Something Like Grace

By Gwyneth Rhys

gwyneth@drizzle.com

What would it mean to say, I loved you in my fashion?

Surveying the wreckage of the apartment, Assistant Director Skinner noticed a picture frame lying face down on the blood-soaked carpet. He bent to pick it up, but was stopped by the tut-tutting of one of the forensics people. A latex-gloved hand clamped over his forearm and he froze.

"Evidence, sir." The forensics guy seemed impossibly young to Skinner. His blond hair swept sideways, bangs curved into a curl on top of his head. The bright-eyed, fresh-faced countenance made Skinner think of Herbie, the dentist elf from Rudolph, The Red-Nosed Reindeer. He had to stifle the bubble of laughter that threatened to burst forth, so he shook the hand off and twisted his face into a scowl. But the more he looked at him, the more he wanted to laugh. He directed his gaze downward.

Herbie bent and lifted the frame gently. Skinner could see the photo clearly now. Fox and Samantha Mulder. A photo similar to the one in Mulder's personnel file. They must have been taken at the same time.

"Finish cataloging this. I need it," he barked.

Herbie nodded, a tinge of suspicion on his face. Having an assistant director checking out the scene of what appeared to be an average murder was unusual, as unusual as the FBI handling the forensics instead of the local police. One advantage of Skinner's position, though, was that he didn't have to explain anything he didn't want to.

As many times as Skinner had visited crime scenes, it never failed to unnerve him to see so much damage. There was something eerie about the taped outline of a body. And this was eerier than usual, because the body had been missing when the police arrived. There was no doubt there *had* been a body. The blood had practically done the outlining itself, and it was obvious the corpse had been dragged.

The clear evidence of death didn't stop him from expecting to see the dead man appear, wraith-like, from around the corner. Skinner had a hard time believing the smoker could actually die. In some ways the man had already seemed dead. Just visiting from Hell for personal amusement.

The window was shattered, things flung here and there, a pack of Morleys all over the floor. Skinner's guess was that the smoker had been expecting it. He walked over to stand by the window and looked out at the building across the street. A perfectly clear line of sight.

It was not so long ago that Skinner himself had stood in front of the bastard and fired a gun at him. Now someone else had done the work for him, but it was just as it had been then: nothing resolved, nothing fixed. Scully hanging by a thread.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled. "Sir?" Herbie was holding the picture out to him; it had been taken out of its shattered frame. "You can take this, but..."

"I'll take care of it."

Herbie shrugged.

Skinner tucked the picture into the large pocket of his suit jacket and looked around the apartment one last time. He couldn't even imagine how he would approach this with Mulder. Things were so different between them now. A kind of frost had settled over them since Skinner's trip abroad; they were cool, formal, aloof.

He left the noisy, airless room and walked slowly down the hallway, thinking of a different hallway a few days ago. The shrug of Mulder's shoulders, the ripple of his back as he had walked away from Skinner. *Thanks, buddy.* Mulder's smart-ass distancing mechanisms were so annoying. Yet when push had come to shove, there had been no doubt in Mulder's mind whose side Skinner had been on. It had been written on his face as sharp and strong as diamond. *Look,* he seemed to be saying. *Look how much I believe in you.*

In that awful, dark conference room, everything had shifted: his relationships to Mulder, Scully, his coworkers and even the world around him. He was being sacrificed and it was only Mulder who could come to his rescue. The betrayals, the lies and the deceptions had all come home to roost, and he would have been pilloried in front of the Bureau's best. Drawn and quartered, not for the crimes he *had* committed, but for crimes others had committed against him, against Mulder and Scully. He had waited breathlessly to see what Mulder would say, knowing his neck was still in the slipnoose. And when Mulder had named Blevins, something twisted inside Skinner. He had heard the ringing sounds of Mulder's words, falling like pearls from a necklace unstrung.

Then Skinner's fears had scattered in the dust Mulder left, and they had sat watching each other through the loess, gauging the truth and trust that lay between them, sizing up a new view of the world. Mulder had graced him with his trust.

Reaching his car, Skinner looked at the young, innocent face in the photograph. In a few short months after that picture was taken, everything would change in Fox Mulder's life. The course would be set for the man he would become: the tortured, driven, haunted adult who could never forget the other life contained in that photo. He would become the man Skinner could not excise from his soul, no matter how desperately he tried to cut him away.

This picture would change something. He didn't know exactly what yet, but it would be a catalyst for some kind of mutation in their relationship. He could feel that in the quiver of his hands and the rustle of air around him. There was movement here. Towards what destination he didn't know; and whether he could stop it, he also didn't know. It was glacially slow. But he was moving somewhere.

Mulder was sitting in the hallway of the hospital when Skinner arrived. There was something changed about him too.

The look on Mulder's face when Skinner told him the smoker was dead was somehow surprising -- not relief, as he'd expected, not surprise, as he'd hoped, not even a vengeful glee. He handed the photograph to Mulder, and the odd look of acceptance -- as if Mulder were thinking, *oh, that's where it had got to* -- put Skinner's radar into a madly beeping frenzy. He watched Mulder carefully, searching for the transparent emotion, the raw essence of his feelings.

Inside him, Skinner could feel something click. Not loudly, just a soft, definite sound, and he knew that there was something different about Mulder, and about Mulder's relationship to the smoker. And it was something Mulder was keeping secret.

Well, there were secrets Skinner was holding onto, as well. At some point, perhaps they could both parcel their secrets out to each other, like tiny gifts from each others' souls.

Walter was nothing if not patient. He would see Scully first. Then maybe he would peel the thorny layers of this mysterious Mulder away like an artichoke, and find the soft heart at the inside.

Mulder turned his megawatt smile on Skinner and told him of Scully's remission. Relief flooded through Walter, but he wasn't sure if his happiness were triggered by this news, or by seeing that smile on Mulder's face.

He got up, steeled himself to see her, and opened the door to her room. Her family was there. She gave him that smile -- that mildly ashamed, apologetic smile -- and he felt like something had been lifted off him, some shroud of darkness he'd been wearing without even knowing it.

When he left Scully's room Mulder was still sitting there, the picture nowhere to be seen. The smile that had lit his face like fireworks was gone and he seemed contemplative, resigned. Skinner stood beside the chair. Mulder almost looked as if he'd been crying.

"Did you drive?"

"No," Mulder answered, leaning his head back against the wall. "Took a cab."

A soft, long breath escaped Skinner's mouth, and he twitched his head sideways. "You need a ride home?"

The long silence that greeted this stretched out between the two of them, across a deep chasm. Finally Mulder turned his head and looked Skinner straight in the eye. "Yes. I do." He rose slowly. "I'd like to say good-bye to Scully first."

"Car's out in the load/unload. I'll wait." He nodded and turned away.

When Mulder finally opened the passenger door he slid silently into the seat and casually tossed his jacket into the back, as if he rode with Skinner every day. There was no sense of the formality with which they had carried on their lives for the past few months, the distance that had divided them.

He'd hardly seen Mulder at all in the months since he'd returned from Thailand and Japan. Their paths crossed only occasionally for brief moments, with Scully usually the buffer between them. There had never been a hint of what had passed; Mulder was reliably removed, respectful. Until the day Skinner had received the call saying Agent Mulder's body had been identified as a suicide, he'd managed to develop a solid, discreet distance from his employee.

Mulder slumped into the seat and Walter silently put the car in gear. Would they dance around this change like they'd danced around it all before? Or would Mulder suddenly blurt out some emotional proclamation and start the whole thing rolling down the hillside again? It was a slippery slope that led right to a cliff, as far as Skinner was concerned.

He had practically had to scream at Mulder, *Let me help you save yourself.* And all he got in return was more crap, or so he'd thought at the time. *Thanks, buddy.* Why hadn't Mulder just stuck a knife into his heart and twisted it a couple times? He could have done as much damage.

"Why didn't you cave in to the pressure?" Skinner finally asked, breaking the ice.

Mulder turned his face towards him and Skinner took his eyes off the road momentarily to glance at him. He looked so tired and worn down, completely different from the keyed up, excited and flushed state he'd been in at the hearing.

