Lots and Lots of Snow

It seemed both logical and appealing. A weekend getaway, a convenient cabin, one with a fireplace big enough to stand in, and a chance for safe, quiet conversation.

Walter Skinner couldn't believe it had gone so horribly wrong.

The trip up was a slow one, with snow flurries and slick roads keeping their speed down, but Mulder hadn't complained (much), and he had let Walter concentrate on his driving, only occasionally coming up with some arcane weather statistic that really didn't interest him much ("Did you know that winter was 102 days long in Toronto, Ontario this year, Walter? The average length is forty-two days.").  Mostly he just played with the radio, and sang badly when he found a song he liked ("Yeah he always had some mighty fine wine...come on, Walter, chorus…")

They had found the cozy dwelling easily, following Walter's friend's most excellent directions. Unloading the car was done far more efficiently than either man expected, with no damage done despite the snow, which was making the path from car to cabin treacherous ("Good thing you were here to catch me, Walter."). In less time than it takes to tell, they were unpacked and relaxing on the couch, waiting for a simple pasta dish to warm in the oven, and sharing one of several bottles of wine they had brought with them.

Dinner was delicious. The conversation between them was light and unforced, ("You should have seen it, Walter-nothing but net!") and Walter thought, not for the first time, that it was just what they needed, both of them, for their own reasons. 

A fire was lit in the massive stone hearth, more wine followed a perfunctory clean up of the kitchen, and a slow sensuous bout of living room lovemaking followed the wine, with the only witness to their passion the snow that continued to fall thick and silent around the cabin. Blanketing the road they had driven, the footpaths they hoped to explore together after the storm, and most of the surrounding foliage, the snow created a heightened sense of intimacy, rather than claustrophobia.

Basking in an almost overwhelming afterglow that he never would have expected to find outside of a cheesy romance novel, let alone experience, Walter decided that the timing would never be better. He could see in every curve and line of his lover's body the same sense of peaceful languor and utter contentment that he was feeling, and he asked the question.

His answer came in the form of another orgasm coaxed lovingly out of his body by Mulder, and a string of breathy affirmations from Fox when he returned the favor. They fell asleep watching the storm, limbs loosely entwined.

And when Walter woke in the deepest part of the night, the chill as the fire went out dragging him from his sleep, Fox was gone.

Walter Skinner was not a man prone to panic. He found lights, found clothes, found paper and wood and started the fire up again. He called out his lover's name, and checked every room. Twice. He told himself not to think about the Consortium, aliens, or the snow, which was now hitting the large living room windows with an angry blatting sound as the wind picked up. He told himself not to worry, that Fox was capable of taking care of himself. Even at three in the morning. Even in a snowstorm. Even, apparently, without a coat-it was still hung on a peg by the door.

He took several deep breaths, trying to douse the coal of hot panic he could feel beginning to burn in the pit of his stomach with rational water. And suddenly, he knew what had happened.

Grabbing his coat off of the peg next to Mulder's, he slipped his feet into sturdy hiking boots, and was just about to open the door when he heard a muffled thumping on the other side of it that made his heart leap into his throat.  He didn't have his gun.

He had to pull hard on the door to get it to open. Drifted snow and fierce wind seemed determined to keep him inside. The dull thudding noise was repeated, and with a terrific yank, Walter forced the door open.

A flurry of loose flakes, a small avalanche of wind-sculpted sleet and a snow-covered Mulder all blew into the room in the wake of the storm.

Walter slammed the door shut with more force than was necessary, then turned to where Mulder had fallen to one knee, and was struggling with the snow encrusted laces of his running shoe. His bare hands were red and shaking and he was doing a poor job of it, but he carried on valiantly, ignoring both Walter and the clumps of wet snow that were clinging to his sweatpants.  More thick flakes coated his sweater and his hair.

Walter watched for the briefest of moments, feeling an overwhelming urge to pick up his bedraggled lover by his cold, snowy shoulders and shake the shit out of him. Relief quickly overcame anger, though, as he knelt in front of Mulder and brushed his hands away from his shoe. He deftly untied the double-knotted lace, feeling snow melt under his nimble fingers. He helped Mulder slip the runner off, then held his hand out for the other foot, noting a wince as he switched from one knee to the other, and a pained hiss that he bit off abruptly as their eyes met.

"Fell," he whispered.

"I see." 

"Twice."

Walter got his other shoe off, helped him stand, and began brushing ineffectually at his snow-covered clothes. 

"Mulder, you're crazy."

"You're not the first person to point that out, Walter." This was mumbled through chattering teeth, and the trembling of his body dislodged more snow than Walter's best efforts had.

"You're going to catch pneumonia." Without waiting for a reply, Walter pulled both the black v-neck sweater and the white t-shirt under it over Mulder's head, and the shivering increased. Snow-caked pants and socks followed, and he left them on the floor to add to the puddle of snowmelt already forming.

Walter steered his naked lover towards the fireplace with a warm hand on his cold back, moving slowly enough to facilitate Mulder's limping gait, but quickly enough to keep actual hypothermia at bay. As he pushed him to his knees in front of the warm flames, he noted with some concern the redness of his feet, hands and face, in startling contrast to the paleness of the rest of his skin. He quickly found the blanket they had been using earlier and wrapped it around his shoulders. He dropped a light kiss on wet hair, then muttered sternly, but affectionately, "don't move."

Mulder didn't reply, and Walter didn't wait. He scooped up the wet clothes from the doorway, avoided stepping in the cold water they left behind, just barely, and left a dripping trail to the bathroom, where he dropped them in the tub. He grabbed one of the towels off the rack, made a quick detour to the bedroom to pull the quilt from the bed, and then returned to his lover's side.

