Dedication: This is a birthday gift to the one and only Goddess Michele, who's immortal phrase, "Walter coming is a beautiful thing," still causes my tummy to flutter, and will continue to inspire me for a long time.

Third Wheels
By J.D. Rush

SATURDAY 
APRIL 19, 1997
SKINNER:

<Oh, man.  What a day!  Walking into the basement office and seeing--no, get that image right out of your head, Walter.  Forget you ever saw your two favorite agents, half-naked, lying across Mulder's desk. . .

You're not doing a good job of forgetting, Walt.

A drink.  That's what I need.  A drink.  Or three.  Maybe then I can forget the forbidden, tantalizing image of delicious Dana's shapely legs spread wide while Mulder--handsome, exasperating, sexy Mulder--leaned over her, his trim hips thrusting against hers, their mingled moans of ecstasy. . .

Oh, yeah--you're doing a GREAT job of forgetting that scene, you old dog.

I think there's a bar just down the end of this street.  Jake's, if I recall.  Yeah, there it is.  I'll just park the car and grab a couple of drinks.

Or ten.>

* * * * * * * * * *

I could barely see when I walked into the dimly lit sports bar.  It was still rather empty due to the early hour, but being Saturday night, it was a sure bet that later on the place would be hopping.  Some hockey game was blaring from the dozen or so TV's situated around the room as I made my way up to the bar and put in my order--scotch, straight, on the rocks.  The bartender placed my drink in front of me, and I was reaching into my pants pocket for my wallet when I heard, "Hey, Skinman--how's it hangin'?"

I almost dropped my wallet as I turned to my left, where the unexpected familiar voice had originated.  "Langly, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me Skinman?" I growled.

"About as many times as you have to tell Frohike not to call you Walt," he replied with a grin.  The bartender tapped the counter impatiently, so I paid him for the drink, then sat down next to Mulder's friend.

<Mulder.  SHIT!  I was hoping to forget about him tonight.>

Trying to make conversation, and hoping to avoid the inevitable topic of our mutual associate, I asked, "Speaking of Frohike, where is he?  And Byers, for that matter?"

Langly's grin disappeared and he mumbled into his mug of beer, "Well, Byers and Frohike. . .it's their anniversary, so I had to make myself scarce." 

"Oh."  What could I say?  I had heard that the elder members of the Gunmen were. . .involved. . .but hear Langly say it so matter-of-factly, and so--forlornly--threw me for a loop.

"What about you?" he inquired, after taking a gulp of Rolling Rock.  "What are you doing in this part of town?"

"Just driving around," I answered vaguely, not wanting to admit the truth to him--or to anyone, for that matter.  "No real destination.  Had a bad day.  Mulder and Scully. . ."  I shivered at the memory of Mulder and Scully, startled out of their coupling when I barged through their office door like a bull in a china shop.  I could still see their looks of horror at my finding them in such a compromising position, but I'm pretty sure my embarrassment was nothing compared to theirs.  And I immediately feared that the fragile trust we had been forging these past few years had been permanently destroyed.

As they had struggled to make themselves presentable once more, I quickly assured them I would not rat them out, but also warned them to use a bit more discretion in the future.  "Next time, it may not be a friend who finds out your secret, but an enemy," I reminded them, sternly.  AD speech complete, I hightailed it out of there before I started to drool--or tore off my clothes and joined them.

But who could blame them, really?  Two gorgeous people all alone in that dark, romantic, empty basement on a Saturday afternoon?  I wouldn't have been able to keep my hands to myself, either.  Hell, I wouldn't kick either one of them out of bed.  And maybe that was the problem--they were together, and I was left out in the cold.  With that insight, I swallowed my drink in one go and gestured for another one.  Something told me I was going to need it.

"Are they okay?" Langly squeaked.  "Nothing happened to them, did it?"  Only then did it occur to me I never finished my thought about his friends.  Poor guy must've been thinking the worse.  

"No, no, they're fine," I rushed to reassure the young man.  "It's just I. . .well, I. . .I caught them in a delicate situation that I really shouldn't talk about."

"Oh," was all he said, then, perhaps noticing that my cheeks, ears, Christ, even my dome had turned beet red, he repeated with clearer understanding, "OH!"  It was obvious from his reaction that he hadn't known about Mulder and Scully's secretive relationship.  He took another sip of his beer then groused, "Sucks when your friends are in a relationship and you're not, huh?" 

"Sucks big time," I concurred.  He finished his beer, and as the bartender approached with my drink, I bought him another one.

"Thanks," he said when the new beer was placed in front of him.  

"You buy the next round," I told him, shrugging my overcoat off, folding it, and placing it on the stool beside me.

"Sounds like a plan."  For a while that was the end of our conversation.  He nursed his beer while I sipped at my drink, the edge of desperation and anxiety that I had when I first entered the bar now gone.  It was a friendly kind of silence, until Langly broke it.  Heaving a huge sigh, he admitted, "I'm glad for them, Skinner."

"Who, Mulder and Scully?"

"No, Fro and Byers.  I'm really happy THEY'RE happy, you know?  It's just when I see the two of them together I can't help feeling like, I don't know. . ."

"Like you're a third wheel," I supplied for him, knowing the feeling all too well.