"Because I know you."

Skinner could feel his grip tightening on the steering wheel. He dare not look at Mulder this time. "Maybe you don't. There are some things... some things I haven't told you."

Mulder seemed to consider this for some time. Skinner could feel the tension build in the car; it reminded him of the way it felt after an explosion, the air and sound displaced by the pounding in your head, the blood squeezing the air out of your lungs.

"I've got time."

They drove for a while longer before Skinner finally decided which secret to drop into Mulder's lap, his tiny bit of treasure. "The other night. I followed you from the hospital. I'd come to see Scully and check on her progress and I saw you leave, so I tailed you. I saw... that woman, the one who was with you before. Was it really your sister?"

"I don't really know for sure if it *was* Samantha. I believe it was. But she... pushed me away. Now that he's dead, I have no way of contacting her. I have to wait for her to come to me. And that's the only way I can know for sure."

They'd reached Mulder's apartment building. Skinner pulled up next to a car on the street. Mulder opened the door and turned to look at him, the car's interior light reflecting off the planes of his face. "You want some coffee? A beer?" He kept his words carefully neutral, there was no hint of whether he hoped the answer was yes or no.

Skinner had begun to feel that everything was defined by that now: one word, spoken either in haste or from lengthy consideration. It didn't matter which. Whatever would happen in their relationship, it would hang on one word. He had no idea yet whether the word would be yes or no.

Eventually he shook his head. "Better not. It's been a hell of a day, and tomorrow will be worse. You look like you need the sleep, anyway." But he'd felt that little shiver of desire, momentarily at least, tremble inside him. Just to be with Mulder again, even to sit across a room from him and memorize the shape of his face... At times like this, he could almost imagine crossing the chasm.

Mulder made a little waving motion with his hand. "Thanks. For everything." He walked away into the yellow glow of the porch light.

He had taken good care of her apartment, and she seemed pleased when they stepped inside the door. There wasn't much in the bag of things her mother had brought to the hospital. He took the bag and set it on the small chair in her bedroom, then turned to see her standing in the doorway. In spite of her recovery, Scully still looked so pale, so fragile. Silhouetted against the light from the living room she looked less like a human of matter and substance than a ghostly, shimmering image.

The look on her face was unnamable to him. A little wry, a little fearful. A little concerned. Mulder moved to her and put his arms around her, resting his chin upon her head. He could feel her tiny arms snake around his waist, then clutch him tightly, her face buried in his neck.

Closing his eyes, Mulder said, "For a really long time, I kept thinking there was some kind of vocabulary I didn't know that would allow me to express all the things I wanted to say to you. I could feel us drifting apart sometimes, as though the only thing that could keep us tethered together was words I just didn't know." He stroked her hair. The gentle rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest was soothing. "That night I came into your room while you were asleep..." As always, he didn't have to finish his sentences.

She didn't move or exhibit any surprise. "Why didn't you wake me? Was there something else you didn't tell me?"

"I couldn't. I had learned something earlier in the evening -- I wanted to tell you, but I was so afraid of all the things that would come spilling out. It was something so shattering for me that in many ways, I couldn't even think about it. I could only react on the most base emotional level. I sobbed by your bedside. I wanted to wake you, to talk to you, as if talking to you would make it real and understandable. But I was so afraid of all the things I'd done to you and to everyone I know... Your brother called me one sorry son of a bitch. And he was right."

Finally she moved her head back and looked up into his eyes. They were as crystalline blue as he'd ever seen them, the light in his own eyes reflected back to him in a purity of understanding. "He had no right to say that to you."

Mulder ran his fingers along the line of her cheekbone. "I'm not so sure about that. Scully, there are--"

She put fingers to his lips to stop him. "Mulder, whatever you're going to say, I already know. About your regrets, about the things you'd do differently. There are apologies both of us could make, Mulder. We could spend days finding the words for all the things we've been through, finding some way to relate our journeys to each other. But I already know. You've already told me."

With all the tears he'd spent in the last week, he could feel more threatening at the corners of his eyes like rain clouds. He smiled at her and kissed the top of her head.

She muttered into his chest, "I'm really tired. I'd like to sit down and you can make me a very large cup of tea and keep me company."

"If you're tired, you should probably sleep."

"Mulder, I've been in bed enough in the last month to see me through the next forty years. I want to sit on my sofa and have you wait on me hand and foot."

She moved to the sofa and he followed her. "I have to make you tea?"

"Yes. And give me the remote control; I'm not letting you have it." She gently slid down on the cushions and pulled the throw over her lap.

He shuffled his feet a few times, hands in pockets. "You're sure you don't want me to hit the road and give you some time alone?"

The sad, slow smile she gave him nearly shattered his heart. "Mulder, I want to be with you right now. Have faith that I'm telling you the truth." She patted the cushion next to her. "Besides, at the very least, I want you to explain the last few months to me. I can't make any sense of them at all."

He moved into the kitchen and banged around for a while, trying to figure out where things were. His pride was not great, but it was big enough to not want to ask her where she kept stuff. He'd bet Eddie Van Blundht would have known where everything was. Sometimes he winced when he thought of that, of how Eddie had been in many ways a better companion to Dana than Mulder himself had ever been. When he'd seen them in that clinch on the sofa, the thought had flashed through his mind that whatever it was she had been looking for in Mulder, she'd found in Eddie that night. And Eddie'd known how to give it to her.

He put water in the kettle and poked his head around the corner, shaking a canister of tea leaves at her and raising his eyebrows.

"No," she answered, "there should be some Darjeeling in the same cupboard. That would be good."

He nodded dutifully and rummaged around some more, then searched for something to put the leaves in. He was probably as bad at making tea as he was at making coffee, but he was never one to ignore the challenge of something untried. How many times had he been to her apartment but never made himself at home? In school, as a child, he'd gone to friends' houses and noticed how everyone seemed to gravitate to the kitchen. There were always seats; people talked and ate and hung out. Not in his ice-cold family. No one ever hung out there. It had never occurred to him that he might come over at times and just hang out with Scully in her kitchen, maybe throw a quick dinner together and chat.

Really, he could have planned to jet off on a shuttle mission for all the likelihood he had of that occurring. Now he *was* hanging out in her kitchen, making himself at home, and it had been a hell of a long time coming. She'd had to go to death's door and back before he could see his way to crossing this last crevasse of intimacy into casual friendship.

The ride of a few nights back with Skinner briefly flashed through his mind. As if they, too, had found a casual contentment, a comfort with each other. But Mulder could most certainly not imagine just hanging out with Walter. Whatever happened in the future with them, it would always be a battlefield, a kind of trench warfare. Locked into their positions and just buying time with a few stray emotional bullets, rocking the ground around them with explosions of love and hate.

A watched pot really didn't boil, he was beginning to realize as he stared at the kettle. A slow rumbling sound was building, but it was most decidedly not boiling. He heard the television click on to CNN.

As much as Scully wanted him to admit that Skinner was the man inside, as desperately as she'd wanted to believe Skinner had been harming them all along, it would be impossible for her to understand why he had steadfastly refused to accept that. When she was resolute he sometimes wanted to cave in to her stalwartness; he'd almost done that then. His relationship with her sometimes was a waltz around the answers. He'd become practiced at holding out information. She had become practiced at holding in herself.

A part of Mulder wished to know what had transpired between her and Skinner when he'd gone in to see her. Would she have apologized to him? With her family there, probably not. Mulder believed that under her mistrust, she'd admired Skinner once, maybe even cared for him on a more personal level.

He hadn't known how to tell Walter what he felt the other night; perhaps he didn't know yet what he felt, himself. It was like the soft snick of key turning home in its lock. Walter had unlocked something between them. *I'll take what's behind door number one, Monty, but is it going to be better than number two or three?*

This much Mulder knew about himself: he had no problem opening the doors. If Walter had given him a skeleton key, he was ready to use it when the time came.

What he didn't know, though, was whether Scully liked sugar and milk in her tea. He shook all the cobwebby thoughts of things he couldn't change out of his head and went to the living room with her tea, and sat down.

