Mulder leaned back on the couch, beer in hand, and picked up the remote for the television. The game was just starting, and he had twenty dollars riding on his beloved Redskins.

It had been six weeks since his ordeal. Six weeks since Scully had found him nearly catatonic on the couch. Six weeks since he'd last seen the Assistant Director…

Six weeks of hospitals-god, how he hated them-six weeks of doctors, of tests-all negative, thank god-six weeks of healing.

"Ha!" He didn't know hat was worse, the fact that he laughed out loud, or that the laugh was so bitter it may as well have been a sob.

Oh, sure, his body had mended itself, as it was programmed to do. Concussion gone, cuts and bruises fading, lips, tongue, throat-all clear. Walking was no longer painful, even sitting was no longer a problem, but-

He started, eyes going wide, at a sudden sound from the kitchen, then relaxed back in his seat, realizing that the fridge's cooling system had just kicked in.  He scrubbed a shaky hand over his face and took a long pull on his beer.

Yes, it had been six weeks of healing, coupled with six weeks of jumping at shadows, cringing away from even the most innocuous of physical contact, even with Scully. Of having his gun ever at-the-ready, even in the office. Six weeks of diminishing physical pain matching six weeks of diminishing sleep, escalating night terrors, and a roller coaster of emotions that ran the gamut from hatred and shame to guilt and despair, with no one to share it with.

Oh, there had been counselors, of course; human resources had insisted on it. But with his Oxford-based training, and his own unique abilities, they had been easy enough to mollify.  They filed their reports, made their recommendations, and he was allowed back to work.

Scully wasn't so easy to fool, although, god knew, he was trying.  She was his friend, his partner, so many things to him, and he could barely look her in the eye.  He knew in that clinical detached way that her feelings hadn't changed, but he was unable to control the hot flush of shame that rode up in his cheeks every time she looked at him.  She didn't rebuke his silences now, although he'd been too sharp with her when she first tried to get him to talk about it, and he knew he deserved anger from her, or worse, abandonment.

This moody introspection was nothing new-he'd been doing it all his life.  For as long as he could remember. Always looking inward, casting blame and guilt randomly over his soul, always taking it all on, never able to find another soul strong enough to lay any of the burden on-guiltily afraid to share his pain with-

Quite unexpectedly, his next thought was of A.D. Skinner. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, and chased it with the last of his beer.

He hadn't seen his supervisor since the hospital.

He remembered waking suddenly, eyes wide and staring, already scrambling to get out of the bed despite the fact that his arms and legs didn't seem to want to obey his mind's commands.  And then two strong hands were on his chest, pushing him back.

"Relax, Agent Mulder. You're safe."

His eyes focused on his superior looming over the bed.  His expression was inscrutable, the overhead lights making his eyes behind the wire frame glasses unreadable.  His hands, wide and hard, were still on Mulder's chest, and the physical sensation of being held down sent him careening back away from that touch, feet struggling for purchase on the cool slick hospital sheets as he backpedaled frantically, trying to bury himself in the mattress.  Sudden pain, sharp and hot, flared up in his nether regions, and he cried out involuntarily.

Skinner had recoiled instantly, as if slapped, and backed away from the bed.

He thought I was nuts, thought Mulder, he thinks I'm nuts…

Since his return to work, Mulder hadn't seen Skinner once. Every meeting he and Scully had took place with A.D. Kersh, even though Skinner had last word on the X-Files. At first, Mulder thought nothing of it, then, as his therapy failed to progress, he fretted, then worried, then thought of nothing but the look in Skinner's eyes when-

Jerking himself physically out of the painful memories, Mulder stood, stretched, wavered a little, thought he might be getting drunk, thought that this would not be a new thing for him as of late, wondered briefly about his excessive drinking lately and what it might mean, then decided that thinking was highly over-rated, and walked to the kitchen for another beer.

He was just sitting back down on the couch when there was a loud knock on the door.

The full beer flew from his hands and fell to the carpet, and he scrabbled madly for his gun. The knock was repeated, and a tentative question raised: "Agent Mulder?"

