Chapter 2-Angry
“Cry when you cry, run when you run
Love when you love
Represent the ashes
That you leave behind.”

Out on the porch, he practiced frowning, pretended to read and drank his tea. The night was warm and fragrant with the first hints of fresh green grass and flowers. Skinner listened to cars in the distance, birds and crickets in the yard, and the hum of static interference around the perimeter caused by his security system.

Just before the time specified, Skinner stood with a huge stretch (“kitty stretch”, Mulder would have said) and a jaw-cracking yawn, both as real as a Fiji Mermaid.  He picked up book, glass and phone, and slipped into the house. He readjusted the blinds, locked the doors and windows, and walked into the bedroom, shutting off all the lights as he went.  His heart was thudding quickly and painfully in his chest, as if a massive coronary and wishful thinking had made a baby there.

He was still juggling the stuff from outside in his hands, and when the book fell to the floor as he toed off his shoes, he ignored it.  He managed to fumble the glass onto the cedar nightstand, and it immediately fell over and dumped the last mouthful of tea onto the floor. He ignored that too, flopped himself belly first onto the bed.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened his eyes and began hammering numbers into the phone. A 1-800 number first. He paused long enough to hear the word ‘hello’ droned into his ear by a simulated sexy woman’s voice, then stabbed down on the buttons again, a ten digit pass code this time, hoping he got it right. Again he cut the automatic voice off before it could even start explaining what he was doing, or how many minutes he had to do it in. He pushed one, and then an area code that he thought might be southern, but he wasn’t sure. For a panic-inducing moment he blanked on the rest of the number, sucked in air with a gasp, fired off neurons, found the number and nearly misdialed in his haste and relief.

“Thank you for calling Dial A Fuck,” a sultry pre-recorded voice said. “Your credit is-“ a recorded pause-“approved”—another pause—“for the next”—again the pause, while a non-existent person seemed to gather his thoughts—“fifteen minutes.” This last was announced in a disjointed voice an octave lower than the original. Then the original voice came back:

“For beautiful blondes, press one…”

He rolled his eyes.

“For fiery redheads, press two…”

He had a brief but intensely filthy thought about Scully and almost smiled.

“For well-hung puppies, press three…”

“Shit.” His vision blurred without warning as he pressed the three key on the phone with none of the violence he’d displayed earlier.

Several beeps and whirs later, sounds he recognized as scrambling devices working overtime, and then a blessedly recognizable whispering voice:

“What are you wearing?”

“Oh, shit,” he said again, his tone weak, feeling watery relief and unsure if he should laugh, cry or wet himself.

“Nope,” Mulder replied casually, “For scat you need a whole different extension.” His voice dropped suddenly, and there was no mistaking the emotion that thickened his tone. “You okay, big guy?”

“I am now. You?”

“So far, so good. At least I’m not being beaten or gang raped, so things are definitely looking up.”

Before Skinner could ask him what the hell he meant by that, he added, “We’re both fine—still moving…still believing…”

“Of course you are,” Skinner forced false buoyancy into his voice. “I’m still really popular here, but despite that, I’m not getting any. So what are *you* wearing?”

A surprised snort of laughter on the other end, and then: “Jeez, big guy! Do you have any idea how much iced tea burns when inhaled?”

“That’s hot,” Skinner deadpanned.

“That’s me,” replied brightly.

Skinner glanced at his watch. “What can you tell me?”

“Not much. You’re safe for now—“ no mistaking the relief in his voice. “They think you’re either a drunkard or a fool, and they expect us there any day now.”

“Both,” replied Skinner, “and I wish.”

“Sit tight. Let ‘em watch. Hell, give ‘em a show.”

“I’ll jerk off on the porch.”

That snort of laughter again, and a “smart ass” in a voice so full of emotion that the insult became a loving endearment. Then abruptly, he was serious again.

“Can you tell the guys that they’re half-compromised? They need to move.”

“Done.” Skinner didn’t question him. Didn’t dare ask how he came by that information either—knowing would only make the situation that much more dangerous.

“Here’s an email account you need to set up. Do it somewhere else. They’re watching your hard drive a little too closely.”

Skinner grinned and knew he’d have no problem remembering the address.

“How’s the short term?” Mulder asked.

Skinner understood. “Good enough. Tell me.”

Mulder began reciting numbers in a smooth voice only slightly less mechanical than the sexy girl who’d opened the conversation, and yet his voice was still familiar enough, beloved enough, and Mulder enough that he felt himself growing hard.

“Got it?” Mulder finished.

“Of course I do.” Numbers whirled in his head, and he became aware that time was growing short. He wanted to whine, and some sound did come out of him, but Mulder wouldn’t allow it.

“I know,” he replied to the question not asked, “I don’t know how long. I won’t kid you though—it’s killin’ me.”

Throwing caution to the wind in light of Mulder’s confession, Skinner opened his mouth to say:

“I luh—“

And they were cut off. Apparently their fifteen minutes were over.

“Dammit!” Even as Skinner was cursing and wishing for just one more moment, he was sitting up, reaching for a pen and a paper from the nightstand, making notes, hastily scribbling numbers that wanted to escape his memory. He found himself muttering aloud as he wrote: “…I love you puppy. I should have said give Scully a hug for me…I wish you were here…I should have gotten more…I wish I knew where you were…I wish you were here…”

He took his newfound information, stashed it in the kitchen with the last batch, and felt too wired to sleep. He toyed briefly with the idea of going outside and doing as he had told Mulder he would, but decided his brief stint as a dancing queen was enough to make them nervous, never mind the kind of attention he’d garner if he whipped out his piece right there on the front step.

The situation was more dangerous now, for him, for his lover, for his lover’s partner. But he wouldn’t have changed a second of it. He knew that he could go for months more now, just on the strength of that brief exchange. Something that had been cold and dead in him was revived, knowing that his lover was alive, and if not well, at least whole, and still fighting the future, in order to build a new one. One that he would be a part of. All he had to do was keep his head.

A sudden yawn, this one not fake at all, caught him off guard, and he realized that he had mistaken an adrenaline rush for true alertness. Wondering if he shouldn’t try to reach the cd delivery boys tonight, warn them as Mulder had asked, he decided that they’d be safe for one more night, and opted instead to go back to the bedroom.

He shucked his clothes, kicking them in the general direction of the hamper, smiling a little when he realized it was a Mulder habit, and fell onto the bed again.  His cock reminded him that he had just heard his lover’s voice, and his mind told his cock there’d be time for that in the morning. He pulled the sheets out from underneath his body, suddenly feeling heavy and lethargic. He wondered if he should set the alarm, and was still debating it when sleep claimed him.