It was late when he left her apartment. He'd kept her up far too late, and when she'd finally gone off to bed and he'd let himself out, he felt that familiar loneliness overtake him, a wellspring of hollowness.

A bitter wind had kicked up as the temperature dropped and he pulled his leather jacket tightly around him. Soon it would be winter; the days had gone from sunny autumn, unseasonably warm, to cold and crisp. The air was tinged with a rimy, sleepy scent of dead leaves, wet soil and pavement. So Persephone had been taken down into the underworld, and now Demeter's revenge fell on the world, he thought. The dying trees and dark days signaled her loss, until spring came with Persephone's return. Mulder watched some fallen leaves skitter along the street as he walked to the car.

All through summer and into fall his heart had already held winter's cold. Was something breaking through that iciness when Walter had said those things to him the other night? Mulder wanted so badly for sunlight to filter through those dark grey skies surrounding him.

His newspaper unread beside him on the table, Skinner had chosen to start the morning by reading the file on the smoker's death. In between sips of coffee, he flipped through the detailed dossier that really held no useful details at all. Information that wasn't information; a death that wasn't even really a death. How could someone die who had no real existence on earth?

There were no authentic names for who he was, just possibilities. He'd always liked Mulder's "cancer man" as much as anything else he'd heard. Numerous passports and identification in many different names, histories created out of thin air.

How much information to share with Mulder was a dark consideration. They weren't exactly on the most intimate of terms these days; technically there was no reason to share a file like this with anyone in a subordinate position. And Mulder was spending some of his considerable vacation time helping Scully get settled back into her routine. It wasn't in Walter's behavioral repertoire to just pop over to Mulder's apartment and toss the file on his lap, open a few beers, and hang out talking about it.

Breakfast at Reeves' was one of those private times he allowed himself; almost no one from work would come here. He turned off his cell phone and took a usual booth in the corner, and always ate the same thing. It was with genuine surprise this morning that he saw Mulder come down the last of the stairs and saunter across the room, his trenchcoat flowing behind him, that easy, loping gate propelling him slowly forward. He slid in across the booth from Skinner as if this were a regular meeting for them and he was just a bit tardy, a sheepish smile contouring his face.

Skinner's fork was suspended in mid-air. He was so non-plussed he couldn't even think of what to say. Eventually he came to his senses and put the fork down, then quickly shut the file folder and slid it under the newspaper.

A waitress came over and noiselessly set a glass of water on the table and left. Mulder picked it up and drank.

"I was going in for a workout and I saw you heading in this direction."

"You tailed me, you mean," Skinner answered, suddenly irritable. "This place is blocks from the Bureau."

"Um... okay, I tailed you. Sort of. I debated with myself whether to bug you or not, and the irritating part of me won out."

"Get the buffet breakfast. It's good."

"It's on a steam table." Mulder wrinkled his nose.

"Suit yourself, but it's the best breakfast in town." He put a forkful of eggs in his mouth and opened his paper.

Mulder ordered the buffet breakfast and came back with a plate laden with dangerous food -- eggs, sausages, probably a pound of bacon, toast dripping with butter. He attacked it with glee.

"I don't remember inviting you to come here." Skinner watched him carefully to see how he would respond; again it seemed that there were words hovering in the air around them, unspoken or unintelligible.

"I was rude to you the other night. I've been looking for the chance to apologize." He stuffed a chunk of toast in his mouth and washed it down with coffee. Butter from the toast shone an oily gleam on Mulder's lower lip, and Skinner had the sudden urge to reach over and rub it off with his thumb.

"Apology accepted. I didn't think you were rude," Skinner said, grimacing. He wished Mulder would just go away. *Lead me not into temptation...*

"Mmm. You're not getting off the hook that easily. You mentioned following me to my meeting with Samantha and..." He trailed off, trying to find words for that geometric twist of relationships and people connected to his sister. "I wasn't as surprised as I might have assumed I'd be. But it was a gut punch, I can't deny it. I can tell from what you let out that there's more, but I think right now I'm not ready to deal with it. I keep wondering how much control you've had over my life. Maybe I want some reassurances that whatever you've done or known, it's all been for me. For my welfare. Not his or yours."

Skinner thought for some time about how to answer this; he was treading a minefield here and no matter which words he chose, they had the potential for great damage. Finally he answered.

"I will never keep secrets from you again. Ask when you're ready, and I'll help you." A small portion of his heart seemed to open and let in the tiny sliver of light that Mulder radiated. He couldn't close off everything to Mulder forever. He was certain of that.

"You never did tell me. How was your holiday abroad?" His lilting tones were grating to Skinner, he wasn't sure if Mulder was mocking him or not.

"It wasn't that great."

"Did you take advantage of the sex tours?"

Infuriated, Skinner threw his napkin down on the table. He'd been met with the same joking tone from Jim Lyles upon his return, and from nearly everyone at the Bureau. "No! Jesus Christ, Mulder."

"What?" Mulder asked in genuine surprise. He had that nervous animal look, as if he were expecting to be punched.

"That is not what I... that's repulsive. It's dehumanizing. I despise what that's done to their culture. And since I went alone this time, you're the hundredth person who's decided I must have gone over there for that."

Mulder snapped his mouth shut and at least had the good grace to look ashamed. "I'm sorry. It was tough being there by yourself, wasn't it?"

Skinner looked away, watching two cops get up from their table and toss down change for a tip. Finally he looked back at Mulder. "It wasn't the same. It wasn't quite the refuge it had been before."

Pushing his plate away, Mulder looked up into Skinner's eyes. Even in the fluorescent-lit, washed-out colors of the cafe Mulder glowed with hints of hidden riches. His eyes smiled, although his lips did not. He took a wad of bills out of his pants pocket and smoothed them out on the table. "Here's for my portion. I won't make you go back to the office with me." He stood and was steps way from the booth when Skinner cleared his throat.

What if you lived your life thinking you were awake, Skinner wondered, but you were really half-asleep? He suddenly felt like waking up.

"Agent Mulder. I'm about done here. Walk back with me."

Skinner knew she was back in the office today; he'd seen it on the schedule and Kimberly had gone to the trouble of noting on his calendar. There had been meetings to attend and he didn't want to push it, so he'd taken his time. She wasn't yet working full days.

Dropping papers on the secretary's desk, he ambled out to the hallway and strolled down the stairs to Mulder's office. The door was open and he could see her, standing before Mulder, her arms crossed. She wore a knee-length skirt and suit jacket, both a little loose on her small frame. Her hair was pulled back behind one ear, and the expression she wore listening to Mulder was something Skinner would pay money to have a photographic record of. How many of them had felt the way she clearly did while listening to Mulder spout a long, detailed history of some bizarre phenomenon? There were times Skinner thought she was the most breathtaking woman he'd ever met. How could Mulder, when he could choose such a lovely woman, decide to turn his love and affection on someone like Skinner? He was mystified by Mulder's choices.

He knocked lightly on the door frame and Mulder's head whipped up, his gaze fixed like a laser sight on Walter. Scully looked up at him and the pale rose of a smile bloomed on her lips.

"Agent Scully. I just wanted to welcome you back. It's good to see you here." Always careful, always at a distance. They'd nearly traded their lives for each other at various times, but Skinner couldn't quite let go of the coolness his position required of him.

"Thank you, sir. I'm very happy to be back." She was, he sometimes marveled, possibly the only person he knew as reserved as he was.

Mulder fidgeted at the edge of his gaze. Then he blurted out, "I have to go see if that package has arrived. I'll be right back." He made a charmingly silly motion with his hand that looked like someone telling a dog to stay, and flitted out of the room. Skinner watched him go with interest; the dichotomy of Mulder -- one moment so slick and assured, the next nervous and fluttery -- always of fascination to him. He turned back to see Scully with her head bent, eyes downcast.

"I'm assuming you'll just be doing paperwork for a while, as you get your strength back. No one's expecting you to run off chasing whatever case Mulder's got cooked up for you." Suddenly he felt panicked. "He hasn't got plans for you to do that, has he?"