It was Skinner.

Mulder's heart was already pounding out an SOS on his ribcage, and recognizing the voice did absolutely nothing to alleviate it.

"Mulder, it's A.D. Skinner. Are you there?"

Mulder realized he had assumed a shooter's stance, leveling his gun at the door. "Oh, god…" he could barely find the breath to force the words out.

"Mulder!" The deep voice, clearly agitated now, seemed to knock some bit of sense into Mulder as he was able to lower his weapon and step towards the door on legs that were suddenly made of jello.  He undid the main lock and two deadbolts, but left the chain on as he opened the door a crack.

Sable eyes widened by corrective lenses peered in at him, dark with worry.

"Sir?" Mulder licked suddenly dry lips.  He found himself drawn into the other man's gaze, unable to look away, or move.

"Agent Mulder. May I come in?"

For a moment, Mulder still didn't move. Skinner tipped his head to one side and continued to give him a frank though not unfriendly look, and suddenly Mulder knocked away the chain lock and opened the door, stepping back to allow his supervisor to enter.

As Skinner stepped into the foyer, Mulder stumbled backwards, keeping a safe distance between himself and the powerfully built older man.

"Is the game on?" Skinner asked.

"Huh? Oh-um-yeah. I was just having a beer and-oh, crap!" Mulder suddenly remembered the flying beer bottle, and he rushed to the living room to retrieve it. Skinner followed him wordlessly.

Mulder picked up the now empty bottle and grimaced at the puddle of pale ale soaking into the carpet. He turned a sick grin on his boss.

"The knock on the door startled me-I spilled-" He shrugged helplessly.

"I can see that, Mulder." Skinner was kind enough to refrain from commenting on the general disarray of the apartment, although he did think to himself that one spilled beer more or less wouldn't really be all that noticeable.

Mulder stepped hastily past Skinner and into the small kitchen.  He set the bottle on the counter where it joined many others that were already lined up there like mute accusations of his inability to cope. Too many of them were from today, but he chose to ignore that fact.  With trembling hands he added his gun to the countertop inventory, then turned to go back to the living room, grabbing a towel that was hanging from the refrigerator door to mop up the spillage.

Skinner had moved with him, and his body now blocked the doorway between kitchen and living room. His face wore a quizzical though not unpleasant expression, and one side of his mouth even turned up in what could almost be mistaken for a grin.

"Any of those beers left?"

Mulder didn't reply at first.  He was a little too busy processing the fact that Skinner had taken off the trenchcoat he had been wearing, and now stood before him in a soft, grey Abercrombie and Fitch henley and slightly worn 501's.

Blue jeans.

A.D. Walter Skinner, in blue jeans.

A.D. Walter Skinner, in his kitchen, in blue jeans.

When Mulder didn't answer, Skinner frowned at him, concerned, then his face cleared as he understood what Mulder's puzzled gaze was for, and that tic at the corner of his mouth resurfaced briefly.

"Christ, Mulder, did you think I slept in my Brooks Brothers?"

The familiar growl seemed to pull Mulder out of the daze he was in.

"Sorry, sir, I just wasn't expecting

*you*

company tonight. I don't see

*you in blue jeans*

many people after hours. Usually just Scully, and she-uh-oh, beer, right, uh, there should be a couple left-" Mulder knew he was babbling, but felt powerless to stop himself.  He reached into the fridge and grabbed two Heinekens.

"Hope you don't mind import, sir. I'm not much for domestic-"

"Import's fine, Mulder."

Words turned to dust in Mulder's mouth as Skinner reached out for one of the bottles and lightly brushed his hand over Mulder's as he relieved him of it.

"Thanks, Mulder." Skinner stepped aside and indicated with a nod that Mulder should lead the way back to the living room.  If he noticed the way Mulder skittered past him, putting as much space between them as he could without actually banging into the wall, he didn't comment, just gave the beer bottles and the gun on the counter a curious frown, then followed the younger man out of the kitchen.

He sat down on the couch and watched Mulder ineffectually mop up the beer he'd spilled. The younger man soon realized that he wasn't making much of a difference, and he left the task, kicking the towel under the coffee table, and coming around it to sit on the other side of the couch.