He nodded his head in agreement, "Yeah, that's it exactly.  I almost wish. . ."

"Like you could join in," I finished, again knowing the feeling all too well.

At that, he just stared at me with those serious owl eyes of his, an almost paranoid look on his face that I was able to read his mind.  "Yeah.  How did you know?" he asked, slowly.

I gave him an inscrutable smile.  "I just know."

He nodded once in understanding, his lips quirking in a half-smile of his own.  After that, conversation once again died out, as we sat there analyzing our own feelings and absorbing what the other had said without saying anything.  Langly was into guys?  I never knew.  But then again, until today, I didn't know about Mulder and Scully, either.  We quietly finished our drinks, and he honored our deal by asking, "What were you drinking. . .ahhh. . .?"  his voice trailing off at the end, unsure how to address me.  

"Scotch, straight, rocks.  And it's Walter."

A big smile.  Not one of Langly's sarcastic smirks but a real smile, complete with dimples.  It made him look young and innocent and cute.  <Cute?  Did I just think THAT about Langly?>  "Cool!  And you can call me Ringo," he stated, and I realized that, in spite of all the time I'd known him, I didn't know his nickname--or indeed, that he even had one.  He handed the money to our bartender from his old beat-up nylon wallet and turned to me, beer in hand.  "A toast.  To third wheels."

"May they someday find wheels of their own," I added, and clinked his glass.

I don't even know how long we stayed in the bar after that--an hour, maybe two.  A couple more rounds of drinks interspersed with interesting, companionable conversation.  Certainly not the way I ever imagined spending a Saturday night--sitting in a downtown bar talking to 'Ringo' Langly of all people.   But it was nice.  HE was nice.  And funny.  And smart.  And so goddamn cute.  Not Mulder handsome, but. . .well. . .cute.  <Why the hell haven't I ever seen this side of him before?>

At some point in his theory of why NASA destroyed its own probes to Mars to hide evidence of Martian civilizations (one that almost made some of Mulder's theories sound sane) I got shoved by a guy reaching for his drink at the bar.  I looked around and noticed it had gotten VERY crowded--oppressively crowded.  I hate crowds.  "Hey, Ringo, wanna go someplace quiet?"  You know how sometimes you speak before your brain is fully in gear? Well, this was one of those times.

He stopped his rambling for a second to look around himself.  "When the hell did THIS happen?" he asked, clearly as surprised as I was.

"Don't know.  Probably during your rant about FEMA and their detention camps," I chuckled.  The boy was just full of whacked conspiracy ideas.  Now I knew where Mulder got them from!

"Sure, laugh now.  But you won't be laughing when your ass is being hauled off to one of them."  He drained the rest of his beer then teased, "So, your place or mine?"

<A come-on?  From LANGLY?  How much did he have to drink?  How much did *I*?  And why does this situation intrigue me as much as it does?>  Figuring I'd play along to see what he had in mind, I commented, "Well, since your place is occupied. . ."

"Your place it is," he grinned, a twinkle in his gray-green eyes, and I discovered I liked the idea A LOT.  

I polished off my drink and grabbed my car keys.  "Let's go."

++++++++++++

LANGLY:

<How the hell did this happen?  One minute I'm minding my own business, drowning my sorrows and wallowing in lonely self-pity at the first bar I could track down--shit, I had to be desperate to be in a fucking SPORTS bar!-- and the next thing I know I'm in a fancy-smancy luxury car on my way back to Walter Skinner's condo.  

I literally have to pinch myself to see if I'm still awake.

Because let's face facts--Skinner is a hunk.  A major fucking hunk.  Old?  Well, I always thought old guys were pretty cool.  Bald?  Who cares?  He's a total stud.  And I'm going back to his place for some hot sweaty sex, if everything goes right.

I pinch myself a second time, just to be sure.

This isn't exactly how I scripted the evening when Frohike kicked me out of the Warehouse earlier, and if I'm going to be honest, I'd rather be with him and John, but that isn't likely to happen anytime soon.  And I'm not delusional enough to think this is anything but a one-nighter for Skinner, either.  It's obvious there are some serious unresolved issues between him and Mulder and Scully.  So, for the time being, we're just two 'third wheels', looking for some companionship.

And what's so bad about that?>

* * * * * * * * * *

When we got to Skinner's condo, he opened the door and allowed me to go in first.  As he closed the door behind us, he turned on the lights but kept them dim, almost romantic.  Taking in the expansive living room, I couldn't stop myself from letting out a low whistle.  

"Something wrong?" he asked, concerned.

"No, just admiring the place.  Nice digs, big guy," I told him, quite impressed.

"Thanks.  Your tax dollars at work."

"Yeah, if I PAID taxes," I snorted.

"Something tells me I don't want to know," he deadpanned, as his hand ran down my neck, casually, seductively, and I couldn't stop the little moan that escaped my throat.  I turned to face him, finding his eyes dark and curious.  He seemed bemused, as if this were new to him.  Or maybe it was just me.  I mean, I'm pretty sure this wasn't what Skinner had in mind when he walked into that bar.  He reached out once more and ran his fingers gently through my hair.  "This is nice," he whispered, in that rich, deep voice of his.  "So silky. . . so sexy."

