then Byers voice, low and strained, but in that good way: “Oh…Jackie…”

Yes, Frohike thought as he walked away, breakfast was going to be *very* interesting.