***

Mulder stayed four days with Scully.

He awoke after that horrible night to find Skinner lying fully clothed next to him on Scully’s bed, asleep and snoring softly. His fingers were still loosely entwined with Mulder’s.

Scully had been in much the same state on the couch. Mulder smiled lovingly at her and wiped drool away from the corner of her mouth. He pulled an old afghan off of the back of the couch and draped it over her.

He left a note and went for a run, and when he came back, Scully was waiting, looking tousled and sweet, with coffee and a message from Skinner.

“He’s waiting,” she said.

“I know—did he say that?”

“Well, not in so many words, but—“

He threw one of her own skeptical raised eyebrow looks at her, glad he’d saved it for this occasion. “What did he say?”

“He said-uh-to tell you to pick up the dry-cleaning on your way home.”

Mulder laughed and batted his eyelashes dramatically. “Gosh, Dana, doesn’t my Wally-bear say the sweetest things?”

She laughed at his clowning with a sense of relief at his good humour, then sobered and asked quietly, “When’s the dry-cleaning going to be ready?”

“Thursday,” he replied, and the smile vanished.
 

He spent the next four days in a healing daze, focusing inward with even more than his usual quiet determination. Scully gave him plenty of coffee and plenty of space, and made sure he ate occasionally.

During the day he read, napped, ran and discovered that TV talk shows had really gone downhill.

Suppers with Scully led to sharing information about cases. Files read sitting side by side on the couch, ideas exchanged over coffee or tea (he was discovering a new appreciation for chamomile), and even some cautious discussion about what had happened to him, what it meant and how those involved might be brought to justice.

His nights belonged to Walter Skinner.

Sometimes on line, more often by phone, but with a consistency that was important to both of them.  Mulder suspected that Walter was checking up on him at work via Scully, but he had left the first contact between them to him, and he was grateful for it, for the semblance of control it afforded him.

The first night, Scully had made no comment when he picked up her cordless phone and walked into the bathroom, just given him a smile that felt like a hug of approval, and turned back to her computer and her work.

It had been late, but Skinner answered on the first ring.

They talked a lot, and said little. Mulder told Skinner that Scully was a horrible cook. Skinner told Mulder that Agent Harrison had put in for maternity leave. Mulder told Skinner he’d ran eight km that day, and was thinking of going to the pool tomorrow. Skinner told Mulder he’d skipped the gym that morning, and didn’t think he’d get there the next day either. Mulder told Skinner he’d pick up the dry-cleaning. Skinner told Mulder that would be fine, whenever he could get to it. And finally, Mulder had gone to sleep on the couch, having relinquished the bed to Scully, still hearing Skinner’s final “I love you,” in his head, and wishing he had said more than “good night.”

He said more the next night, during another dusk to dawn phone call that was a little more intimate, though careful, with Mulder feeling his way through his own emotions, and Skinner giving him plenty of room to do so.

By the time he was ready to leave Scully’s, the communication between him and Skinner was nearly complete, and he felt good about going. Scully had played no small part in this, and if she didn’t know how grateful he was by the heart-felt and nearly teary-eyed hug and kiss he’d given her before leaving that afternoon, she was tipped off by the dozen roses that showed up later in the day, bearing a simple white card with “Thank you. M. And S.” on it.
 

Skinner glanced up from the book he was reading when he heard Mulder’s key in the lock. He watched Mulder maneouver his duffle bag and a week’s worth of clean suits through the doorway, lock the door behind him, and finally, look up.  There was a long silence then, which could have been awkward, but which instead was full of love and hope that flew and sparked like breeze-whipped embers between them. At long last, Skinner spoke:

“Pizza tonight—work was shit, and I didn’t feel like cooking.”

“I think we need a new cleaner. I swear that place in Georgetown is ripping us off,” Mulder replied.

Nothing more needed to be said.
 

Mulder stretched out across the long leather couch, draping his legs across Skinner’s lap.

“I think I ate too much”, he groaned, rubbing a hand across his trim stomach.

“Scully didn’t feed you?” Skinner was in fact wholly pleased with the hearty appetite that his lover had displayed tonight, but he didn’t want to make an issue of it.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong; Scully makes a mean tofu burger, but—“ He made a face at the thought, so did Skinner, and they found themselves together in a laugh. Skinner ran a hand over the slim arch of Mulder’s foot, and then tickled the sole, just to hear him laugh again. Mulder squirmed, but didn’t pull away, and Skinner braceleted his ankle with one big hand.