I like when people appreciate my hair--maybe that's why I keep it.  "Mmmm," I purred, as I melted into his caresses.  "You're kinda sexy yourself," I whispered back, then shyly looked away.  <Did I really just say that to Skinner?  Since when do I have a death wish?>  

Don't know if he liked the shy-boy act or not, but he cupped my chin tenderly and tilted my face up towards him.  Next thing I knew, his lips were pressing against mine, hesitantly, as if unsure this was where the evening should be going.  I quickly shattered his doubts by returning the kiss enthusiastically, pushing my tongue eagerly past his lips.  His hands slide down to cup my ass through my jeans as he pulled me tightly to him, rubbing his growing erection against my own.  A low groan sounded--from him? from me?--as his mouth crushed mine, hungry and demanding.  

With one final squeeze of my butt cheeks, he went about making quick work of my leather jacket, even as the kiss deepened further.  Getting into the swing of things, I slid Skinner's trench coat off those amazingly broad shoulders; it was soon followed by his suit jacket, both of which puddled to the floor, unnoticed.  He then all but ripped my Green Day tee-shirt right off me as I struggled with his tie and starched shirt.  They all found their way onto the floor with the rest of the clothes.  Finally, we're both bare-chested and free to continue necking in his entryway, but he took that moment to break away from my clinch.  He looked down at me, his impossibly dark brown eyes heavy-lidded with lust.  <Man, is he hot!>  "Wait, Ringo," he fairly begged.

"What?"  <Fuck, don't even tell me he's changed his mind!>

But no, it wasn't anything as horrific as that.  "Bedroom," he commanded in a low rumble.  I didn't need to be told twice.

I bowed in jest.  "Lead the way, Skinman."   And indeed he did, grabbing my hand and practically hauling me up the stairs to his private domain.

Once there, he took a moment to carefully remove my glasses, and placed them on the nightstand; his soon joined them.  That accomplished, he strode back to where I was standing, already shaking with anticipation.  He grabbed me roughly around the waist with his right arm, drew me in tightly, and captured my mouth with his.  I whimpered as his tongue swept past mine, stirring my blood to a fevered pitch, and my body hummed with pleasure as I rocked within his embrace.  

After a wild game of tonsil hockey, I dragged my mouth away from his, and began to lay a trail of kisses down his body, his incredible, to-die-for body.  Damn, this was one guy who kept himself in shape.  I could hear his breathing quicken as I licked past his erect nipples, through the soft fur of his hairy chest, and down his washboard stomach.  Reaching the waistband of his pants, I had no choice but to undo the belt and rid him of the bothersome things.  They slid down his muscular legs, revealing snow-white Jockeys, not to mention a more than generous bulge.  

<Fucking A!>

Without a moment's hesitation, I looped my fingers through the elastic band of his undies and yanked them down to join his trousers around his feet.  And in that instant, I found myself gazing at. . .it.  His manhood.  His potent pleasure python.  His mighty sex muscle.  His one-eyed wonder worm.  Even at half-mast it was, let's not mince words, magnificent.  A penis you could quit your job for and spend the rest of your life worshipping.  It was just like the man himself--big, sleek, and powerful, with a definite 'take no prisoners' attitude.  I knew then I was in the presence of greatness.  

<Fucking A+!>

Needless to say I wasted no time in getting further acquainted with his luscious lance of love--shit, he was turning me into a freaking Harlequin Romance!  First I buried my nose in his crotch, getting high on his spicy musk.  When I was in serious danger of coming just from inhaling his lip-smackin' Skinnerscent, I began to run my lips and tongue up and down the steely shaft, mapping out the intricate pattern of raised veins, thrilling to the feel of it twitching and lengthening under my devoted manipulation.  The short little grunts and whimpers coming from Skinner were a major ego-boost, and told me I was on the right track. 

Going for a change of pace, I abandoned his cock for a moment and made a quick detour to his full heavy balls.  I sucked one of the fat little eggs into my hot mouth, bathing it thoroughly and lovingly, tickling it skillfully with my tongue.  Huge hands suddenly clutched my head, blunt fingers brushing stray strands of hair out of my eyes.  To the tune of Skinner's pleasured moans filling the room, I released that orb and started in on its twin.

Having tendered to Walt's little buddies, I made my way to his pride and joy.  Wrapping my hand around the base, I started jerking his crank as I took the pulsating cockhead between my lips.  I plunged the tip of my tongue into the tiny piss slit, gratified by the surprised gasp from above.  "Right there, baby," he growled.  "Feels so good."  

<Did he just call me 'baby'?  Oh, wow!  Talk about heady!>

I spent some time just swirling my tongue all around the sensitive flange, lapping at the tangy pre-cum he was leaking, then slowly began to swallow him whole.  I managed to take in about half of his magic wand before he hit the back of my throat.  Not wanting to go into a gagging fit--which would ruin the whole evening--I backed off until I held just the cap in my mouth.  As I descended on his cock once more, Skinner apparently decided he wanted to take a turn at the wheel, so to speak.  The hands still clasping my head tightened fractionally, just enough to hold me still, while he started to rock his hips easily against me.  I heard a moan of surrender from me, echoed by a groan of conquest from Skinner as I knelt there, permitting him to fuck my mouth.  Grasping onto his brawny legs for balance, I freely turned control over to the big guy, allowing him to ravage me at will.   