She turned her face up to him, crossing her arms over her chest again. She smiled wryly, dropped her head down, then looked up at him with firmness. "No, he doesn't. He may be coddling me more than he needs to, but if that's what's necessary to help him... get over this... then that's fine. I'm feeling very good. I'm ready to work." She stopped, scrutinizing his face. There was no fear in her; he loved this honesty about her. "Sir. I'm sorry. I made a mistake about you, and I want to apologize."

"You have no reason to apologize, Agent Scully. You believed what you had evidence for. They were very careful to make sure someone believed them."

"Nevertheless. I'm glad Agent Mulder didn't buy into their deception. I'm a little ashamed that I did. After all you've done for us."

It hung in the air around them, the knowledge of just how far Skinner had been willing to go to help her, how deep he'd sunk.

"The road to hell," he commented acidly, and she smiled in return.

"I think... I think sometimes it's enough to have someone believe in you, to trust you. That in its own way, that's a kind of heaven." Her look turned serious, and in her face he could still see the traces of sickness she had overcome. "I won't make the same mistake twice. I think of you as our friend."

Skinner nodded, his voice unable to make the sounds he needed. He left the room and started up the stairs, aware that Mulder was behind the corner. He smiled to himself at the shamelessness of the man, but after Scully's assurance, not much could bother him. She was correct. Forgiveness was a heaven in its own right.

The stacks of reports had been divided almost evenly, though Mulder felt he should take at least a few more than Scully. He'd never taken the time to look through everything or pursue investigations during her absence, his attention had been focused on so much more personal an agenda.

She read calmly across from him, taking notes, methodically checking each page in each folder. If she knew he was watching her, she didn't say. He dutifully read through everything, too, but between each folder he glanced across to see her, with head bent, hair the color of a new penny, glasses tilted on the middle of her nose.

It was some time before he finally blurted out, "I saw Samantha. What I think is really Samantha. Grown up." He felt like a kid tattling.

Scully looked at him, her gaze piercing some hidden truth he hadn't found yet. "That's why you came to see me that night. Why didn't you say before?"

Mulder shook his head. "I'm sure... I'm sure you could tell me why it's not her. Not really. But I want desperately for it to be her." He pushed a piece of paper around on the desk with his pen. "He brought her to me. She said he was her father. The implications of that, of the things my mother won't tell me... They're possibly too great for me to cope with. I've come to think of myself as able to confront any of the strange, inexplicable things that life can throw at me. But there is something about the issue of my sister that hits me on such a fundamental, almost cellular level -- and I think he knows that. Knew that. Assuming he's really dead."

She bowed her head for a few minutes before looking up at him, a frown creasing her brow. "We all wear masks in our lives, Mulder. I wonder if that's the only time you saw him without his mask, the disguise of evil he wore. Maybe Samantha was the only tiny particle of good left in his soul. Perhaps the thing you're meant to find out is if he saved her by taking her as his own, saved her from some fate like mine, or that little girl you saw in Canada."

"Maybe you're right," he answered quietly. "I think Skinner knows something that might help me. But I can't decide if I'm ready to hear the answers. I've come to doubt my coping skills these days." He smiled wryly, hoping she wouldn't think he was directing that at her. He watched her reaction carefully, but she merely acknowledged him with her enigmatic smile as she tapped her pencil against a folder.

Finally she answered, "I think the thing you do best is cope and adapt, Mulder. That's what will save you, in the end."

Any time he doubted how she felt about him, she would somehow find words like that to lift him up out of the gloom. Mulder wondered if that had been why Skinner looked so happy going up the stairs; as if he too had discovered that about her.

He'd listened to her conversation with Skinner; there'd been nowhere to go, really, and when he'd left he just couldn't resist the lure of eavesdropping on their confessions. It was so strangely important to him that Scully believe in Skinner. He needed to know that she placed her trust in the assistant director the same way he did, as if it were a validation of his own beliefs. The relief that swept through him as she'd apologized was of gale force.

"Would you like a soda or something? Tea?" he asked her.

She looked up from the files. "No, thank you, I'm fine." She took a deep breath. "Why don't you go up and talk to him? Because you've done little besides fidget for the past few hours, and honestly, if I hear you crack one more sunflower seed I may have to kill you." She looked pointedly at the pile of shells to his right.

His jaw worked a bit before he could figure out how to answer. "Scully, why did you want me to think Skinner was dirty? Were you that convinced?"

At least she looked ashamed. "When things are that desperate, you need someone to blame. For you, the blame has always centered around this mysterious conspiracy, these shadow figures. I needed something more concrete to believe. Everything seemed to point to him, and he had the most power to betray us. He had the closest connection. Who else do you hate so much as someone you once loved? So who else could you mistrust and fear so much as someone you once trusted?"

"And that was enough for you?"

"I thought it was. Do you remember after I was abducted, I told you I'd had the strength of your beliefs? This time, even those weren't enough. I was so afraid." Her voice caught on the last word as she squeezed her eyes shut.

He wanted to reach out to her but couldn't, as if something held him to the chair. Finally she looked up at him.

"Everything's different now, Mulder. None of the pieces match this puzzle. I have to start over."

Mulder nodded to her, then found a smile hiding somewhere behind all the ache. He got up and moved next to her chair. "I think, sometimes, that for a person to be highly evolved, they have to forgive. We can't always forget, but forgiveness elevates us somehow. At least you have forgiveness in your soul."

He stood up and moved to the door. "I'll be back in a bit. Are you sure you're okay?"

She turned in her seat and looked at him with those of eyes of winter blue. "I am. I'm sure. Now."

Kimberly didn't even buzz him through. She had become almost friendly to Mulder of late. Word must have got around of his saving Skinner at the last minute; this was her way of thanking him, he supposed. She was intensely loyal to Skinner. He thought wryly, *weren't they all?*

He didn't wait to hear Skinner's voice when he knocked, instead opened the door and peered cautiously inside. Skinner was at his desk and looked up calmly upon Mulder's entrance, pushing his chair back.

Mulder was afraid of sounding pleading, or of sounding too fragile in his request. Finally he slid into the armchair across from Skinner's desk.

"I felt like you were telling me something before. That you knew some of the answers about Samantha. When you offered your help." He always used this shorthand speech when he was nervous and keyed up.

Skinner pushed up from the chair and paced around the edge of the desk, standing near the conference table.

"I do know a few things. What -- how much -- do you want to know?" He moved around the room and Mulder was startled again by the realization that Walter was so surprisingly graceful. He had the bulk and power of an athlete and moved at times like a dancer. How long had it been since that night? An ice age ago. He watched Skinner move towards the couch on the left side of the room, his fluid movements mesmerizing.

Mulder walked over to stand close to Skinner, drawn by memory. It was that same feeling all over again -- needing Skinner's help, desiring him, all mixed up in one confusing little bundle. A tendril of longing curled slowly through his heart.

"I want to know about Samantha. Specifically, I'd like to try to find her -- or at least find out where she might be. Then perhaps I can make the decision, if I can find it within myself, of whether to approach her or leave her be."

"Why would you *not* contact her?"

"She didn't want to... to be part of my life, not the way I needed her to. She was afraid. And I have no idea what her name is, what her history was. I don't know if I should find her, but I want the option to try."

Skinner perched on the edge of the leather sofa, his hand rubbing over his face. He made a tired sigh behind his fingers, then rested his chin on his steepled fingertips.

"What will you do if you find her?" His voice was so soft and it melted over Mulder, warming him.

"Can I find out first? I'll let you know how I feel when I figure it out myself."

Mulder turned to him, his hands falling idly to his sides. His eyes were downcast, focused on nothing in particular. "I... does it mean it never happened if I tell myself it didn't? If we can create or control our own reality, does that mean what happened between us wasn't real, if I insist, to myself, that it wasn't? Because I've tried, you know. In some ways, maybe, I've done a good job. God, we're poles apart. I've hardly seen you for months and it was easy to think that somehow I'd imagined it all. But now... I'm not so sure. I can see you and think that it was all spun out of fragments of memory, that I'd woven it like whole cloth. If I tell myself that it didn't happen, make myself believe it, does that make it not true?"