Mulder had switched to a sitting position, with his knees pulled close to his chest. Walter draped the second blanket over him as well, and used the towel to briskly rub the remaining snow and water from his hair. Mulder wanted to complain, about being babied, about being ordered about, about being manhandled, but his rebellious inner twelve-year old was effectively smothered by his needy inner four-year old, whose physical and emotional longing Walter's fussing was warming more than the blankets or fire could ever do.  He closed his eyes, felt Walter's strong hands on his head and neck, felt tears pricking at his eyelids, and put his head down on his arms. 

Walter disappeared, then returned an unknown time later with tea and a third blanket. He had changed out of the clothes he'd originally put on, having gotten them wet attending to his lover, and was now wearing just plaid drawstring pants. 

He silently held out the mug of tea, and Mulder took it, both hands covering the cup, and Walter's hand, just for a moment. 

Mulder didn't need to be told his hands were freezing, and Walter didn't say it. Just took the tea away from him, setting it well out of tipping reach, then took cold fingers in his own and rubbed, softly at first, then with more vigor, coaxing blood and warmth into the extremities. He frowned at a small white patch on the very tip of Mulder's ring finger, brought both hands up to his mouth and blew gently on them. Then he kissed the spot, and massaged a little more.

He let go of the other man's hands, and gave him back the tea, stretching out on his side next to Mulder and propping up his head with one arm. 

Silently, both men contemplated the fire, the storm, the question.

Finally Mulder turned to his lover, who gave him a wry glance and an arched eyebrow.

"Jogging, Fox?"

"Gotta keep in shape."

"At three in the morning?"

"Wanted to beat the crowd."

"In a snowstorm?"

"I like a challenge."

More silence, not entirely uncomfortable, and Walter sat up and massaged Mulder's feet, which had warmed considerably, although he noted two more of those tiny white spots-frostbite, he supposed, although not nearly as bad as it could have been. Mulder winced as he put pressure on an ankle, but said nothing.

Walter touched his knee.

"Did I scare you that bad?"

Heavier silence, pregnant with fear and fat full of expectation. Mulder's throat worked, and he swallowed tears with the last of his tea, then tried to smile at Walter, his eyes sparkling in the firelight.

"The rest of our lives, Walter?"

"Yours won't be all that long if you keep up the late night blizzard jogging." Spoken dryly, but his eyes were dark.

Mulder frowned and answered "thanks," with a sarcastic lilt to his voice.  He stretched his legs towards the fire, and Walter rested his head on a blanketed thigh, turning his body until he was lying more or less comfortably, and still able to look up into his lover's face.

"That's a long time," said Mulder.

"I like a challenge." Walter tossed the words back at him, almost playfully, surprising a laugh out of him.

"How'd you get to be such a smart ass?"

"Didn't you know, it's a pre-requisite course for life with you. Scully got an 'A'"

"Nice." His tongue felt fat in his mouth, and he sniffed at his empty cup suspiciously. "You spiked my tea."

"Grand Marnier. I wanted you warm."

Mulder touched the side of his face. "I'm warm."

Walter got up and Mulder took a moment to appreciate the play of firelight across the strong broad muscles of his lover's chest, shoulders and back as the older man relieved him of his cup and took it back to the kitchen.

The domestic sounds of another person moving around another room comforted Mulder, and he admitted it to himself, surprised at the peaceful acceptance of the admission.

Walter returned to the room with another cup of tea, and a snifter half-full for himself, and sat down behind Mulder, handing him the tea and then pulling back the blankets a little to kiss the exposed neck. Mulder responded with a little shiver that had nothing to do with the cold, and leaned back, letting his body shift forward so that when Walter put his arms around him, his head was supported comfortably on the broad expanse of Walter's chest.

Mulder covered Walter's arms with his own, squeezed tightly, then pulled one arm up so that he could drink his tea.

Walter had set his drink aside, and felt no urge to retrieve it. Instead, he just held his lover tightly, pressed the side of his face to the top of his head, and listened to the spits and spats of snow being driven into the windows by the wind.  He added warm thoughts to the fire, tea and blankets, wondering if Mulder could feel them, then chuckling quietly at his own folly.

Mulder shifted to look up at him with an unsure smile, which Walter kissed. The smile got a little bigger, so he did it again.

"That's nice."

"Do you want to give me an answer?"

"Tenacious."

"Yes."

"Can I have another kiss?"

"Not what I was expecting, but-" This kiss was longer, deeper, more intense. Walter could taste Grand Marnier and something sweeter as his tongue slid into Mulder's mouth. Both men were left breathless when Walter pulled away. He reached for his glass and took a sip of the sweet orange liqueur.

"I won't wear white."

Walter could swear he felt his heart physically jump in his chest, but he kept his tone as even as Mulder's when he replied, "I don't think white is an option at this point."

"Do you think Scully would wear sea-foam for me?"

Mulder felt Walter's chest shake with suppressed laughter.

"She's shot you before with less provocation than that."

He couldn't argue with that, so he drank his tea instead, wondering if he was starting to feel light-headed from the drink, or from the commitment he knew he was making. 

"I think I can feel my feet again," he commented.

"Good deal." Walter finished his drink and wrapped both arms around his lover again and whispered into his ear. "Are we doing this?"

Mulder's voice was soft, but not hesitant. "God help you, Walter, I think we are."

"Good." He let his hands slide a little south, and caught Mulder's gasp on his tongue. "Wanna fool around?" he murmured against his lover's mouth.

"Well, sure," came the reply, "Since you've promised to make an honest woman out of me."

Rich laughter, and another kiss, and it was warm and good, and Mulder knew he'd found a truth he'd never expected, in himself, in Walter, and there was no running away from it.