I was so lost in the Zen-ness of it all, it barely registered when he gently pushed me away.  Concerned that I had done something wrong, I looked up at him.  He must've seen the anxiety in my eyes because he just smiled and whispered, "I think it's your turn now."

With that, he helped me to my feet, then after a quick, bruising kiss, he pushed me backwards onto the bed.  As I was scrambling for leverage, he dropped to his knees and quickly divested me of my jeans and boxers.  "Nice," he murmured before leaning over and taking the head of my cock in his mouth.  His tongue looped lazy circles around the tender glans until I was bouncing around the bed like a Mexican jumping bean.  His hands, meanwhile, were busy canvassing my torso until they reached my nipples, which he pinched and manhandled to his little heart's content.  I whimpered softly, but that's all I could manage.  It had been so long since I felt any hands but my own on my body, I couldn't even voice how good he was making me feel. 

He went down on me hard, the muscles of his throat massaging every inch of my throbbing cock.  Then he pulled back, his teeth gently nipping the sensitive crown, sending little shocks of delight through my body.  I was all but climbing the walls when he drew back and smiled up at me, his lips shiny and wet with my juices.  "Want me to continue, Ringo?" he asked, smugly.

Hmmmmm.  Difficult question.  Did I want AD Walter S. Skinner to continue slobbing my knob?  Geez, decisions, decisions.  And just to make it more difficult, he threw in playfully, "Or. . .I have some condoms in the nightstand."

Well, I might not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but even *I* got the subtle hint: we could keep going with the oral play, or we could move on to the serious stuff.  One look at the hunka hunka burnin' love sitting at my feet, and the question answered itself.  (Not that it was much of a brainteaser in the first place!) I scooted further up onto the bed and rolled onto my stomach.  Looking over at Skinner, I gave him a shit-eatin' grin and joshed,  "Are they ribbed for my pleasure?" 

"No, but I think they may glow in the dark, if that's your kink," he fired back, already reaching into the drawer.  He threw the box of Trojans onto the bed, along with a freaking huge tube of KY.  

I laughed as I picked it up.  "Jesus, Skinman, I didn't know these things came super-sized!"

Have you ever seen an assistant director of the F.B.I. blush?  Let me tell you, it's really fucking hot.  "It. . .ahh. . .comes in handy during solo missions," he replied, awkwardly.

"Been there, done that, have the calluses to prove it," I joked, as I tossed the lube at him and crawled into position in the middle of the bed.

After making sure I was comfortable on my knees and elbows, he went about the time-consuming, but necessary, process of preparing me.  His slick finger gently probed me, easing the way.  With my encouraging words and nonsense sounds, he soon added a second finger, then a third.  By the time I was rocking onto his hand, begging him to move along onto the main event, he figured out I was ready to go.  I heard the condom wrapper tear and the sounds of rubber being unrolled and slicked down.

Reaching behind blindly, I grabbed his slippery, sheathed erection and guided it towards its mark; it found the target like a heat-seeking missile.  He pushed forward carefully, stretching me wider and wider until I finally felt the head pop in, followed by inch after inch of his hard cock. 

Oh, crap, it burned.  It always did in those first few moments--it had been so long since my last hookup that I had forgotten how much it could hurt.  The pressure of his entry kept me balanced on a fine line between pleasure and pain, but it was the good kind of pain--the kind of pain that leaves you trembling with desire and eager for more.  His lips brushed through my hair and his stubbly chin rubbed against my neck as he sank into me, down to the short and curlies.  

When he was entirely within me, he paused to let me get adjusted to his bulk.   After a few moments I felt the pain melting away and my whole body flooding with sexual heat.  Waves of ecstasy started deep in my belly and spread like wildfire throughout my body.  Once I was ready, I let him know by wiggling my ass, encouraging him into acts of further debauchery.  "Give it to me, Skinman," I sighed.  "Gimme all you got."

I heard a rumbly chuckle at my less-than-subtle hints before he drew back slowly, carefully, and pushed back in deeper than before.  "God, you are so tight, Ringo," he groaned, as he withdrew and plunged deeply once more, his cock filling me as I've never been filled before.  "So tight and hot."  I would've answered him, but I was totally tongue-tied, the feel of him inside of me liberating, almost more than I could withstand.  I was sure I had died and gone to heaven.

Holding my hips steady, he continued to buck into me, increasing the speed of his thrusts, stretching me to the limits of my endurance and racking my body with the most intense sexual rush of my life.  It was like getting fucked by a brick wall.  A nice hard brick wall.  There wasn't a soft spot to be found, from his chest, to his steel-like arms, down to his legs, his thighs, and his splendid cock.  I was drowning in the feel of him taking me, savagely, his strength both scary and exhilarating.  This was no mere roll in the hay--I was getting boned by a real he-man.

And it felt so-o-o-o-o good!
 
"Oh god, fuck me," I gurgled deliriously, as his cock brushed over my prostate, sending sparks down my spine, causing my own dick to vibrate.  "Fuck me good, man."  

Instead of commenting on my demand, he let his body do the talking.  His arms tightened around my waist to steady me as he began pistoning into my body hard and fast.  I gripped the bedding tightly in my fists as he drilled me, his hairy chest hot against my back, grunting with every slam into my body.  I could feel the sweat pouring off him and splashing down on me, hear his animalistic growls of pleasure echoing in my ears.  By this point, he was hitting my joy spot with each thrust, sending sparks of pleasure through every fiber in my body.  