Mulder could see the gates lock firmly in place behind Skinner's soft brown eyes. He would never answer such a question; he was masterful at evading such things.

Skinner blinked at him, then adjusted his glasses. His first line of defense, Mulder thought, from anything emotional. Then he pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote on a scrap of paper, handing it to Mulder.

"It won't be hard to find Samantha, not now. At least now you have an idea where she might be, that it's likely she's local."

Mulder looked at what Skinner had written and could feel his blood boiling. "This is a joke, right?" he asked harshly.

"It's the name he gave me the first time we met. I never heard him utter another name, and after a point it wasn't a necessity. I knew it was as fake as any other he could give me, so I didn't see a point in checking it out. If he really has raised Samantha as his own child, it may be one of the most likely names he would choose. At least it's a place to start."

Mulder's hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly, the paper balled up in one fist. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"I'm not. Look, that was who he was. He had a sick sense of humor, he loved to rub your face in whatever cruel prank he was playing on you that week. Mulder, all this was just some cosmic joke to him. He relished this stuff." Skinner stood to face him.

"All this time... What kind of a sick fuck steals someone's sister and names her after his cigarettes?" Mulder practically spat at Skinner. He didn't know who he was angrier at -- himself for not thinking of something like this sooner, or at Skinner for not having told him.

"Mulder, there's no guarantee he actually called her that. I just think it's a good possibility."

"No, but it would be just like him, wouldn't it?"

"There's something else here, isn't there? More than just your basic, all-encompassing hatred for him, I mean."

Mulder sighed, a deep wracking breath that came up from his belly. "More than you could ever know or want to know." He had moved closer to Skinner, practically standing face to face with him. Skinner sat down on the sofa again, turning his face upward to Mulder, his eyes so gentle and questing. Why was it reserved for him to see these facets of Skinner's character? Why was it only his privilege? Mulder wanted to hope it was because there was still some feeling there. Could he ever learn to read the map of those lovely brown eyes, to navigate into Walter's soul? Had anyone *ever* achieved that?

"Mulder, something I don't understand is why you won't make the one person who could sort this out for you tell you the truth. You have the power to make your mother tell you the answers. You know she's hiding something. If your fear is that... Morley... is your father, or Samantha's, why don't you ask her?" His face was set like stone, and he twitched his head sideways once or twice as he spoke, a familiar gesture.

"I did once, but she... there's so much else. Would you?" he asked suddenly.

"I'd have punched her lights out by now, if she were my mother," Skinner said in all seriousness, but Mulder could only bark out a rough laugh at that. Possibly Walter was the only man he could imagine doing that.

Mulder's shoulders sagged a bit and he turned to leave. As he did, Skinner suddenly caught his wrist, clamping his strong fingers around the lower part of his forearm. Mulder turned to him, stunned.

"Whatever secrets she's hiding, they're your secrets, too, Mulder," Skinner prompted. He hung on to Mulder's wrist for much longer than necessary, and the air seemed to have gone still around them. Mulder could feel the heat of Skinner's strong hand coursing up his own arm, rushing the blood to his head. Skinner seemed haloed in his righteousness, his eyes burning with virtuous light. Then a strange, suspicious look overtook his face. Mulder realized where Walter's eyes had been drawn and he yanked back on his arm, but Walter held tight. He pulled Mulder's arm closer and stared at the blue-white skin of his inner wrist. Mulder rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if beseeching some minor god to get him out of this situation. The dark storm crossing Walter's face told him it was too late.

"What is this?" Skinner asked in a voice as flat and toneless as a metronome. He rubbed a thumb over thin, fine, white scars running vertically along Mulder's wrist.

"I'd wager you know."

"This isn't in your personnel file." He finally looked up at Mulder, his eyes so far away and hiding something, hurt or anger, Mulder didn't know which.

"No, it's not. The only person who knows is Scully, besides the major players involved, that is." This time he yanked on his arm and ripped it out of Skinner's grasp. "They healed nicely, don't you think? Plastic surgery is wondrous. Few people would notice. Even when I've been in the hospital, not many people say anything to me about it. They're probably much too polite."

Skinner launched himself from the sofa and slammed a hand down on the table as he rose, his tightly coiled fury unleashed like a cracking bullwhip. Mulder wondered briefly what it would be like to be on the receiving end of Walter's physical rage; if it were twice as powerful as his verbal rages, it must be deadly.

He slammed his hand again, this time against the wall. "I don't fucking believe this... how could they do that to you? How could you let them do that to you?" He was drawn up to his full height, his face scarlet with rage.

*All this for me,* Mulder wondered, *for some crime that expired long ago?* "I don't think, in my heart of hearts, that I ever really meant it. But I couldn't stop hearing my father's words, that I had failed them all. I didn't even know *why* I'd failed. Ending it dramatically became attractive. I knew how to do it, and had the resources. But I wasn't really trying, you know? Dad found me not long after I cut. I was about fourteen, we never spoke of it again. It was just another weight to carry around. We were already doubled over from the weight of everything else, anyways. At least, I was."

"If he weren't dead already..." The words seemed to grind out from behind Walter's clenched jaw, his eyes were alight with a fiery rage.

"Thanks for the chivalry, but it isn't necessary. I'm not quite as fucked up as everyone would like to believe," Mulder said wryly. "I would never do that again. I have never been tempted, and I've never looked back. You shouldn't either, really. I'm all right. Besides, I've always believed there's a statute of limitations on parental guilt."

Skinner pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, attempting to tamp down that rage that threatened to boil over like lava onto both of them. "How can you be so casual? How can you even... want to love someone who could drive you to that?"

Mulder shrugged. "She's still my mother. That I can't change. And my father... well, let's say I've known for a long time that maybe he didn't deserve all I felt for him, but I nevertheless felt it. It's the way kids are, you know." Somehow it was easy to be the conciliator, the comforter here, he wasn't sure why. As if Walter were vicariously experiencing all the emotions he'd had before, and now Mulder was the voice of experience. It was an odd, disembodied feeling.

Turning to the window, Skinner's voice came out strangled and hushed. "I don't believe in God, or in heaven or hell. But sometimes I wish I did. I'd like to believe there's some place in hell for people who could do that to a child."

"A child?" Mulder asked quietly. "Or me?"

Skinner turned around and glared at him. "Fine. You."

"That's what I thought. If you're wondering if this -- us -- could drive me to that again, I can assure you it won't. I'm not the same person I was then. And if you're wondering if this whole thing with Samantha now will drive me to it, I can assure you there as well that it won't."

"Mulder, there is no 'us'."

But there was no conviction in Skinner's voice, Mulder noted. He loved Walter like this, he realized, so strong and courageous, the crusader righting all the wrongs in the world. He could see that this revelation had changed everything again, and that Walter would feel a need to fix the irreparable past.

Skinner shifted gears suddenly. "If we hadn't... if things were different, would you have believed Scully's accusations, and let me take the fall for Blevins?"

There was a wide river here to cross, but he waded in. "The person you are has nothing to do with that. I've known who you are for a long time." When would Skinner see that? How many times did Mulder have to tell him? Walter must detest how much Mulder had come to know about him.

He turned his attention away, to the ostensible purpose of his visit. The name in his hand seemed to glow off the paper.

"Will you let me know if you find anything on her? I'd rather you use the resources of the Assistant Director, and that you be the one to find out." He moved in front of the window, taking in the fading light. He could feel Skinner behind him, keeping his distance. "It was so hot last May. I kind of felt like we were trapped in some close, tight space, maybe one of your jungles in the hot season. Now the days are getting shorter, and it's colder, and when the sun shines it's with that intense, low-slanting brightness. It's almost winter. It isn't even that the seasons changed, or that we've changed. The world around us has changed and all we can do is react to it."

He turned to face Walter, inches apart. He could feel the breath across his cheek and the heat of Walter's body close the distance. "I'm so tired of reacting. I'm so tired of always chasing around after something, being two steps behind. I can feel this, and I know you can, too. Don't you think we should grab on to it?"