Skinner ignored the way Mulder shifted repeatedly until he was curled up against the end of the couch, as far away from him as he could get without actually falling on the floor.

It had been a long six weeks for Skinner, too. Six weeks of worry for his agent, six weeks of exhausting every avenue of investigation into Mulder's rape, six weeks of avoidance.  But in that time, he had also had more than one long talk with Agent Scully, and even more, even longer talks with himself.  Time that Mulder had spent lying to HR and to his partner was time that Skinner had used to reveal the truth within himself-first to himself, then to Scully, who had confirmed his feelings, and helped him to understand Mulder's behaviour as well.  All that had led him to this moment, and he felt utterly and totally sure of himself and his course of action.

Of course, this was Fox Mulder, of all people, and Skinner knew that he was entering a minefield. One wrong step and…

"Who looks good, Mulder?" he asked, nodding his head at the television.  For a moment he didn't think that Mulder was going to answer. The other man was staring wide-eyed at him, and seemed not to have heard.

Then, with a shake of his head, Mulder seemed to come back to himself, and he looked over at the T.V.

"Oh, uh, my money's on Washington, sir."

Skinner half-laughed, half-snorted. "I should have known.  You're going to be a poorer man tomorrow, Mulder. The Cowboys are prime."

"How do you figure that, sir?" Mulder gave him a skeptical look. "Statistically, Dallas hasn't got a hope.  Look at the yardage alone."

"Keep dreaming, buddy!" Skinner exclaimed, grinning. "Your Redskins have missed more passes than Agent Scully in Pendrell's office."

The comment forced a surprised laugh out of Mulder, but he should have expected Skinner to come up with something like that.  If there was anyone who had all the dish at the FBI, it was the assistant director.  The man was sharp, and Mulder knew that he missed nothing.  It was one of the many qualities that he had always admired in his boss.

Skinner didn't press any further, simply grateful for Mulder's smile and the laugh, which seemed genuine, if a little rusty.  It was enough for now, and he was content to sit back on the couch, slip off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table. He could feel Mulder's gaze on him, but chose to ignore it for the time being.

Mulder spent long moments just staring at Skinner, still trying to reconcile his feelings about his superior with the vision of said superior sitting in his apartment, in his living room, in blue jeans. Tight blue jeans, he allowed himself to notice, with almost no objectivity whatsoever.

When it appeared that Skinner had nothing more to say, Mulder dragged his gaze away from the man and turned his attention to the television, the game and his beer.

By half time, the Cowboys were down by ten, Skinner was on his second beer, and Mulder was ahead of him by two. They hadn't spoken much beyond cursing out one another's teams, yelling encouragement to their own, and agreeing wholeheartedly that the referee shouldn't have been allowed on the field without his seeing-eye dog.

Skinner touched Mulder's arm, lightly, to pull his focus away from the game for a moment.

Mulder shot up from his seat like the couch was on fire, backing away from Skinner, and staggering a little as he did so.

"Another beer, sir?" He set his latest finished bottle down on the coffee table, where it joined the other empties, and was gone before Skinner could reply.

Skinner cursed himself silently, realizing he had overstepped a boundary he wasn't even aware was there. He should have known, though. He thought briefly of what Mulder had been through, the information he had gleaned from not entirely legal perusals of Mulder's medical charts, and then he thought about how he would feel in a similar situation. He thought he understood.

Mulder came back from the kitchen with two more beers from the seemingly endless supply (Skinner wondered and worried about that for just a moment, too) in the fridge, and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet.

"Hey, Mulder, are you sure you need another one?" Skinner asked, trying not to sound preachy.

"I'm fine, sir." Mulder didn't even realize he'd snapped until he'd done it. He handed one of the beers to Skinner with a mumbled apology that the other man could barely hear. Instead of returning to the couch, Mulder sat down heavily in the armchair beside the TV. 

"You won't be able to see much of the action from there, Mulder," Skinner commented dryly. 