Without further prompting from me, he reached down and wrapped his hand around my engorged cock, stroking it deftly with his large paw.  It didn't take much of that treatment before Skinner felt me tense and started pounding me even harder, as if he instinctively knew I liked it fast and rough when the end was near.  (Or maybe, that's just the way he liked it, too.)  We were both rocking and bucking in the throes of ecstasy, too far gone to care what the neighbors thought of the noise.  I was soon shouting the names to the Holy Trinity and coming with an intensity I had never known before.  

Feeling my release coating his hand, he bellowed loudly, and his strokes lost their rhythm as he finally shot off.  His hips jerked once, twice, three more times before he collapsed over my spent body.  He rested a moment before pushing himself up; he carefully extracted himself from me and fell over backwards onto the bed, gasping for breath.

"Aw, man, that was great," I groaned, breathlessly.

Skinner, still gasping for air beside me, panted, "It was. . .adequate."  

I snorted derisively, "Fuck you, adequate.  It was fanfuckingtastic and you know it."

"If you say so."  And he laughed a full belly-laugh.  Quite frankly, I didn't even know the AD COULD laugh like that.  I liked the sound--a lot.  He cleared his throat, as if to cover up his momentary undignified joviality, and announced, "I'll be back in a sec."  At that, he got out of bed and made his way across the room, giving me an extended view of that great muscular ass of his in motion.  

He left the bedroom for a couple of minutes.  When he came back, the condom had been disposed of and he was all cleaned up.  With a smile, he handed me a wet washcloth and a clean towel.  <Sexy and considerate. . .what a man!>  I quickly wiped myself down and was about to drop the cloths on the floor, until I caught Skinner's glare.  Sheepishly, I handed the towels back to him, which he took and exited the room once more.  This time when he returned, he was empty-handed, and crawled back into bed with me.

Once he was settled, he pulled me close until I was lounging flush against his rock-hard chest.  With his fingers brushing through my hair again, he asked softly, "Are you going to stay here tonight?"

I didn't answer him right away, and not just because I was really enjoying the feel of him pressed against me, or the way his large hands stroked my mane.  Frankly, I wasn't sure what answer he was looking for.  It had been a great evening, but I didn't want to overstay my welcome.  Then again, I had no way to get home--my car was still parked down at Jake's.  So would it be better to inconvenience him now for a ride back to the bar, or inconvenience him by crashing here?  Then again, he wouldn't have asked if he didn't want me to stay, right?  Or was he just being nice?  Then again. . .

"Ringo?" his voice boomed in the now quiet room.  "The questions get harder as we go along, you know."  

That made me smile and gave me the courage to go for broke.  Glancing up at him, I asked hopefully, "Do you WANT me to stay?"

"I wouldn't be opposed to it," he replied, his dark chocolate eyes twinkling with mischief despite the less-than-enthusiastic response.

Well, two can play at that game. "Gee, you certainly know how to make a guy feel wanted," I grumbled, good-humoredly.

Nuzzling my hair he confirmed, in that delicious growl of his, "VERY wanted."  

I grinned up at him.  "Well, since you put it that way. . .how can I refuse?"  So with a final sloppy goodnight kiss, I flipped over onto my side and snuggled down for the night.  I must say I was surprised when I felt Skinner spoon up tightly behind me and throw one of his meaty arms around my waist.  <The Skinman is a cuddler?  This is more than I could have ever hoped for!>  

Surrounded by his warm presence, his delectable aroma still clinging to me, I quickly drifted off to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * *

I woke up the next morning to an empty bed, and some heavenly smells drifting through the room.  <He cuddles AND he cooks?  This could be love!>  I wondered briefly if I should wait for breakfast in bed but decided it might be bad form to assume, so I quickly threw on my clothes, grabbed my glasses, and hurried downstairs.

"Ah, it's alive," Skinner teased, standing by the stove in just a short white terrycloth bathrobe.  "I was starting to wonder."

"You always in such a good mood in the morning?" I grouched.  Pictures of surly AD Skinner arriving at the Hoover whistling and grinning like an idiot sprang to mind and scared the hell out of me.  

"I am if I got laid the night before," he answered honestly, his hand already snaking around my neck as he pulled me in for a kiss.  A real good morning kiss.  A real lips and tongue and teeth kiss.  Morning breath?  Who gives a crap?  Not with a guy who kisses like that!  Our tongues slow danced with each other for a long time, canvassing every nook and cranny before we came up for air.  His voice was still raspy as he gestured to the fry pan and asked, "Hope scrambled eggs and sausage is okay?" 

"You kiddin' me?  It's usually stale donuts and day-old joe at HQ."  I grabbed the pot of fresh-brewed coffee and poured us each a mug while Skinner was busy buttering a plateful of toast.  A few moments later, he slid two plates piled high with hot edible food on the table; he chuckled when he heard my stomach rumble.  (Hey, great sex makes you hungry, you know?)  We both sat down and started to dig in.  

About halfway thought our feast Skinner spoke, inquiring softly, "Have you ever told them how you feel?"

