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It's A Fine Day
“It’s going to be a fine night tonight
Fox Mulder awoke disoriented and with a distinct feeling that something in his life had gone terribly, terribly awry. He shifted marginally from where he was lying and felt warm pressure at his back. Taking a moment to process this, he shifted again, and a moment later heard a muzzy groan, and a strong arm was flung around his body, pulling him into that warm pressure again. His eyes opened and he looked down at the arm snaked around his body, the hand attached to the end of it firmly pressed to his stomach. Again a moment for his mind, which appeared to have taken an inexplicable leave of absence without filing the proper requests, and he recognized the hand. Or at least, if he couldn’t put a face to the hand, he knew he could eliminate several, such as Scully, Holly from admin, or the cute waitress at the Starbucks down the street from his apartment. It was a man’s hand. While one part of his mind fixated solely on this fact, the rest of his brain was free to categorize all the other anomalies of this situation. The king-size bed was soft, comfortable and definitely not his couch. The pillow under his head was not the arm of said couch, the navy duvet flung carelessly over his hips was not the old Navajo blanket that resided across the back of said couch. He wasn’t wearing pajamas, which wasn’t unusual; he wasn’t wearing anything, which was. Reality washed over him in a great wave as he turned to face the man who held him, turned to meet wide- awake brown eyes and a tentative smile. “Good morning, Mulder,” said Assistant Director Skinner. “Uh-“ was his intelligent reply. This masterful display of articulation earned him a kiss on the nose and another attempted smile. “It is a good morning, isn’t it?” Skinner scrutinized him carefully. Mulder looked away from that invasive gaze, discovered that this move brought his focus to Skinner’s muscular chest, and rolled away from the other man with a sigh. Skinner let him go, reluctantly, then propped himself up on one arm to continue to stare at him as he stared at the ceiling. “I guess it’s better than waking up in a hotel room in Rhode Island with some old lady’s blood on your shirt, “ he said dryly. “I’m sure,” replied Skinner, adopting Mulder’s dry tone, not sure where this was going, knowing only where he wanted it to go, but opting to follow the younger man’s lead at this critical juncture. Another sigh, and Mulder scrubbed a hand across his face, still trying to multi-task a million things at once, some of them emotional, and having a hard go of it. A silence ensued, not quite comfortable, and then Skinner asked, in an off-handed manner, “Unhappy?” Mulder checked. “No…I don’t think so.” He was feeling a thousand things in that moment, some of them alien, most of them good, but couldn’t find the words. “You were crying in your sleep, is why I ask.” Again the casual tone, although Skinner was still staring at Mulder like he was, god forbid, important. A dozen different answers formed in Mulder’s mind, some of them lies, but he felt compelled to tell the truth. “Nightmares. I get them once in a while. No big deal.” He tried to dismiss them. Skinner couldn’t allow it. He had to know where this was going, how the other man was feeling, what was going to happen next. But it wouldn’t be easy, and he knew the only way he could get Mulder to open up was to let him know he didn’t have to. “I have them too.” Mulder risked glancing at the older man, wondering if he was being humoured. He only found calm and kindness in eyes like oak leaves in fall. He looked back up at the ceiling. Skinner reached out a tentative hand to caress Mulder’s chest. When there was no response, positive or negative, he did it again, just lightly brushing his fingers along the fine hair down the center of the younger man’s torso. Mulder caught his hand, curled it into his own, but didn’t speak for a long time. Skinner let him keep his silence, just enjoying the minimal physical contact between them. “I get them a lot,” Mulder finally said. It was a warning, and Skinner’s heart leapt at it. He continued, “Especially when… He stopped, looked at Skinner again, almost smiled, changed his mind, then brought their clasped hands to his mouth, kissed Skinner’s knuckles and let his hand go. “Especially when what?” Skinner’s voice was soft, afraid of prying, of scaring the younger man who had just offered so much, but needing to know. “Especially when my 302’s are denied…sir.” A smile, like a rainbow after the storm, broke through the stony façade. “Smart ass.”
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