“Well, Mulder, what’s on our agenda for the evening? I’ve got some paperwork that I brought home…”

Mulder’s expression made it clear exactly what he thought of that idea.

Skinner smiled, and next suggested, “We could rent a movie. Or find something on cable.”

“We could.” Mulder agreed non-committally.

“You have a better idea?” Skinner hoped Mulder wouldn’t suggest a run, or a visit to the pool. While he did take great pains to keep himself in shape, Skinner knew he’d always be more of a sparring/lifting kind of guy than an endurance/cardio one. He enjoyed taking long walks with Mulder (even when he spent most of the time pointing out alleged UFO hot spots, or the last known whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa), but he didn’t think he was up to any races tonight. In fact, he thought a nap sounded like the best idea of the night.

“We could go to bed.” Mulder said flatly.

Apparently a nap was the second best idea of the night, Skinner’s mind informed him, and his body heartily concurred, as a rush of lust rippled up his spine, like a mad xylophonist playing a scale.

“We could.” His tone was cautious, but he found himself stroking higher up on Mulder’s leg. “…If you want…”

“I’ve been living at Scully’s for nearly a week, Walter. Believe me…I want.” He found one of his old lecherous grins and gave it to Skinner. Then he pulled his legs away from his lover, sat up with a groan and stood with a stretch. Skinner watched it all without comment, simply content to feel the ember of desire burning steadily in his stomach and all points south, and an equally strong heat banking in the region of his heart.

“Light, locks, all that good stuff?” Mulder asked. When Skinner nodded, Mulder added, “I’ll get the bed warmed up.” Another smile, this one smaller, and he turned towards the stairs.

Skinner took extra time making sure everything was off for the night, wanting Mulder to know that it was his night, and his pace to set. When the last lock was turned, and the VCR programmed to tape the late news, Skinner took the stairs two at a time, unable to keep the foolish grin off of his face.

He found he had to slow his steps as he neared the bedroom. No lights were on. Usually Mulder left the hall light on if he preceded him to bed, or, if Skinner went first, the television in the bedroom was always spilling out elvish blue light, regardless of whether he was watching or not. Mulder had always preferred some sort of light.

The darkness disturbed him a little, but didn’t extinguish his desire. He felt his way down the short hallway, hooked his hand around the entrance to the bedroom, and fumbled for the light switch on the wall.

“No lights, p-please.” Mulder stuttered over the last word, and they both heard it. Skinner saw Mulder wince from his place under the covers, and then he was flicking the switch again, plunging the room into darkness.

He made his way to the bed mostly from the image burned into his retinas during that one brief moment of light. He found the bed with his shins and cursed under his breath. Hearing Mulder mutter something vaguely apologetic, he shushed him impatiently, then quickly stripped and dropped his clothes unceremoniously on the floor before slipping into the bed.

He rolled over on his side immediately, and this time, for the first time, in too long a time, Mulder was there. The younger man came effortlessly into his arms, and Skinner hugged him tight enough to squeeze a groan out of him. He loosened his grip fractionally. “Sorry..it’s just—“

“Shhh…” Mulder silenced him with a kiss, and Skinner welcomed it enthusiastically, enjoying the tactile sensations of his lover without the benefit of sight. Mulder’s mouth was warm and firm, yielding and demanding at the same time, in his own unique way that Skinner had been missing for so long. More wondrous still was the press of something hot and hard against his thigh. He realized then how much he took his visual abilities for granted when Mulder not only made him exclaim with delight as his hands and mouth descended on various parts of his body, but made him gasp in surprise as well, as, in one breath, Mulder was carefully removing his glasses and kissing the tip of his nose, and in the next, he felt that warm mouth gently sucking on a nipple. Hands roamed down his side, vanished, then reappeared on his thighs, kneading muscle and stroking skin. Then they were gone again, and Skinner found himself wondering where they would land next. He didn’t have to wonder long.

 A strong, two-handed grip on his penis nearly brought him off the bed, and he gave a grunt of surprise. One hand began stroking relentlessly while the other dropped lower to spread his legs, and he gave way to his lover, relishing the swath of heat that Mulder created as he slid down Skinner’s body and pressed him onto his back, nestling between his legs with a certain proprietary air that until now Skinner had thought was solely reserved for cats and sunbeams.

Mulder was making small contented noises deep in his throat, and Skinner found his lover’s head by following the sound. He wrapped one big hand in Mulder’s hair, and made a quick mental note to find out what kind of conditioner was used at casa del Scully. His fingers slipped through silken strands, and he moved his other hand in to add to the sensations.