"Huh?" my brain more interested in my meal than any potential conversation. 

"The guys," he clarified.  "Have you ever told them how you feel about them?"

I swallowed my mouthful of egg and started to laugh.  "No.  How could I do that?"

Taking a sip of his coffee, he suggested, "It might be worth a try."

"You  mean. . .ask if I can join them?" I said, incredulously.

"Sound like something you'd be interested in?" he proposed, spearing a piece of sausage and popping it into his mouth.

"You're pulling my leg, right?" I chuckled, nervously.  "I think about it all the time."

"Then go for it."

"I can't," I all but whined.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because. . ."

"Because why?" and now his voice held his patented 'don't-piss-me-off' tone that I swear he must've learned at some 'How to Intimidate Peons' seminar.  

The tone had its desired effect as I shrank away from him.  Running my fingers through my hair, I confessed, "Because. . .Jesus, Walter, I kid them about their relationship all the time, okay?"

"So?"  

"SO. . .they think I'm straight, for Christ's sake!" I hissed.

"Then just tell them the truth," he said, reasonably.

I shook my head ruefully.  "They'll just think I'm just screwing around again."

"Not if you tell them sincerely," he insisted.  "Lay it all on the line.  Tell them how you feel, what they mean to you."

"But a threesome?  Can it possibly work?"  I mean, an occasional ménage-a-trois is one thing, but a long-term relationship?  What were the chances of it surviving?

"You don't know until you try it."  With that, he stood up and retrieved the coffee pot, refilling both of our mugs before returning it to the counter.

"But there's so much to lose if it doesn't work out," I pointed out, reaching for the cream.

"There's a lot to lose if you don't at least try," he replied philosophically, taking his seat once more.

I looked down at my unfinished meal, mulling over his words before pronouncing, "It's risky."

"Life is risk.  If it was easy, it wouldn't be worthwhile."

"That's pretty deep, Skinman," I chuckled.

"I have my moments," he smirked, going back to his breakfast.

Snagging another piece of toast from the communal plate, I posed, "What about you?"

"What ABOUT me?" he mumbled distractedly, busy scooping up a forkful of egg.

"Are you going to tell Mulder and Scully how YOU feel?" I spelled out.

I must've shocked the hell out of him because the fork hung suspended between the plate and his gaping mouth.  "I. . .I can't," he finally stammered.

"Why not?" I challenged.  "You just told me to. . ."

"That was different," he interrupted me in mid-sentence.  "It's not the same.  I mean, Mulder and Scully are a couple. . ."

I crossed my arms over my chest, preparing for battle.  "Yeah, so are Frohike and Byers.  What's your point?"  

He sighed heavily as he lowered his fork and rested it on his plate.  "I'm their boss, Langly," he explained, patiently.  "They're my agents, my subordinates.  I can't initiate a relationship with them.  With EITHER of them.  It wouldn't be ethical."

"But you love them," I reminded him, bluntly.

"Sometimes that's not enough," he replied glumly, as he poked at his eggs.

"It should be enough, Walter," I insisted.  "It should be all that matters."

He nodded sadly, "Yes, it should be."  After that, we went back to eating, all conversation coming to a halt, each of us lost in our own thoughts and cursed by our own loneliness.  And somewhere in my ruminations, I couldn't help but wonder if we were both just wasting our time with all this pointless mooning over relationships that would never happen.  Maybe we should change our game plan.  I mean, if I couldn't have the ones I loved, and Skinner couldn't be with the ones HE loved, then maybe we could. . .

Nah.  Me and Skinner?  Never happen.  It was a nice pipe dream, but that's all it'd ever be.  Then again, who could've seen LAST NIGHT in their crystal ball?  

When the meal was over, I helped him clean off the table without being asked--mom would've been proud--and even helped him wash the breakfast dishes.  By then, it was nearing 10:00, and my host informed me he had to get ready for 11:00 mass.  Yet one more thing I never would've guessed about Skinner, but then again, at that point, nothing should have surprised me.  He disappeared upstairs and came back down around fifteen minutes later--showered, shaved, and looking resplendent in his tailored navy blue suit.

And in that moment, I envied Mulder and Scully more you would not believe.  I would've given anything to have the undying affections of this fine man.  Heaving a deep sigh, I stated, "Guess this means the date's over, huh?"

Straightening his gray silk tie hall mirror, he answered regretfully, "Yeah, I suppose it is.  Can I drop you off back at Jake's so you can pick up your car?"

I put down the Men's Health magazine I had been leafing through and assured him, "Nah, I don't want you to be late for church.  I'll just get a cab or hitchhike or something."

"A cab will cost you a fortune, and you are NOT hitchhiking," he declared, decisively.  "Come on. . .I can make it back in time."

The ride back to Jake's was done in silence, the only sounds coming from the sports station Skinner had the radio set to.  It wasn't really an uneasy silence, just--resigned.  I think we both realized that since the night was now over we were back to our lonely reality, and our third wheel status.  I barely noticed the drivel coming from the sports guys until the car came to a stop right outside the nightclub's parking lot.  Surprisingly (or maybe not) my second-hand 1986 Camero--the one that's more primer than actual original auto body at this point--was still in the parking lot.  Hey, it runs and it's paid off.  That's all I care about.  

