"Are you drinkin' with me, Jesus?
I can't see you very clear.
Are you drinkin' with me, Jesus?
Would you buy a friend a beer?"

***

"You're drunk."

"You're right."

"I'm always right."

"Oh, would you listen to this!"  Skinner cuffed Mulder good-naturedly across the back of his head with one large hand, a move that Mulder had mostly learned to ignore in the past, although, if pressed, he might have admitted to finding the bear-like gesture "cute", or "endearing", in that slightly possessive way.

However, more beer than he was used to, coupled with having burned off most of the calories consumed during the day one way or another, resulted in him stumbling a little under the glancing blow. 

Though nearly as drunk as his companion, Skinner had more of an affinity for it, and he caught Mulder before he could fall, held him at arms length until he recovered his balance, then hugged him sharply.

"*You're* drunk."

Mulder just grinned and hiccuped at him.

Skinner laughed softly, then kissed his lover thoroughly and hungrily, feeding him a thousand unspoken emotions with his lips and tongue.

Mulder leaned into the embrace, letting Skinner hold him up as he returned the kiss, tasting scotch and lust in equal amounts and relishing the sharp taste of both.

After a time, Skinner pulled away and offered a smile, sweet and sexy and beautiful for it's rarity.

"That was nice," he said.

Mulder knew that he wasn't just talking about a drunken kiss here in the parking lot of a honky-tonk bar on the outskirts of town, with the only ambience provided by moths flitting around yellowing parking lights, and the whiny strains of a Mojo Nixon ballad drifting out of the propped open bar door.

"Yes. Nice."

A lame word at best, but Mulder couldn't find the sober part of his mind's thesaurus to search for anything else.  The whole day had been 'nice'; from room service breakfast to this moment, and everything in between.

They'd spent the entire morning in bed, sans agenda, sans clothes. An experiment with the bed spread, orange marmalade and a half-bottle of champagne that Mulder had ordered with breakfast had resulted in both of them having to take another shower, this one together, then having to make amends in the form of a hefty tip for the housekeeping girl who was left with the job of cleaning up the mess. Despite Mulder's protest, Skinner didn't think what they'd done could be considered art, modern or otherwise.

They soon discovered that the town was rustic and quaint, but not overly so.  Modern conveniences meshed with old-fashioned charm, making it a place with plenty to do, and with enough variety to hold both men's interest.

They were both pleased with their finds at a pottery collective set up in a warehouse near their hotel.  Skinner spent a long time chatting with a one-armed man who had adapted his craft after the war and was now more than a little skilled in sculpting Vietnamese masks and other artifacts.  The only thing Skinner was happy to have brought back from the war with him was an appreciation of Asian art, and he picked out a mask to take home with him, a simple human face, but one layered with deceptive glazes, that when held up in the right light revealed the colourings and markings of a jungle tiger, golden of eye, tawny and black.

If Skinner was pleased with his purchase, Mulder was downright ecstatic about the gift he picked out for Scully. Walter didn't understand the significance of the pure white nativity scene, complete with manger, angels and assorted livestock, but found himself laughing out loud when, after the sale was complete, Mulder borrowed paint from a woman creating landscapes out front of the warehouse, and, after double-checking on the hue with the artist, proceeded to turn the Virgin Mary's hair just the right shade of red, and then, with a finer brush, he put black glasses on two of the wisemen, and insisted that Scully would love it.

Mulder made Skinner try some homemade fudge bought at a roadside stand also specializing in chokecherry jelly, fresh honey and pickled eggs, and Skinner bought Mulder an iced moccachino from a Starbucks that was unique by virtue of it's very existence in this quiet rural community. 

At a toy store, Skinner found a stuffed dog which made Mulder frown nervously until he told him it was for William, and Mulder insisted on searching a second hand music store for Ramones bootlegs for Langly. Neither one noticed the surreptitious glances each gave to the rings displayed in a jewelry store window, but it didn't matter much, since neither man was ready to enter that store just yet.

A late lunch that was very nearly supper was take-out from Mickey D's, despite Skinner's protests. When he saw the longing in Mulder's eyes as he gazed up at the menu, however, he acquiesced and grudgingly ordered a salad and coffee, then watched with amazement and a little envy as the lean young man worked his way steadily through two burgers, super-size fries and a large coke. And then went back for an apple pie, eating it in three quick bites, complaining about burning his tongue on the filling, then giving Skinner's almost chuckle a dark glare and warning him of the dire consequences of any apple pie filling jokes. He'd already heard 'puppy' once or twice since they'd set out, and he still wasn't sure if he was happy about it, although he had to admit, Skinner never embarrassed him with the name, always keeping his voice low when he said it. And he generally followed it with a light touch, or a sudden warmth in his dark eyes that let Mulder know just how much he meant to him. So maybe it wasn't such a bad thing. Just as long as Scully never found out…

After eating, Skinner suggested a nap, Mulder suggested a run. They compromised by getting directions to a large park in the center of town. A quick stop at the hotel so that Mulder could change and Skinner could pick up his almost finished paperback, and they were gone again.