He clutched tightly when he felt warm breath on his now fully erect cock, and got a groan of complaint, albeit a soft one, which he drowned out a moment later with a throaty growl when Mulder took him in his mouth and began sucking in earnest.

Mulder kept stroking him with one hand as his tongue did new and interesting things to the underside of his cock, while the other hand found a leg to caress, an ass to pinch, and balls to cradle almost reverently.

All of this was being done without Skinner being able to see anything, and it created a whole new set of sensations, almost frightening in their intensity. He found himself surrendering to the sweet pressure his lover was building in him, unable to respond beyond murmured affirmations, unable to do more physically than stroke his lover’s hair again and again.

Mulder used every technique he’d ever learned, and even invented some new ones, to keep his lover at the peak of ecstasy without tipping him over the edge. As Skinner’s movements became more erratic, and the sounds he made doubled in volume, so Mulder redoubled his own efforts, feeling his own unrelieved needs being swept away in a rush that was more love than lust.  He felt he had been afforded a great gift, the gift of this man in his life, and now, more than ever, he wanted to express all the gratitude that was churning inside him.

Skinner’s cries took on a plaintive note, as he begged for release, pleading and demanding of both God and lover, and Mulder took this as a cue to take as much of Skinner into his mouth as he could, easing up on the pressure of his hand while intensifying the suction of his lips as he wrapped them tightly round the large erection. When Skinner’s hips bucked under him, he refused to be thrown, wrapping his arms around the man’s hips and following his movements, never once losing contact between his mouth and Skinner’s cock.

One last hard spasm, and Skinner groaned out “Oh, God, yesssss…” and Mulder couldn’t do anything more than swallow convulsively over and over, tasting sweet, salt and Skinner and loving it, loving him… And when it was over, he kept up a gentle friction with his mouth, trying to coax more out of Skinner, until the large body under him was shivering from the stimulation, and with another groaning sound, Skinner tugged him away. Mulder knew Skinner couldn’t see him grinning, so complete was the darkness, but he couldn’t stop smiling.

Skinner pulled and Mulder squirmed and in the end they wound up face-to-face, sharing gentle kisses. Skinner could taste himself in Mulder and it was sweeter than honey, more potent than whiskey. He found himself in that hazy, romantic universe that existed only to serve as a safe house for people post orgasm, and was not unhappy to be there. He let his eyes slip closed, still awake, but just barely, and managed to keep one hand on Mulder even when the younger man slipped off of him to lie quietly beside him. He stroked Mulder’s chest lightly, and let his thoughts drift…

*I said I love you…I want to make love to you…

*Hey, if you wanna fuck, Walter, I’m amenable.

*That’s not what I said, Mulder, and you know it.

*You want me…this body…

*Tease! You know I do. Mulder—look at me.

*We could be doing a whole lot more than looking, Walter…

*We will be, Mulder. Don’t think for a moment that we won’t

*Ohhhh…hey!

*But not until you hear me. And I mean really hear me, Mulder; hear what I’m telling you.

*I hear you loud and clear, Walt. Come on; lie down here, and—OOF! Hey, I meant there, not-not on top—hey, let go! This is really killing the mood here, y’know—mmmphh! Oh, well, uh—that could really go a long way to restoring said mood, if you know what I mean.

*Mulder? Shut up. That’s better. Shhh…now tell me what you hear.

*What? I don’t—

*Listen. Do you want to know what I hear?

*…..?

*I hear you, Mulder. I hear your breathing, and it means something to me. I hear your heart, and I know why it beats. I hear your thoughts—

*Who are you, The Stupendous Yappi?

*And when you talk like that, I hear your voice, but I hear what you don’t say, too.

*Is that right?

*Mulder, I think you’ve been fucked enough for one lifetime, don’t you? I think it’s time that you realized that you deserve more.

*I—that’s ridiculous—I mean—oh!

*I’m going to do whatever it takes to convince you. Let’s start with this…

*Oh! Oh. Oh…

Skinner heard the small sound, felt his lover’s body moving slightly under his hand, and came more fully awake.

“Mulder?”

The sounds stopped. The movements ceased. Skinner reached down, and discovered Mulder’s hand wrapped around his own hard cock.

“Hey,” he said, dismayed. “I’m right here with you, Mulder.” I love this man, he thought as he played a version of Thumb War with his lover, trying to get his own hand under Mulder’s. I love him, and I think I always have, and I know I always will. And he needs to be made to understand that. He waited, and when no reply was forthcoming from Mulder, aside from his own struggle to keep Skinner’s hand off of him, he reached for the lamp next to the bed.