"You gonna be okay, Ringo?" he asked softly, the use of my nickname a nice touch.

I felt my voice catch as I mumbled, "Yeah, I'll get by.  You?"

He nodded, a half-smile on his handsome face, and echoed, "I'll get by."  He paused before adding, "Friends, right?"

I slapped him on the shoulder affably.  "Always, Skinman."

"Not if you keep calling me Skinman."  He paused again, then said, "Langly, about last night. . ."

"Yeah. . .last night. . ." I cut him off.  I didn't want him to tell me it was a mistake.  I just wasn't in the mood to hear it.  While it had been unexpected, it had also been one of the wildest nights of my life.  I couldn't bear to hear him say it was a mistake after all.

But he didn't say anything.  He just leaned over and kissed me, his lips gently pressing mine for a second.  And in that instant I knew--it hadn't been a mistake, for either of us.  We were bonded now in a way neither of us ever could have imagined.  It may have only been for one night, but that made it all the sweeter.

When I got out of his car, I didn't turn back.  There wouldn't have been any point.  

SATURDAY
MAY 17, 1997 
LANGLY:

<The night with Skinner haunts me still.  Oh, not the sex.  Well, yeah, okay, the sex haunts me just about every single night.  Many times I've picked up the phone, wanting to call him, wanting to meet him somewhere and have him ravish me again.  But something holds me back--probably the knowledge that it wouldn't work out.  That Saturday night was special, a once-in-a-lifetime moment that can never be duplicated.  Besides, he's in love with Mulder and Scully--and I'm in love with Byers and Frohike.

So I've taken the Beatles' advice and just let it be.

No, what haunts me is the conversation we had the next morning over breakfast.  Can I really tell the guys how I feel about them, that I want to be part of their relationship, that I long to make love to my two closest friends?  The want, the need to belong to them, to merge with them, is like a black hole inside of me sometimes--empty and yearning and so deep I can't find the end of it. 

That's why tonight, it all comes to an end, one way or another.>

* * * * * * * * * *

The guys were sitting side by side on the couch, watching a documentary on Area 51.  Frohike had his arm around Byers; John had his head on his lover's shoulder and Mel was lazily running his fingers through his thick reddish-brown hair.  I noticed Fro was wearing his black-leather fingerless gloves.  I knew John had a serious jones--and he wasn't the only one.  Mel may have a questionable fashion sense, but those stupid gloves were a serious turn-on.  

They looked so happy sitting together, so content, that I almost cried at the beauty of their relationship, and the desire to be part of it just exploded within me.  I took a deep breath and prepared to make my move.

I strolled up to them, intent on ending my torment, but I just couldn't do it.  The words in my mind simply wouldn't make the trip to my mouth.  I was just about to chicken out and relegate myself to a lifetime of regret when it occurred to me that maybe words weren't needed after all.  We had gotten to a point in our lives where we could communicate almost telepathically.  Perhaps I could get my point across without having to speak.

So I grabbed a throw-pillow off a nearby chair and sat down on the floor between the two of them.  As they watched the show, utterly entranced by the lies and the conspiracies, I laid my head on Frohike's thigh, and prayed that he would understand.  

++++++++++++++

FROHIKE:

<Now THIS is the life.  Gorgeous man on my arm, government cover-up documentary on the boob-tube.  Tell me there's a better way to spend a Saturday night. 

If there's one thing--or one person--I could fault, however, it'd be Langly.  He's been up and pacing all night long.  I wish he'd just plant it--he's wearing me out.  Actually, he's been doing that a lot the last couple of weeks.  He seems jumpier than usual--super-caffinated Langly, if you will.  I get the sense something's up with him, but he's also quieter than usual, too.  That alone tells me something's wrong.  I think I'll have a talk with him tomorrow.  Maybe I can drag it outta him.  

Don't think Byers has noticed our friend's condition.  If he has, he's been mute on the subject.  Truth be known, John's been a handful since our anniversary dinner.  That silly little vibrator I got him as a gag gift has gotten quite a workout, if you get my meaning.  I even joked one night that I thought John loved *it* more than he loved me.  He just smiled and blushed that sweet blush of his.  

I send up a silent 'thank you' as Langly grows tired of pacing and comes over to join us.  Finally!  Now maybe we can all enjoy the show together.>

* * * * * * * * * * 
When Langly came over and sat down on the floor at my feet, I took little notice of him, even when he placed his head on my thigh.  Wasn't anything he hadn't done before.  Sometimes the kid got in a cuddly mood.  It's a part of Ringo's charm.

I started absent-mindedly stroking his long hair--again, nothing we hadn't done before--not even aware I was doing it.  To be honest, I was too wrapped up in the program to notice what I was doing.  But suddenly I heard a low sob of longing that I knew didn't come from me or my lover.  John looked over at me, a puzzled expression on his handsome face, so he had obviously heard it, too.  I was just about to comment on it when I felt something pressing against my leg.  I looked down and got the shock of my life:

Ringo was kissing my left thigh, his lips burning me right through my black fatigues.