Mulder blinked once, his eyes unfocused but clearly seeing Skinner in all his uncomfortable silence, the battling emotions fighting it out behind his eyes. Then he brushed past Skinner and shut the door as he left.

*Resources of the Assistant Director.* It almost made him laugh. Mulder had such odd notions about the scope of his job these days. It reminded him of Scully once, standing there with that defiant tilt of her chin, challenging him. "You underestimate your position in the chain of command." She'd had it right, then. But Mulder couldn't seem to see that.

He had no tangible authority anymore. It had steadily eroded over time, each time he stepped in with the X-Files. Someone had asked Scully once if Skinner were enchanted with Mulder's theories on the supernatural. That had blindsided him. Certainly he'd never considered himself enchanted with the theories; he was beginning to slowly realize that it was Mulder, in fact, who enchanted him.

If they'd had their way, Blevins would be in this position and Skinner would be... what? Disgraced? Dead? He wasn't sure where it would have ended if not for Mulder's eleventh-hour revelation. Skinner shook his head, staring out the window. *I have so little left, I'm hanging on by my fingernails and Mulder refuses to believe that. He wants to believe in me.*

Skinner sat down at the computer and worked his way into the database. It was something he could easily have turned over to a researcher. But the truth was, he wanted to do something to help Mulder. To feel as if he'd actually done something to earn that trust and that belief.

Whatever Mulder felt, it had to be more than just romantic feelings. Skinner could chalk a lot up simply to that strange, misguided affection, but beyond a point, you had to realize there was more going on than that. Mulder *was* a different person. Not just from the suicidal, desperate fourteen-year-old, but from the man he was only months ago, before Kritschgau's disillusioning half-truths and Scully's deterioration. He was crushed, empty, floundering in a sea of calamities and defeats. Drowning, not waving.

Skinner continued to work his way through the files of information until he found what he wanted. By the time he was done it had darkened and it was later than he usually stayed these days. His growing bitterness at the betrayals had soured his outlook on the FBI. There had been too much eagerness to believe he was tainted. He could no longer find it in himself to sacrifice his life and his personal time to the Bureau, no matter how many hours the job really required.

When he'd returned from Thailand, he'd known that everything would be different. Whether by conscious choice to change it, or by some entropy, he couldn't decide, but he knew it would be different. He hadn't found the escape he sought in Thailand, nor in Japan. Instead a distance had grown inside him, a distance from all the things in his life he'd cared for before.

The tenuous link he still held to Sharon had seemed to evaporate, and he felt its loss keenly. Doors closed inside his heart that would never reopen. He had half wondered while he was away if Scully would be dead upon his return, and it had tarnished his time there. Countless times he'd almost called home to find out, but he'd remained apart, removed himself from the secret war his life had become back home. But being so far away had not been a balm to his soul, he'd itched to get back and do something, to accomplish anything.

Because of Mulder, certainly. His voice whispered to Skinner across oceans, across continents. Walter couldn't forgive himself for the betrayals. It was always his own expectations for himself that disappointed him most cruelly; he had expected he could do better by Mulder and had not.

Picking up his briefcase, Skinner pushed the floppy disk into it. Then he put on his coat and turned off the light, closing the outer door. The glimpse of those faint, white scars on Mulder's wrist flickered in his brain like a malfunctioning light. He'd thought once about peeling away the layers of Mulder until he found the soft heart; now he realized just how deep that heart was hidden, and how dangerous peeling away the protective barriers could be. How far was Skinner willing to go?

He had the usual night ahead of him -- fixing dinner, watching television, taking care of a few odds and ends. Mulder was right; it was a lonely life. Tomorrow he had his weekly run or racquetball game with Jim Lyles, and that was always something to look forward to. But otherwise, with work so sullied for him now, he felt no desire for much of anything.

The wind that had begun earlier was cutting through the landscape as he watched it from the window of his balcony, blowing through the limbs of the trees across the street. *At least I'm not drinking so much,* he mused as he looked down at the glass in his hand, which had his limited one shot of bourbon for the evening. He went back to the kitchen and finished cutting some of the vegetables for a stir-fry, the slow, methodical movements of the knife hypnotizing him into that pleasant, unthinking state.

After a while he realized he was doing it again, standing there staring into nothingness, and set himself back to work. It was so simple, it really didn't bear thinking about. Mulder wanted to be with him again, and he would act on that. And Skinner would back away or reject him, because that was all he knew how to do. Mulder would have to trap him like an animal. Could that really be what Skinner wanted?

In the morning he pulled on old black sweats, a long-sleeved t-shirt and his running shoes, and threw some clothes for the office in his back seat. He met Jim at the Jefferson memorial, and they ran along the tidal basin area and East Potomac Park. It had become a regular routine for them since renewing their friendship. If they didn't run on Saturday morning, then they met for racquetball at the new gym Skinner went to, or whatever else struck their fancy that particular weekend. They both often worked on Saturdays, so it was not unusual for them to be in the city then.

The cherry trees had long since lost their leaves, and the tour buses that rumbled everywhere in spring and summer were considerably fewer. Usually, he and Jim talked about everything and nothing; politics generally held sway. Today he had found himself talking about the smoker's death, telling Jim the whole sordid history and its effect on his life, of Morley's personal stake in the lives of some of his -- carefully unnamed -- agents. And how it had led to nearly being implicated as the man inside.

"And you never found the body?" Lyles asked incredulously.

"Which is why I don't really believe he's dead, in spite of the blood loss. Somehow it seems like one more neat trick."

"So this is what happened to you, these are the guys who tried to kill Sharon. You said a while ago they really didn't like you. You weren't kidding."

"They don't like anyone who tells them no." They were slowing down as they neared the memorial, and Walter could feel the hitching breaths bringing on a sideache.

"I guess I can see why you'd hate your job. That was like a kangaroo court. All ready to fry you for someone else. Wait, let me guess who saved your ass -- it wouldn't be the world's most paranoid man, would it?" This was the first time Jim had mentioned Mulder since the run-in at the Pentagon.

Skinner took a deep breath and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, brushing the sweat away. "He helped, yes. But the truth is, I've committed just as many crimes against him, when my hands were tied. Maybe I thought it would be my penance, for having ever worked with those guys."

Lyles shook his head. "A shadow government. I always thought it made for good science fiction. Strange to think it might be true."

Skinner snorted. "I don't know how much of a government it is. I think it's a bunch of manipulative, amoral old bastards who have good connections. The problem is, none of us have connections equally powerful. We're not much of a match." He could tell Jim was skeptical of the whole thing, so he turned his attention to other matters, about the hearings on new defense department appropriations and whatever else came to mind.

When they had finished their run and were back at the water's edge, another runner caught Skinner's eye and he stopped to look more intently at the figure near the water.

"Anyone home?" Lyles asked, snapping his fingers in front of Skinner's face.

Skinner turned his attention to his friend and blinked a few times. "Sorry," he said, though he was still distracted and returned to peering at the runner. Mulder. No doubt about it. Skinner almost found himself laughing, but he turned his gaze back to Jim. Something like a laugh escaped, nonetheless.

"And you would be laughing because...?" Lyles asked, amused.

Skinner stretched against the low marble stairs. With all the work going on to restore the memorial there was hardly any place not covered in scaffolding or long, narrow boards, but here in the back at least you could see some of the clean, white marble.

"Don't look now, but we have company. Speak of the devil. Do you remember Agent Mulder?" He tried hard to wipe the smile off his face but he was having difficulty. He looked over Jim's shoulder and saw Mulder stop, do a double-take, and stand perfectly still, gaping at him.

That sobered him just fine. He stepped forward. "Agent Mulder. What a surprise." If he'd followed Skinner here, this was going one step too far. Joining him for breakfast was one thing, but tailing him when he was with his friends was another. Friend, make that. Singular. It was distressing to have his worlds collide, his professional and personal lives did not exactly mesh. *And which is Mulder,* he wondered, *personal or professional?*

"Sir," Mulder answered, apparently confounded, looking first at Skinner, then at Lyles, then repeating the glances.

