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Revenge Pt. 3
SKINNER: Mulder, how can you sit
here drinking in the dark?
Crystal City Apartments
Mulder pressed the door buzzer with a trembling finger and swallowed heavily at the sound of Skinner’s voice. “Yes.” One word, that was all, but Mulder’s body shuddered and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. “Sir, it’s me,” he managed to croak. There was no verbal reply, just the snapping of the lock on the main door. Mulder grabbed at it just before it locked again, entered the lobby and made his way to the elevator. As the elevator ascended to the seventeenth floor, Mulder reflected on the events of the last twenty-four hours: Skinner’s visit to his apartment yesterday; his own drunken admission of attraction to the older man; his rape-based fears of physical intimacy- His last coherent memory of the night was of two strong arms around him, holding him tight through long moments of panic, self-loathing, tears and aching need. No words, just those arms like metal bands, making demands not on him but for him. Demanding to be used as safety, as strength, as sanity. He had woken up alone, curled up on the couch, physically aching with the last of his tears still damp on his cheeks. Work had been intolerable-all paperwork, mostly number-crunching, which he detested at the best of times, which he found impossible now when all he could think about past the brain-busting hangover was those arms; trying to find a hint of promise in them, scared to death of finding it, scared worse of not finding it. Scully had tried to keep him focused without being a nag, and he loved
her for it. He knew she was doing her best for him, and doing it
well. He even imagined she could read his mind when, just before
she left for the day, she gave him a little hug and said:
The elevator stopped and Mulder got out, approaching Skinner’s apartment door with trepidation, hearing the phone call and the other man’s voice in his head. “Mulder, is that you?” That’s when the shaking had started. “I thought you might still be at the office. I should let you know that I’ll be working at home tonight if you need anything.” That was it-nothing stated, everything implied, leaving the door wide open for Mulder’s most fevered imaginings. Scully probably told him about the accounting nightmare-that’s all this is he thought. And then he thought about those arms again… He stopped in front of the door, took a deep breath that failed to steady him at all, and knocked. The door opened immediately and there was Skinner, filling the doorway; broad chest, long legs, strong open arms, and all of it neatly wrapped in an oatmeal Henley and khaki pants. “Agent Mulder, come in.” Skinner stepped back to allow him entry into the apartment, took his coat and said, “Have a seat, I’ll hang this up.” Mulder looked around the spartan but tastefully decorated living room, opted to sit on the overstuffed couch as opposed to either of the matching chairs flanking it, then took note of the expensive but completely utilitarian walnut computer desk in the corner. The top of the desk was littered with papers, and the computer screen spilled blue light on to them. Skinner walked back into the room, crossed over to the desk, and shut down the computer. “I’m interrupting-“Mulder began. Skinner cut him off. “Not at all; I was just about to take a break. Coffee?” “Uh, sure, sir.” Again, Skinner left the room, leaving Mulder alone to contemplate the complete insanity that his life had become while he perused the rest of the living room. He noted the artwork; some paintings hung carefully on the walls, some just resting on various shelves. The entertainment unit was expensive, but not pretentious, and he realized that soft music was issuing from hidden Bose speakers. He smiled, feeling something old and rusty loosen around the muscles in his mouth-there hadn’t been many smiles lately-and thought Who’d ever peg Walter Skinner as a Matchbox 20 fan? …I put my hands around your shoulder
Skinner returned to the living room carrying two cups of coffee, handed one to Mulder, then sat back in one of the chairs, crossing his long legs loosely at the ankle and sipping from his mug. Mulder followed suit, and found the coffee to be hot, sweet and laced with something. “Drambuie,” said Skinner, noting Mulder’s reaction. “My father used to drink his coffee this way-he said it was the only way he could relax.” Skinner sat forward on the chair and removed his glasses. He set them carefully on the cedar chest that served as a coffee table and rubbed the bridge of his nose briefly. Then he turned dark, naked eyes on the other man. “Now, what can I do for you, Mulder?” “I-uh, I’m not sure, sir, I just-“ The shakes that had almost abated a moment ago were back with a vengeance- Mulder fumbled with his coffee, spilled a little, and managed a weak, “Oh, hell-“. Skinner was beside him in a flash, taking the cup from his trembling hands and setting it on the coffee table, then