Now, cuddling was one thing.  THIS was something completely different altogether.  At first I couldn't believe what was happening.  I immediately glanced back at John.  He seemed as confused as I was, but intrigued as well.  Needing more information before we could draw a conclusion, I ran a hand down Langly's cheek, caressing his baby-soft skin; he moved his head until his lips pressed themselves to my wrist.  And if I still had any doubts as to his intentions, they were quickly erased when Langly's tongue began licking over my palm, my glove hardly a deterrent.   Ain't no way THAT was an accident.  

Again I looked at John; his big blue eyes were bigger than I ever remembered seeing them before.  

<Is it possible that his favorite fantasy is about to come true?>

+++++++++++++++

LANGLY:

<Oh God, oh God!  What the hell was I thinking?  He's figured it out.  No way I can bluff my way out of this.  He's going to kill me.  He's going to throw me out on my bony ass and toss all my stuff into the street.  And that's nothing compared to what John is going to do to me.  Why did I do this?  Why did I listen to Skinner?  Why didn't I just leave well enough alone?  

And what do I do now?>

* * * * * * * * * *
I didn't have long to wait to discover all my fears were unfounded.  Before I knew what had hit me, Frohike bent down and kissed me tenderly.  It was little more than a brushing of his lips against mine, but I felt the electric current run down my spine and head straight to my cock.  It was sweet, sweeter than I could have ever imagined, and a low whimper tickled the back of my throat.  

Only when he pulled back did I remember that we weren't alone in the room.  I instantly looked up at Byers, waiting for retribution, for denunciation--or at the very least, a bitch-slap upside the head.  Instead, John leaned forward and kissed me as well.  Again, nothing more than a gentle peck, but it was even sweeter than Frohike's, if that was possible.  I loved the tickly feel of his soft beard, and I felt myself growing even harder.  Without conscious thought, I gripped him by the back of his neck and planted a nice wet one on him.  He gave as good as he got, and when his tongue slipped between my lips, I thought I'd pass out from the thrill of it.

We kept it up until we heard an annoyed throat clearing beside us.  We reluctantly pulled apart only to discover a perturbed Frohike glaring at us.  "Look, I don't mind this in the least, but if I'm gonna be left out, I'm putting a stop to it right now," he announced, tersely.  Not wanting it to end so quickly, I tilted my head up so I could receive his lips.  I groaned loudly when his tongue looped around mine, and I swore I'd cum in my pants.  Shit, no WONDER Byers loves this guy--the little shit really knew how to KISS!  I would never doubt him again when he said, "Once you've had a little taste of Frohike, you'll never go back."

Now I knew what he was bragging about!    

We went on like that for a while, as I alternated between smooching with Byers and Frohike, all the while Mark Hamill rambling in the background about UFO's and alien autopsies.  Eventually, to make it easier on my neck, they both joined me on the floor, and we really went to town.  While I was busy necking with Byers, Frohike went about stripping me down. . .I couldn't help chuckling at his surprised gasp when he realized I was goin' commando.  (Hey, sue me.  I had been hoping I was gonna get lucky.)

I got my chance to return the favor when Mel leaned over and took possession of John's mouth.  Byers was so lost in Frohike's attentions he barely noticed as I stripped him naked.  (Talk about déjà vu!  Only this time, Mulder and Skinner weren't around for the free show.) Which left only Mel.  I figured Byers deserved that honor, so I kept Frohike's lips and mouth busy while John peeled off the clothing layers until Fro was gloriously naked as well.  (Okay, if you're going to get technical, with all that body hair he'd NEVER be as naked as me or John, but you get the point.)  

In all my dreams, everything I had ever imagined, nothing could compare to the actual reality of being with John and Mel.  Hands glided over my body, a thousand of them--or at least it felt that way--petting me, caressing me, gentling me.  Hands were soon joined by mouths, seemingly everywhere at once.  My suggestion to move the activities to a bed only landed on deaf ears. 

I can't remember everything that happened that night.  Missing time, perhaps, or maybe I blacked out from all the pleasure.  I know at one point, Byers had Frohike flat on his back and was giving him the blowjob of the century while I busied myself rimming John's gorgeous ass.  And I seem to recall at another point, *I* was the one lying on his back while both John and Mel went down on me.  And while I'm not sure how, somewhere along the way a funky little vibrator made an appearance.  THAT was a lot of fun.  The only break in the action came when Byers ran out of the room and quickly returned with condoms and lube.

Then the fun truly began.

We must've gone at it an hour at least, maybe longer.  We tried just about every position and combination possible, moving together as though scripted, playing parts we had known for years.  When we couldn't take any more pleasure, when the magic was reaching its crescendo, we all sat against the couch, each taking hold of the one closest to him and stroking him to orgasm--me first, Byers second, Frohike bringing up the rear.  And as the last shudder ebbed and the last cry of passion died on the wind, we collapsed into a sated, giggling heap.  

In fact, that's where we ended up spending the night, curled up right there on the floor--we simply didn't have enough energy to move to a bedroom.  John was able to snag a couple of pillows off the couch and Frohike snatched up a blanket, and we made the best of it, just like we always do.  The original Three Amigos. 

As I snuggled against Frohike, who in turn was snuggled against John, I mused that maybe everything would work out after all.  And with my last conscious thought before sleep claimed me, I prayed that someday Walter could conquer his fear and talk to Mulder and Scully.  I so wanted him to find the same happiness and acceptance and love I had found.

He had been a third wheel for too long.

THE END