“Hey!” Mulder brought one hand up to shield his eyes from the sudden light while he tugged at the bedclothes with the other.

“Hey,” Skinner said back, rising from his side of the bed. “My turn now.”  He came around to Mulder’s side, ignored the man’s attempts to burrow down to China through the Sealy Posturpedic under him, and, a second later, his arms were full of gangly, struggling duvet-wrapped Mulder.

“Hey!” Mulder exclaimed again in a voice that wanted to be an outraged shout, but could only be a dusty yelp.

Skinner carried the flailing young man over to the bathroom; stopped in front of the door, where a full-length mirror hung. When he stopped, Mulder struggled more, sure that Skinner was going to drop him on his ass. But instead he was lowered gently to his feet. Skinner made sure he was standing steady, and then tugged gently at the thick down comforter. Mulder responded by clutching the duvet tight around himself like armor. Skinner pulled harder.

“Walter. Please. Don’t do this.” Mulder cringed at the whining tone of voice, but seemed unable to prevent it.

“It’s going to be all right, Fox,” Walter said. “I promise.” One last tremendous yank, and the cover fell to the floor, where Skinner quickly kicked it aside.

Mulder stared at his reflection in the mirror, and loathed the ugliness he saw there—he was scarred, marked for life, damaged as much by himself as by others, and not worthy of loving, of being loved—

His mouth drew down in a trembling bow of pain, and he turned away from the sight, ducked his head, and was able to bury his face in Walter’s strong chest as hot tears sprang up in his eyes.

Skinner’s arms came around him, held him tight for a long moment, and then he felt himself being turned implacably towards the mirror again. Hands gripped him in a manner at once both soothing and relentless, and Skinner leaned in close and whispered, “What do you see, Fox?”

The only answer at first was more tears, and a tension humming through his muscles like electricity through a wire, muscles desperate to turn his vision and his mind from the image in the mirror. Then, with a mental steeling of his defenses that was almost physically palpable, Mulder looked at Skinner through the mirror, his hazel eyes wide and miserable.

Skinner held his gaze for a spell, and then brought his lips to Mulder’s ear. “Do you want to know what I see?” he whispered.

Mulder shivered as warm breath puffed gently into his ear, and shivered again when Skinner nuzzled the skin behind his ear, and brought his hands down from where they were holding him firmly by the shoulders to brush down his side.  When he brought one hand back up to a shoulder, he caught Mulder’s eyes in the mirror again, and held them.

“Fox, neither one of us came into this relationship without scars.” When he spoke, he let his fingertips trace over the old puckered bullet scar high on Mulder’s shoulder. “Some that we can see—“ He ran his other hand down Mulder’s flank, producing a stifled groan, and rested it on the younger man’s thigh, above another scar, this one a little older, a little less noticeable, but visible just the same.

Mulder leaned back cautiously, unable to turn and look at the twisted white scars that he knew criss-crossed his lover’s midsection, but feeling like some type of response was required, if only to let Skinner know he understood what he was saying. As he pressed back, he felt a stirring in Skinner’s groin, and it made him nervous, though not unhappy.

“And some that we can’t.” Skinner finished the sentence with a kiss to Mulder’s temple. His eyes kept holding Mulder’s through their reflection, and Mulder saw them darken momentarily. “And we both knew that going in. We understand each other. Or, at least, I thought we did.” At last, Skinner broke off the gaze, and leaned in to rest his head on Mulder’s shoulder and direct his sight downwards. Against his will, but unable to stop himself, Mulder followed his lover’s gaze.

His cock was still hard, jutting proudly out from his body, and that only seemed to make the fresh pink scars on it stand out even more. Mulder swallowed visibly, found his hands wanting to cover himself, and willed them to stay at their sides. A soft touch from his lover’s hand made him groan, and more tears slipped silently from him.

“Listen to me, Fox.” Skinner’s whisper held all the force of a shouted command. “Your body is desirable to me. Always has been. But I don’t ever want what’s ‘here’—“ he fondled Mulder lightly again, then continued, “If I can’t have what’s ‘here’.” And he pressed another kiss on his lover, this one to the top of his head. “Now, can you please tell me why this is hurting you so bad. I know it’s not physical, and I think I’ve explained my position as best I can. But I can’t stand seeing you like this, poisoning yourself with doubts. If you own it, maybe you can defeat it. Please, Fox…”

The final plea unglued him. The raw need that cracked Skinner’s voice nearly caused his knees to unhinge. He caught Skinner’s eye, opened his mouth, closed it again, shuddered violently and said, “I did this.”