"Sir, why are you here?" He didn't look at Skinner as he spoke, instead focusing his attention on his beer, which he tipped back for a large drink after the words were out of his mouth.

Skinner found himself momentarily at a loss for words. What could he say? That he was worried about Mulder, that he wanted to make sure that his agent was all right?  That he had thought of nothing but Mulder outside of work for almost as long as the man had worked for him? That his cable was out and he really wanted to catch this particular football game? He was pretty sure Mulder wouldn't buy that last one, and he didn't know if either of them was ready to hear his other thoughts. So he took a third option, and gave a non-answer in the form of a question.

"How much have you had to drink tonight?" The bottles in the kitchen had worried him, being no stranger himself to the desire to escape from unpleasantness through the liberal use of alcohol. 

He received a wordless shrug as a reply.

"Maybe you should slow down a little, Mulder," he continued, dropping his voice to something uncharacteristically soft and even a little hesitant. By contrast, Mulder's tone was cold and biting when he replied.

"Maybe you should save your orders for the office, sir."

Skinner wondered if Mulder was deliberately baiting him, or if he had hit a sore spot. He suspected the latter, but refused to back down, now that he had a focus for his concern.

Still softly, he said, "it was just a suggestion."

"Suggestion noted, sir." Snapped in that same harsh tone.

"Mulder, I-" 

"Maybe you should just go." Mulder sounded more defeated than angry now, and Skinner noted a slight slur in the words, possibly from drunkenness, but almost sounding like he was too tired to force the words out of his mouth.

"Maybe I should." But he made no move to leave, just gave Mulder a level stare, waiting while the younger man stared at the floor for a while, then finally looked up and their eyes met.

Mulder felt pinned by Skinner's gaze like a deer in headlights, and although Skinner wasn't restraining him in any physical way, he recognized immediately the same sensations he'd felt six weeks ago, when…

He stood up quickly-too quickly, apparently, and his balance wavered dangerously as his center of gravity danced just beyond his nose. He lost his grip on a beer bottle for the second time that night, and pinwheeled his arms madly, trying to regain his footing. He steeled himself for impact.

An impact which never came. Instead, he was caught up in Skinner's arms as the other man had leaped up at the same time as him, stepped easily over the low coffee table, and stopped his fall with a broad chest and two strong arms.

Mulder felt dizzy, as much from the alchohol, his emotions, and the all-round weirdness of the entire evening as from the feel of Skinner's body pressed to his. Altogether far too much stimulation on a mind and body that had spent the last several weeks trying to deny stimulation of any sort.

He struggled to regain his footing even as he clutched at the other man's shoulders.

Skinner noted the contradiction, but made no comment, just tightened his grip while Mulder found his legs again. 

When Mulder was standing on his own again, a feat that Skinner had thought briefly might be impossible, the older man gave him a cautious glance.

"You okay?"

"No." Mulder tried to pull out of Skinner's embrace, suddenly noting the strength of the big man's arms, the power lying just below the surface of the broad chest and sturdy legs, realizing dimly that Skinner could render him powerless so easily, as easily as…

A last coherent thought of what had happened, and something in him snapped. He meant to back away, to thank Skinner for the lovely visit, shake the man's hand and escort him to the door with wishes for a pleasant evening, and maybe blow him a kiss from the window as he left.

The beer-soaked, fear-soaked translation of these actions from thought to deed caused him to instead cry out "No!" loud enough for his voice to crack, and suddenly burst into tears.

"Oh, shit, Mulder…"Skinner wrapped his arms tightly around Mulder's body and pulled him tighter to his own as the younger man began sobbing in earnest. He stroked up and down Mulder's back and shoulders, feeling the muscles jumping and twitching under his hands like water droplets on hot coals. One hand moved up to pet silky hair, and he could feel Mulder's face, hot and wet, pressed to his shoulder as he continued to cry.

"S'okay, Mulder; S'all right…let it out…" He whispered words that he hoped would soothe, and they didn't move for a very long time. Even when he felt his arms aching and something in his lower back complaining, Skinner didn't move, didn't let up his grip, didn't pull away.

