Walter Skinner paused a moment outside the apartment to take a deep breath, grimacing at the wet cheese and dog casserole smells which permeated Mulder’s whole building. Someday, he swore to himself, I will get him out of here.

To date, Mulder had been terribly obstinant about his apartment. Walter thought he might have an idea why. It was obvious to even the most disinterested observer that Mulder had been living in apartment 42 probably since the day he’d moved to D.C. to go to Quantico. There was a definite lived-in feel to the place, and not necessarily a good one.

Oh, there’d been some serious effort on the part of cleaners and decorators to keep the tiny apartment in some semblance of organization and good taste, or at least make it feng-shui friendly, but Mulder was having none of it.

Walter knew what was waiting for him on the other side of the door. A tiny one bedroom apartment cluttered and untidy. Not dirty, never that; the maid service got paid well to wash and dust around all the crap that Mulder had accumulated; but definitely in disarray.

Scully said Mulder claimed he could never find anything if he didn’t keep it that way, but Walter wasn’t buying it. He thought it was more of Mulder’s stubbornness, his need to find control where no one else could. Presumably because he felt so much of real life was beyond his control.

Of course, Mulder was the psychologist, not him, but, hey, he hadn’t gotten to the Assistant Director’s office on good looks alone, and he figured that after five years, he knew the man pretty well.

Not that Walter had offered. Oh, sure, he’d be lying if he said that a stray thought of a cozy cabin for two hadn’t crossed his mind once or twice in the time that he’d been sleeping with Fox Mulder. But he’d never voiced the thoughts aloud. He didn’t know if he was just a convenience for Mulder, a father figure, an easy lay, a sounding board for a million ideas, over half of them insane. And until he could be sure of where he stood, he had no intention of crossing a line.

He knocked, once. When no answer was forthcoming, he rapped on the door again, a little harder, causing the 4 in 42 to wobble a bit.

“Coming.”

The deadbolt and chain were unlocked after a moment in which Walter knew he was being scrutinized through the spyhole. Welcome to Casa Del Paranoia, he thought, then quickly admonished himself as he realized that the man now standing before him with dark wary eyes and a stark white bandage wrapped around his head had all the reasons in the world and then some to be paranoid. What was the old joke? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you? Well, the evidence of impromptu and hardly elective brain surgery that Mulder was currently sporting was incontravertible proof that someone, somewhere was indeed out to get him.

“Walter.” Mulder looked absurdly pleased to see him, and maybe just a little surprised. “Come in. I was just—uh—“ He stood frozen for a moment, eyes focused somewhere past Walter’s left shoulder. A few seconds later, animation returned to his face, and he said, “coffee. Making some. I—“ He glanced at Walter’s confused frown, and flushed dully. “Damn. I just did my Rainman impression again, didn’t I?” He stepped back, still talking, indicating that Walter should enter the apartment. “Sorry. My doctor’s still not sure who did what. I mean, everything seems fine, but then I have all these weird little tics; zoning out like I did now, aphasia sometimes—I think ‘green’ and say ‘dog’—headaches, nausea, insomnia—not like that’s such a new thing—“

“Don’t forget reading people’s minds,” Walter interrupted his rant gently.

“Oh.” The blush rose on Mulder’s cheeks again, and he suddenly found something on his feet to study intently. The silence spun out between the two men, uncomfortable, but for all the right reasons.

Mulder finally looked up at Skinner and said,

“I don’t do that anymore.”

“Good.”

“Still want that coffee?”

“Of course I do.”

“Sit.” Mulder wandered away towards the kitchen, and Walter took a moment to appreciate the view, then turned towards the couch, and by the time Mulder returned with two steaming mugs in his hands, he had tossed off both his coat and suit jacket, and was rolling up his shirt sleeves.

Mulder handed him a cup with a teddy bear on the side and the caption “I can’t BEAR cold coffee” written on it. At the amused look he gave it, Mulder grinned and said “it was a gift.”

“Scully?”

“Scully’s mom.”

“Ah.”

Mulder sat down in the chair on the desk, not bothering to turn the thing around, so his legs were spread, and he leaned casually on the back of it. Sipped his coffee, burned his mouth, and said, “It’s been a while.”