"I was just leaving," Jim said. But he reached over to shake Mulder's hand and Mulder reciprocated. "Jim Lyles. I've heard a lot about you," he added, visibly enjoying this. Skinner could feel a scowl overtake his face. As if somehow his interest in Mulder were transparent and everyone found merriment in it.

"I'm afraid I can't say the same," Mulder said, smiling that coaxing smile he wore on the job. "Lyles, was it?"

"Walt asked me about your investigation into the night maneuvers. Last spring, wasn't it? And I'm afraid I'm the one who ratted you out when you were detained at the Pentagon."

Mulder nodded his head, his features unreadable. "Ah," was all he said.

Lyles waved a hand at Skinner. "See you next week." He gave a sardonic smile and walked slowly back up around the memorial to the parking lot.

Skinner stood looking at Mulder for some time. "Please tell me this is an accident," he finally snapped out.

Mulder put his hands up, palms towards Skinner. "Believe me when I say this *is* an accident. This is the last place I would expect to find you. I thought you'd... I don't know, either given up working out or you were doing it somewhere else."

"I am."

"I noticed you quit the gym right after you returned."

"It seemed easier that way. I just went somewhere else."

Mulder nodded. Walter was so used to Mulder talking so much that whenever he did the nod-and-don't-speak thing, it put him on guard. Finally he said something.

"I was running by the FDR memorial. Seems to be the happening place with the tourists. I can't get the taste of exhaust out of my mouth from all those buses. I usually go to a park near my apartment on weekends but I had some things I wanted to do at the office."

Skinner nodded. The sheen of sweat on Mulder's neck made him remember the closed, tight air of his bedroom so many months ago. The same shimmer of sweat on tan skin, undulating beneath him.

"What are you working on?" That was really the last thing he wanted Mulder to tell him.

"Nothing much. Just a lot of things left unfinished in the last few months."

Skinner took a deep breath, his heart rate slowly returning to normal. He could feel the chill air now through his sweat-soaked t-shirt.

Mulder continued in the silence. "So this friend of yours. I didn't know that's who..."

"He's an old friend. We lost touch in the divorce." And before he could think better of it, more words spilled out, unguarded. "The odd thing is that you did me a favor. By contacting him, I ended up realizing that I'd let things slip in my life. We get together regularly now. I suppose I have you to thank for that."

The look Mulder gave him was impenetrable. The forest colors of his eyes -- the green of moss and the brown of cedar -- were hidden by an interior darkness. "I'm glad. I'm glad of your friendship and that something makes you happy."

Skinner nodded once to him. It seemed again there was some word hanging in midair, a ripe fruit weighted down, ready for picking. But he couldn't seem to see its full shape. A yes, a no, a maybe? It was indistinct.

He turned and walked up the slope towards the front of the memorial, where his car was parked. He could feel Mulder's eyes on him. When he was halfway up the slope he turned around and looked at Mulder, who was rooted to the spot, staring after him with that look of angry disappointment he'd worn so many times in Skinner's office.

"Agent Mulder. I almost forgot. I have the information you were looking for. Let me know when you want it, all right?" He paused for a moment, the buzz of tourists stealing his attention away from Mulder's wounded face. "And there's an e-mail for you and Agent Scully. In a few weeks, I wanted you two to attend a team workshop in Florida. I know what you'll think when you see it. It's not a way to get rid of you and it's not a punishment. I know you're the last two agents who need this. I just wanted to find a way to ease Scully back into the field, and to let you two... get away from this place for a while. I hope you'll believe that."

Mulder nodded, his mouth open slightly, his eyes distracted and far away. Skinner turned again and rounded the corner.

There were times he liked working on Saturdays; the building was half empty and he could get more paperwork done. Generally it was the lack of distraction that appealed to him, this time it was a more specific avoidance. It had been so hard to focus on anything with Scully back. He wanted to fuss over her, and she hated that at the best of times. She was determined to prove herself capable of anything, but he was desperately afraid of finding something that would send them out into the field, jeopardizing her recovery.

Mulder had not quite figured out how to pay exactly the right amount of attention to her, the way she wanted it. What he could give her was either too much or too little. If she let him, he could suck her life away with his interests and needs and neuroses. On the other hand, if he ignored her, then she reviled him. It had taken him so long to see her as strong and capable -- from the first moment she entered his office he'd seen only a petite, quiet, delicate woman. There had been so many failures of this perception before he finally realized how tough and reserved she was, how in some ways she was the strongest of the two of them. And repressed certainly, enough to give Skinner a run for his money.

On one hand when he expressed concern for her, she would wave him away, or worse, shout at him; on the other, she would lash him with her rage and disappointment if he did not stand by her side. It had taken him months to recover her good graces after he'd abandoned her to take Jeremiah Smith to his dying mother; no amount of apologies and rationalizations would suffice.

Mulder went to the washroom and splashed cool water on his face, catching his reflection in the mirror. When he looked at himself, he did not see someone handsome or desirable. He tended to focus on his large nose, or his mouth, which he hated. He wished his eyes were rounder, but he liked their color, in spite of that. He thought it odd the way everyone assumed he must know he was handsome, and that he must have a bounty of girlfriends.

Even when he was lucky enough to have a marginally successful date and get laid, he couldn't sustain anything beyond that, because no one had shown enough tolerance for his strange lifestyle and his obsessions. What people saw, he realized as he scrutinized himself, was only the most surface part of himself. No one could see -- or wanted to see -- the interior, the flawed and ugly center of his soul.

Only Scully and Skinner had looked there and not rejected him. Even his own parents couldn't see that part of him without contempt. If he found out where Samantha was, if he kindled some fire in her, would she see past his flawed heart and love him? He reached out fingertips, touched his reflection. If it's what's inside that counts, what do you do when the outside is prettier than the inside?

He'd always thought what he wanted was love. It wasn't. Scully loved him, and he'd come to think Walter did, in his own strange way. Samantha might love him, too. What he really wanted, he knew now, was absolution for the crimes he'd committed against all of them. He wanted forgiveness and redemption for the flawed soul that had led him to hurt them. It was too late for his father to forgive him for his failures; perhaps his mother never could. But if the grace of their forgiving was there, he had to find it. He had to be redeemed.

Mulder toweled off his face and changed his clothes. He peeled off the sweaty running stuff and put on a sweater and jeans, ran a comb through his hair. He pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, then walked to his office.

So Skinner wanted to get rid of them for a team workshop? Maybe he believed it was something benign, but Mulder could only smile to himself. He was probably just trying to remove the temptation. That's what Walter was good at. Well, that was fine. They could go down there, run up an expense account, and blow off the workshops for the beach and maybe a few other extra-curricular activities. He scanned the e-mail memo and there was not a word in it that made Mulder think Skinner was really serious about this. He was expecting them to go off on the Bureau's dime and have a good time.

This weird tango he and Skinner had been doing with each other now for a while was getting more complicated every day. Mulder put his glasses on and sat down to work, pulling up a file on the computer. Was Walter telling him that the dance was over, that he was making it clear things should -- could -- move forward? There was a semaphore signal hidden in Skinner's words and gestures, and it was his obligation to decipher it.

What haunted Mulder wasn't even that night they'd spent together. It was the long, intense kiss that got to him every time he thought about it. What had begun almost dispassionately had become a tidal wave of longing; he'd felt it overtake Walter in those liquid seconds the same way it had swept over him. If he could pull back one molecule of the past and keep its sensations, its tastes and its textures, it would have been that kiss.

It took him most of the day to do a few simple tasks, he was so absorbed in his musings. When he left the Hoover building the sky was dark, and heavy clouds filled the sky. Behind a small patch of lighter clouds the full moon glowed, opaqued by the indigo blue of twilight. It shone with a bright, mysterious light, and the cold night air felt close around him like a blanket. Mulder was glad for the change in season.

So Mulder had not come upstairs to his office, and Skinner had waited with the printout, assuming there would be a knock on his door. That was fine. Walter knew it would come, probably at home, tonight. There was a slight rolling thrill at the thought of it, but like anything regarding Mulder, he tamped that down, reminded himself that whatever his interests were, it was not allowable.