Silence as Skinner gave him time to clarify.

“I didn’t trust you when I should have, and this—“ He glanced down quickly, glanced away just as fast, and struggled to find the words. “This—these scars—I don’t see what was done, I only see what was done to you.  If I hadn’t—I mean, if I had just accepted what you were asking—offering---if I hadn’t been out there, what happened might have never been. And I wouldn’t have to look at myself every day and be reminded that I—I failed you Walter. And I’m so sorry—“

“Oh, hell—Fox, no!” Skinner turned him away from the mirror, pulled him close. “I never thought that! Do you think I went into this without doubts myself?” He saw Mulder’s puzzled frown and continued quickly, “I couldn’t have asked you without a lot of serious thinking on the matter, and I would never have expected anything less from you.” He offered a small hopeful grin. “I’m not some UFO that might disappear if you don’t get to the site before the ink on the 302 dries.”

Mulder sighed, but Skinner saw a dimple appear briefly in one cheek.

“I wanted an answer, Fox, but I had no illusions that I’d get it on the spot. I wanted you to think about it. Hell, if anyone should feel guilty—“

“Don’t borrow guilt, Walter,” Mulder snapped.

“Physician heal thyself,” Skinner shot back.

“Bastard.” But the dimple came back as he said it.

“Idiot.” A kiss softened the word.

Mulder brought his arms up around Skinner’s neck, laced his hands behind the man’s head. Smiled briefly, then turned his head away as he spoke again.

“I don’t know that it’s enough, Walter,” he whispered. He felt a tightening in his lover’s neck and knew without looking that Skinner’s jaw was clenched. “I mean, I—Jesus, why is this so hard? I-thank you for understanding. I don’t mean to sound cold or impersonal—this means so much—I can’t even say. But I don’t think tomorrow morning I’m going to wake up, have a glass of OJ and say ‘hey Walt, let’s do it on the kitchen table!’ Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so, Fox. And that’s not what I’m asking for. Do you understand that?”

“But what I’m clumsily trying to say is that—well—now I feel like at least that day could come. That it’s at least possible.”

“Well, you were the one who taught me to believe in extreme possibilities.” Skinner drew back, took Mulder’s face in his hands. “And when I’m with you, Fox, I feel like anything is possible.”

“Oh, brother!” He smiled as the last of his tears dried on his cheeks. “What trashy romance novel did you find that in?”

Skinner laughed softly. “It just came to me. Maybe I should be writing trashy romance novels.” He kissed Mulder softly, felt that warm mouth responding, and pulled away again. He bent down and retrieved the duvet. “What’s say we try to get some sleep? I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve done pretty much enough soul searching for one night.”

“On that, I have to agree with you.” Mulder let himself be led back to the bed, groused a little, but not unkindly, when Skinner made a big fussy show of tucking him under the covers, and breathed a sigh of relief when Skinner turned off the light. Another sigh gusted out of him, this one less relieved than content, as he felt two big arms pull him in for a hug.

“Thank you, Walter. I love you.”

“I am always going to love you, Fox.” He kissed his lover’s eyes closed, and held him close, not letting himself sleep until he heard the deepening of Mulder’s breathing, and felt tense muscles under his hands growing lax. His last thoughts before he succumbed to fatigue were of orange juice and kitchen tables, and he wondered if Mulder was thinking the same.

***

Whatever I did to deserve this, whatever made him want me, love me, make me feel like this…whatever it was, however it happened, I don’t care, I just –well, I suppose if I was Scully I’d thank God. Of course, if I was Scully, I wouldn’t be here at all—I’d be curling up with a mug of tea and a good book. Hmmm, tea—I wonder if Walter drinks chamomile…What was I thinking? Oh, thanking God. In AA they thank a higher power—of course, in AA they smoke cigarettes and drink coffee—switching addictions, I suppose—I wonder if love could be considered an addiction? I’ll have to look that up…ah, hell, it was overanalyzing that got me into this in the first place. Maybe he’s right, and I just need some sleep. I can’t believe he’s—oh wait, I’m Fox “I want to believe” Mulder…Fox Skinner *heh* Jesus, I must be tired. Drained anyway…well, Scully’s God…thank you…and if I don’t feel like orange juice tomorrow, maybe I can at least manage to tell him yes…