pulling the younger man roughly into his arms. Mulder didn’t know how it was possible to be so filled with relief and terror at the same time, but he was doing a fine job of it just the same. He felt something akin to panic at the older man’s touch, but, for all his doubts and misgivings, he could find no malice in the embrace, just more of that mind-numbing safety he’d felt last night. But tonight he was sober… “Sir, I-“ he began tentatively. Skinner relinquished his hold on Mulder with obvious reluctance, then, when the agent couldn’t-wouldn’t-look at him, tipped the man’s face up with two fingers gentle on his chin until their eyes met, dark brown to hazel, compassionate to frightened. “Walter.” Mulder frowned, confused. “We’re not at the office,” he added. “Oh.” “You were drunk last night.” The tone was casual enough, but his eyes were dark, smoldering, locked on Mulder’s, holding the younger man’s attention. “You were drunk,” he said again, not finding the words he needed, growing frustrated but determined to bring about some sort of resolution to the situation, a resolution that would suit both their needs. Somehow, Mulder understood what Walter was doing, what he was offering; without words, he was giving him an out-a chance to walk away, to escape. Tension on top of more tension slipped from him and he expelled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He was silent for a time, then, in a whisper: “Not that drunk…Walter.” A moment of joy suffused Walter Skinner’s whole being, but a moment was all he allowed himself. The hard part was just beginning, and he was determined not to rush, not to force anything on this man that he’d wanted for so long; determined to show him that the attack on him had not been an act of lovemaking, but of violence, and that he would never do that to him. Mulder’s eyes were shiny with emotion, and for a long time he just sat staring at Walter, drinking in the feelings that the older man had managed to convey with so few words. Skinner let loose Mulder’s chin and reached slowly for the back of his head, softly stroking the thick dark hair, then squeezing his neck gently, feeling plenty of tension still there. A few more experimental strokes, never too hard, and Mulder turned, dropping his chin to his chest to allow Skinner better access to his neck and shoulders. Skinner continued to massage him tenderly but expertly. Mulder’s head came up as Skinner’s hands pulled away from his neck. He turned his body again so that he was facing the other man, and Skinner put one large hand on his leg. Mulder shuddered involuntarily, but didn’t move away. Skinner leaned forward and Mulder closed his eyes. “Mulder…Fox…We’re going to take this a slow as you want, as you need.” His voice was a husky whisper. “I’m not going to force you to do anything that you’re not completely comfortable with, okay?” Mulder nodded, eyes still closed, unwilling to trust his own voice at this time. The kiss was soft but not hesitant. There was great deliberation in the almost lack of contact. Skinner touched his mouth to Mulder’s lower lip once, twice. At the third taste, Mulder obligingly opened his mouth. Skinner kissed his chin instead, bit gently on his lower lip, then ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip. He carried on this way for several minutes while his hand did interesting things to Mulder’s leg, tracing the inseam of his pants, then kneading the strong muscles of his upper thigh. Mulder was stunned at the responses Skinner’s mouth and hand were teasing from his body; a body he thought would never feel anything but pain ever again. Unsure of exactly what to do, but needing to express his pleasure at the other man’s actions, he reached out, eyes still closed, until he encountered Skinner’s hard chest. He let his hands roam the muscled terrain sheathed in soft cotton for a time, then tugged at the bottom of the shirt. Skinner pulled away, and Mulder’s eyes flew open, an apology already forming on his lips, sure he had done something wrong. Skinner shushed him with a fingertip, then pulled his shirt off. “Better?” he asked. “Mmm, all kinds of better.” Mulder let himself be pulled into Skinner’s arms, held tight to the other man’s bare chest. He laid claim to the flesh with hands at first, then mouth, tentative, but growing bolder when Skinner made a small sound of appreciation. Skinner let Mulder explore at his own pace, holding himself in check as long as he could; then, with a soft kiss to the younger man’s hair, he slid one of his hands between Fox’s legs. Mulder made a noise low in his throat that might have been a whimper, then suddenly reared up and crushed Skinner’s mouth under his, pushing him back on the couch and trapping his arm between their bodies. Skinner let Mulder taste his lips, teeth, tongue, holding him around the neck with one hand, keeping up a steady stroking motion with the other, relishing the feel of Mulder’s rising excitement. Mulder pulled back for an instant, his need massive, but