Only when Mulder raised his head did Skinner loosen his hold on the younger man. Only fractionally, though, and only to lead him slowly back to the couch, sitting him down, then joining him and pulling him back into his arms. Mulder continued to cry, softer now, without the hysterical edge to it, and Skinner noted that the younger man seemed to be returning the embrace rather than just accepting it. Mulder's arms were loosely wrapped around his waist now, and Skinner could feel his hands moving in restless little circular motions over his lower back.

When the tears had dried up to nothing more than intermittent sniffles and watery sighs, Mulder looked up into Skinner's eyes.

"I'm drunk," he whispered.

"Yes, I think you are." Skinner replied mildly, not letting up his hold on his agent.

"Do I say thank you?" Again the hesitant, whispered tone.

"Not necessary, Mulder."

"Sir, why are you here?" he asked again, and his expression was as troubled and miserable as Skinner had ever seen it. He looked ready to duck a physical blow, and Skinner hugged him tightly as he formed his reply.

There was no hesitation this time. "I'm here for you, Mulder. For whatever you need."

"I think…"

"Tell me."

"I think I need you, sir. And…" His voice trailed off.

"And?"

"And I think I'm still drunk."

Skinner laughed quietly and Mulder tucked his head into his chest again. Neither man felt the need for more words.

Skinner held and stroked and made wordless soothing sounds and thought about what they would do next. He fretted over Mulder's hurts, and formulated fanciful plans for healing them. He touched Mulder's hair and thought about silk and satin and how ticklish his stomach was. He felt the muscles in his biceps and triceps complaining at their overuse tonight, and willed them into silence.  He decided he was uncomfortable, stiff and had to pee. It felt wonderful.

Mulder felt more tears wanting to come out of him, and he forced them back viciously, deciding that, drunk or not, he'd done enough whining for the night. He worried briefly about what he'd just said to his boss, about what the boss had just said to him, and what that might mean on every level, from the fourth floor to the basement, and all the bedrooms in-between. He thought that maybe this was all an inebriated dream, and wondered if pinching himself would help. His arms and legs felt like wet sandbags had been attached to them, and he couldn't escape. He wanted to escape, afraid of the pain he knew could come from this, afraid of too many things, most of them memories. He didn't want to escape. Not ever. He realized he was leaking from the eyes again, even after his self-admonishment. He tried to wipe away the tears, and Skinner's hand beat him to it.

When Mulder thought about Skinner's hands, it was usually in conjunction with chokeholds, clenched fists and, in more ridiculous daydreams, tearing phonebooks. He certainly didn't equate the strong blunt fingers with the light caress he felt as Skinner brushed a tear from his cheek. 

He closed his eyes, felt Skinner's hand moving over his face some more, and smiled sadly, sure now that he was asleep and dreaming, and that this couldn't be happening.

When Mulder's breathing deepened into a regular pattern that wanted to be snoring but fell just shy of it, Skinner finally relinquished his grip on the man. Moving slowly, so as not to jar the sleeping agent, even though he suspected the amount of beer he'd consumed tonight would keep him deeply under, Skinner slipped out from under Mulder's body, and stretched the lanky man out on the couch. Mulder immediately curled into a half-fetal position on his side, and made a little whimpery sound low in his throat. Skinner touched the side of his face and the sound abruptly turned into a semi-contented sounding sigh.

Skinner stretched out a kink in his back, then stepped away from the couch. He left the television on, remembering something Scully had told him, and walked away, thinking if he didn't leave now he'd be struck by an overwhelming need to stay, to hold to touch, to push. And he knew it was the last thing in the world he should do. The next step would have to be Mulder's. He would be patient, and not give into his desires, not even the ones that involved nothing more than cleaning up the damned apartment.

He couldn't stop grinning as he retrieved his coat from the hanger by the door and he gave the sleeping man on the couch one last glance, eyes glowing with more emotion than he had revealed in his words or deeds tonight. Then he left, locking the door behind him, and looking forward to whatever tomorrow had to bring.
 
 
 
 
 

Continued in Pt.3-Those Arms