“I know.” Walter kept his eyes glued firmly to the teddy bear. “I was going to come to—come by the—I wanted to see you sooner, but…” his words ground to a halt, and he looked up at Mulder miserably.

“I should have done something!” he blurted out suddenly. “I could have—this never would have happened if—“

“Woah! Hey, big guy, where the hell did that come from?” Mulder interrupted, standing abruptly and nearly spilling his coffee.

“You know how I—what I was facing!” Skinner stood as well, almost shouting. “I let him fuck you over! I was spineless. And I know you saw it in me.” He sagged, the final words falling defeated like dust from his mouth. “You saw it.”

Mulder moved towards the older man, slipped round the coffee table to stand beside him, and pulled him down on the couch as he sat. He took Skinner’s face in his hands, and turned the troubled man around to face him.

“Walter. I know what I saw when I read your mind.” He grasped Skinner’s hands in his own. They were cold, and he rubbed them softly, not speaking for a moment. 

Skinner’s eyes traveled back and forth between the bandage on Mulder’s head, and his hands wrapped in Mulder’s large ones.

“I know you are compromised. It’s not your fault.” Mulder continued, his voice soft and thoughtful. “I don’t blame you for any of this. You gotta know that.”

A shrug, a shift of shoulders, that said more about how much Skinner agreed with Mulder’s assessment than any argument might.

Mulder jerked his hands away from Skinner’s abruptly. Brought them up to his face again. Stroked his cheeks. Skinner tried to look away, but Mulder held him fast.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I thought this was a sex thing. A getting off thing, if you’ll pardon the expression. Without strings, without questions. You know, one of those extreme possibilities that I’m always on the look out for.” He smiled then and Walter returned the grin weakly. “I should have known, though,” he continued. “I should have at least suspected that there was more to the story than sticky sheets two or three nights a week.” Another pause, and he brushed one hand over the bandage on his head in a trembling distracted manner that concerned Walter.

“Oh, Fox,” he muttered. Abruptly he stood, pulling away from the one hand Mulder still had on him. “Maybe I should go.”

“Sit down!” Mulder snapped suddenly, and Walter was so surprised by his sharp tone of voice that he obeyed without realizing it, and let Mulder interlace their fingers.

Skinner ignored Mulder’s apologetic grin, and instead made note of his disheveled state; the dark smudges under his too bright eyes, the way a fine sheen of perspiration was forming on his forehead and upper lip, and he wondered again just what had happened to his agent, and more importantly, how much of it had been a result of his own actions. Or inaction.

“Walter, look at me.” Mulder’s voice was softer now, but the words still held the strength of a military command, and Walter’s eyes went to his unwillingly.

Mulder took a deep breath. Sighed shakily. “I’m going to get up in a minute and get us coffee. We’re going to drink it like two civilized men, like friends. Hell, we might even watch a little TV, or something radical like that. And between us, Walter, there will be no hidden agendas, no unsolvable mysteries. X will definitely not mark the spot, and—“ He had another one of those lost moments, and Walter found himself looking into a slack jawed dull eyed face with something like grief, something like horror. The moment passed, and he was sure he could almost feel Mulder pushing himself back up to the surface of himself. The man’s hands tightened painfully on his, and then he was back, picking up the thread of his thought without missing a beat. “—and this is the important one—no one is going to be playing Operation on me.”

He stood then, and his smile was warm and hopeful, yet somehow bewildered and a little sad.

“And we can talk about anything we like, Walter,” he continued. “We can talk about all those things I saw inside of you before—before, when—“ A shrug as he couldn’t think of how to finish the sentence. “We can talk about Krycek.”

Walter startled at the name, suddenly feeling more naked than he’d ever felt with Mulder, even at their most intimate. 

Mulder turned towards the kitchen, still talking. “We can chat about the nanocytes in your blood, and how they got there. We can pontificate at length about tapes—the MJ kind, as well as the garden variety VHS type. And we can debate the pros and cons of this relationship all night if we want.” At the doorway to the kitchen he stopped and turned back to Walter, who was clenching his jaw and looking vaguely sick. He smiled.

“We can talk about it all—everything I saw in your mind.” 
Tears shone in his eyes.

“Because I love you, too, Walter.”