desperate to prolong the moment and it was all the advantage that Skinner needed. In two quick movements, Mulder’s shirt was flung open, buttons flying, and he was on his back on the couch, legs spread, with Skinner lying on top of him, nearly crushing him, but in a way that suggested protection, not attack. Skinner pinned Mulder’s shoulders, then buried his face in the younger man’s neck. When he moved to nibble at Mulder’s collarbone, Fox writhed frantically beneath him, groaning and gasping for air. Skinner matched his movements, making sure his mouth never lost contact with Mulder’s hot skin. Mulder’s movements became more fluid as his excitement increased, and his hips rose off the couch, muscles flaring and tightening as his back arched. He moaned loudly as Skinner’s teeth lightly grazed over one hard nipple and he bucked with all of his strength. They wound up back in a sitting position, Mulder almost in Skinner’s lap, arms and legs hopelessly tangled together. Skinner kissed Mulder’s brow, tasting salty perspiration, then gently covering the rest of his face with delicate licks and kisses; eyelids, long lashes tickling his mouth, nose, cheeks, the rising stubble at his jaw, his small ears, the mole near his mouth, finally returning to his mouth and that pouty lower lip. They kissed deeply for several minutes, Skinner allowing Mulder to find his own rhythm while he pushed the remains of Mulder’s shirt off of his shoulders and let his strong hands roam over the terrain of Mulder’s torso with reckless but not painful abandon-the chest nearly hairless, tiny perfect nipples that hardened under his ministrations, ribs lightly sheathed in swimmer’s lean muscle, stomach slightly more furred- Skinner pulled away when he felt Mulder’s hands on his belt, fumbling with an innocent eagerness. He caught the hands, brought them to his lips and kissed the palms. “Are you sure?” Mulder’s reply was an inarticulate moan. Skinner pulled him to his feet, supported him when he discovered that his legs had turned to rubber, then lavished more deep kisses on him, pulling him close and grinding his body into him. Mulder sighed, then moaned softly and Skinner led him unprotesting upstairs to the bedroom. Skinner pushed him down on the bed, then stepped back to quickly remove the rest of his clothes. Mulder’s eyes widened and the hazel pupils glittered with flecks of emerald desire. More kisses followed as Skinner lied down next to Mulder on the large bed. Before he was even aware of what was happening, Mulder’s pants, socks and boxers were lying in a heap on the floor next to Skinner’s. Neither man was disappointed. Skinner pulled Mulder close and they lay side by side, limbs entwined, mouths glued together. Suddenly, Mulder found himself on his back with his arms pinned above his head. Skinner ground his hips down on the body beneath him and bit at the sensitive spot on Mulder’s neck that he had discovered earlier. Mulder struggled hugely, desperate not to be held down. Too many unpleasant memories tried to resurface through the current pleasant sensations he was receiving from- Skinner-Walter-it’s Walter, damnit, not Krycek, but Walter!! With a cry that might have been a purr or might have been a sob but which was probably a combination of both, he pulled his arms free and shoved Skinner onto his back, pinning him with his body. Skinner urged Mulder into this aggressive role, understanding the younger man’s need for control and gladly letting him think he had it. He tugged at thick sable hair, then rewarded fervent kisses with sharp bites followed by soothing licks. He matched Mulder’s hip thrusts with his own, meeting desire with desire. Then, as Mulder’s back arched, he slid both hands down Mulder’s back to rest firmly on his buttocks, grinding their hips together, and pressed his mouth to the now exposed throat, tasting the hammering pulse. They climaxed simultaneously. For long moments they lay together like that, both men breathing hard, both staring deep into one another’s eyes, not finding any words, not needing any. Mulder finally broke the spell with a groan as he rolled off of the older man to lie sprawled across the bed in a boneless heap. Skinner kissed him quickly, smiled reassuringly then got up and went into the bathroom. Mulder heard the sound of water running, then minutes later Skinner returned with a damp cloth and a dry towel. Mulder’s muscles twitched and spasmed under the rough terrycloth. Skinner pushed him under the covers, then slid in next to him and pulled him into the crook of his arm. He reached for a bottled water that sat on the bedside table, took a sip, then handed it to Mulder. He drank, and spilled a little, and Skinner licked away the wetness. Mulder looked up at the older man, seeming a little lost and confused. “I’m not sure what to say-“ Fox whispered. “Then don’t say anything,” Walter replied, kissing his lover’s eyes closed. Sleep had never come so easy to Fox Mulder.
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