They had to drive to the park, and left the truck in a lot near a man made lake. They found a bike path around the lake, and Mulder jogged off following it, while Skinner made himself comfortable on the grass under a large elm just off the path. He could glance up from his book every once in a while and follow the progress of his lover as the man made his way easily around the path. 

Less than an hour later, Skinner was finished his book and Mulder was stretched out next to him, flexing his thighs and calves, then massaging same, and Skinner watched appreciatively, then helped a little, after a quick glance around that spoke more of caution than fear. Discovering that they were for all intensive purposes, alone, gave them freedom to relax into one another for a time, and Mulder found himself lying with his head in Skinner's lap, nearly falling asleep as the other man played with his hair.

"I feel like Ferris Bueller," Mulder murmured.

The reference was lost on Skinner, but he assumed it was a good thing, and he found himself feeling content as well, simply pleased to be here, in a place where no one knew them, no one had a secret agenda that involved him or his lover, and no one was pointing guns at them.

Not that he could have done anything if they were. Oh, sure, he'd brought his gun along—it was almost ingrained in him to do so—but it had spent the trip in the glovebox, and he had no desire to pull it out. It was clean, and loaded, but he hadn't touched it since then, and hadn't fired it since—

He cut that thought off abruptly, and Mulder jerked under him as his hand tightened reflexively in the other man's hair.

"What?" he demanded.

Skinner frowned down at him and didn't know how to answer.  He pulled him up into his arms instead, gave him a strong, almost painful hug, and said, "Wanna get a drink?"

"Are you buying?"

"You bet."

And so, more directions from the hotel staff, another shower for Mulder and a change of clothes for them both, and they were soon ordering scotch and beer from a barely dressed, barely legal bartender in a tragically stereotypical country bar. Nasty songs about the man who got away, the woman who stole him and a little lady's right to choose blared out of a jukebox in the corner, a dance floor filled the center of the room and was occupied by a tiny old couple in matching red gingham who would apparently two-step to anything, and the entire bar smelled of stale beer, cigarettes and farm machinery.

Not the usual haunt for either man, urban dwellers and office workers both of them, but there was something so indescribably sad and cheesy about the whole place that Mulder instantly fell in love with it, and Skinner fell in love with his reaction.

Mulder borrowed quarters like a kid to play more bad music, and Skinner frowned when he got caught tapping his foot to some twangy ode to Cleopatra. Skinner in turn challenged Mulder to arm wrestle after watching two good ol' boys in a corner booth who both obviously had more biceps than brains do the same. Mulder had had a couple of beers by then, and actually came close to winning…once. Skinner thought briefly about giving in to Mulder's pride, but a snide remark about brawn vs. brains from the man, and Skinner was more than happy to painfully pin the man's arm three times in a row and demand that he buy the next round.

They got into a heated debate about their favorite football teams, which apparently was loud enough to put them in good stead with the other patrons, then had a far softer argument about the merits of Wet over Astroglide, which was quiet enough that the waitress kept flirting with Mulder, and the female half of the senior dance couple actually grabbed Skinner's ass with a blush and a giggle as she left the dance floor and made her way past his bar stool to the ladies room. Mulder almost fell off his barstool at that, and Skinner knew he'd be hearing about it for days to come.  He decided to let that thought drown in more scotch, and called for another round.

The weekday crowd came and went, the drinks came, and went, and they didn't seem to be running out of things to say. It was an odd sensation for both men, but they opted to simply enjoy one another in this new surprising way, and even when he started to feel a little dizzy, Skinner didn't want the evening to end.

Mulder decided they should call it a night when it took him nearly ten minutes to maneuver his way to the bathroom, and another ten minutes to remember what he was doing there.

And now here they were. Drunk and necking in the parking lot like a couple of teenagers. And it felt good. It felt right. It felt…nice.

A truck barreled down the road next to the parking lot, but they didn't notice it until they heard the screeching of the brakes, and voices yelling. Both men looked over, startled, to see more farm-tanned, cap-wearing, barely evolved fellows much like the ones inside the bar.

"C'mon, let's go," Skinner said, suddenly feeling uneasy.

"Faggots!" yelled a voice from the truck.

"Oh, shit," Mulder whispered. They backed away from the truck full of hooligans, and towards their Blazer.

Skinner didn't see who threw the thing, but he assumed from the force of the throw and the arc needed to carry a slurpee cup that distance, that it must have been the guy in the bed of the truck. All he knew was that one moment he was starting to turn away, relieved that they were apparently going to get out of this situation unscathed, and the next moment his face and chest were wet and sticky, and coke slurpee was dripping from his glasses.

Guffaws of a Cro-Magnon quality greeted this pitching display, and then the truck was gone in a spray of gravel and more name-calling.

Skinner pulled off his glasses, and Mulder was there beside him.

"Oh, hell, Walter, are you all right?"

Skinner gave him a level look, nonchalantly tried to clean his glasses with his shirt, and they both tried to ignore the coke dripping from the end of his nose.

"Homophobia in the sticks really sucks," he said.

And suddenly, despite all that they had done, or not done, the day wasn't half so nice as it had been just a moment ago.