Skinner was not surprised by the buzzing of the intercom, although he was surprised Mulder had actually taken the formal way in. He pressed the button, and barely even said, "What?" before he heard Mulder's faint, boyish, "Sir."

Skinner hit the entrance button and waited, wiping his hands off on a kitchen towel. He was still standing by the door, knife in hand, when Mulder knocked. Opening the door, he was met by Mulder's raised eyebrows as he anxiously eyed the knife. Skinner knew he looked like a slob, wearing an old, frayed white oxford-cloth shirt and equally threadbare jeans, but he wasn't concerned for his image so much anymore, especially not around Mulder. Nevertheless, Mulder's eyes moved up and down, studying him.

"I'm making dinner," Skinner grumbled, dispensing with hellos, as always.

"I didn't know you cooked," Mulder said in all earnestness, and Skinner couldn't help but be amused by his seriousness. Where he'd been all facetious drollery the last time he'd shown up, now he was calm and almost deadly quiet. He was wonderfully, darkly dressed -- all black again -- and Skinner wondered if that were a pattern for him, his way of amping up his attractiveness level. His quiet voice, however, was a danger signal to Skinner; whenever he'd seen Mulder like this in the past, it had always held some element of tragedy about to unfold. Learning the other day of Mulder's attempted suicide had changed everything. A heart was a heavy thing to bear, it was delicate and breakable, yet so ponderously heavy. Skinner didn't know if he had it in him not to shatter Mulder's, he wasn't sure if he could be entrusted with that burden -- or that he wanted to be.

Skinner looked at him, watched him move with his easy grace across the room, peeling off his jacket and setting it across the desk chair. So like him to presume to make himself at home.

He walked to the kitchen, choosing to ignore Mulder's comments. As much as he may have wanted the temptation before, it seemed too much now -- Mulder standing before him all in black again, that ruffled, messed-up look he wore so well.

Mulder looked over his shoulder as Walter went back to smashing garlic with the heel of the knife. "It smells good. Really, I had this impression that you lived on pizza and Chinese food or something."

"Not everyone lives like you do, Mulder," Skinner said without turning around. He sighed, then faced Mulder. "I thought about a lot of things while I was away. One conclusion I reached was that I was letting things get to me, and I was turning into one of those old, divorced guys. I don't want to be one of those men. I can take care of myself, I know how to turn an oven on and I know not to wash my red t-shirt with my dress shirts."

"You shouldn't wash red with white? That explains my pink underpants."

Skinner turned back to his tasks, not wanting to show that Mulder could make him smile. Mulder hopped up on the counter and stared at him, making him suddenly feel clumsy.

"So... you said you had the information on Samantha," he prompted, picking up a piece of lemon and sucking on it. "What are you making?" he asked as he peered in the sauté pan.

"It's just pasta and chicken with... I don't know. Garlic and lemon or whatever. It's something... Sharon used to make it, so I..." Christ, he hated how Mulder got him talking about things. Stupid things like cooking. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, then opened his eyes. Mulder was inches from his face. Skinner could lean forward right now and devour his mouth. The oil heating in the pan sputtered over the flame and hit him with a sharp snap on his forearm. "Fuck!" he shouted, and grabbed the pan, tossed it on the unheated element, then turned off the stove.

"Samantha," Mulder prompted again.

Skinner nodded. "It's in my coat pocket. I'll go get it." He continued talking as he walked, rubbing his arm, Mulder following behind him. "She lives in Reston. And she is currently married, with three children, one boy and twin girls. Her last name is Daugherty. Maiden name Morton. So he didn't quite descend to that level of stupidity, but it was close." He pulled the printout and the disk from his pocket and handed it to Mulder. "What will you do?"

"I don't know," Mulder said desolately, staring at the paper without unfolding it.

"Will you tell your mother?" Skinner pushed hard; he hated doing it but he detested the fear and deference Mulder showed to her when he could be grabbing at answers with both hands. This lack of patience and kindness in himself made Skinner uneasy at times, but it was so difficult to stop.

"I don't know that either. I was supposed to go see her next week, for Thanksgiving, but... I just don't know." He stuffed the paper into his back pocket and stared at Skinner, as if challenging him to make him do something, anything.

It was too much for Walter to bear. If he pushed Mulder then he would be just like everyone else, dropping that fragile heart, hurting him. He moved swiftly past Mulder and went back to the kitchen, picking up the large knife, its heft and weight solid in his hand. He could feel Mulder behind him, leaning against the wall.

"I came here to get this, but also to settle something between us," Mulder said quietly behind him. "Seeing you today, that way, just like this normal guy, made me realize that all that bullshit about our jobs, about who we are, doesn't really matter in the end. I felt so cold after you left, so empty. In the same way I felt empty when Samantha left, when my father died. And those were things I couldn't control. This is something I have more control over. All the rest of it is crap. You know that, I know that. What else matters if you love someone?"

"No one here loves anyone, Mulder," Skinner said emphatically. He returned to cutting the garlic, not mincing it really, just whacking at it with the knife.

"Obviously I don't agree. You're running again. What are you so afraid of?"

"Give it a rest." He refused to turn around, as if somehow seeing Mulder would change his resolve. It was so difficult to see clearly, as if he were looking through a rain-spattered window, the world beyond it blurred and shifted. Was Mulder really this strong; or was the weakness just inside himself?

All this time he'd thought Mulder was the weak one, the one unable to stand up to the fight. Now he knew that Mulder had been stalking him, a careful predator, and Walter was the prey inside Mulder's jaws. "We had an understanding. You should go now." He continued cutting, his back turned. Inside he could feel it beginning, a hairline break through fine bone china. It started so thin, nearly invisible to the eye.

"I want to love you," Mulder said tonelessly.

He did not answer. The crack widened, now he could feel it splitting all the way through both sides of him. Skinner shook his head.

"I love you."

"Stop it."

"I love you."

The fracture snapped him in two, the sound of it like a rifle shot inside his head. He stabbed the knife into the cutting board, spun, saw Mulder still standing there, and slammed his fist into the wall next to Mulder's head. A hair's breadth away from that empty, blank face. His fist met the resistance of the wall with a sickening smack.

Mulder turned his face, his cheek brushing against Walter's wrist. He was so frighteningly calm, he'd merely blinked as the fist came towards him. As if he trusted Skinner not to hurt him. How could he be so trusting, when it was not in his nature?

Mulder's eyes traveled to his. "I do love you."

Skinner's other hand wrapped around Mulder's throat but he did not squeeze. His thumb stroked the under-edge of Mulder's jaw, and he could feel the pulse in the jugular leap beneath his fingers. Then he moved his thumb up, ran it over Mulder's succulent lower lip. Mulder's tongue snaked out and caressed Skinner's thumb for a second. The fingers on Skinner's right hand throbbed in agony.

Looking at Mulder, so exposed, Skinner knew it wasn't being the prey in Mulder's jaws that got to him. With sudden, fierce clarity he realized that what he hated was being *known,* and Mulder knew him. He had seen inside and out, knew all the desires Walter held within, knew the failures and the mistakes, and loved him despite that. Knew him despite Skinner's own desperate attempts to prevent anyone from ever really seeing his heart and his soul. He stood motionless above Mulder, leaning against the wall. A hot orange flame had ignited between them, he could feel it burning. His own voice felt strangled.

"This is not how I planned my life. This was not something I ever saw as a possibility."

"I've learned a few things in my less than forty years on this planet," Mulder said gravely. "Do you want to know what one of them is?"

Skinner didn't answer.

"I've learned you don't get the option to pick who you'll love. Some of us arrive here with our prejudices intact and we could never give up the notion that we can't love a person who's this or that or the other thing. If someone had asked me years ago if this tiny, pretty woman who'd come to spy on me could be someone I'd love so much I'd die for her, I'd have denied it. No one could have convinced me someone would love parents who betrayed him, used him, but I have. Would I have chosen to love my boss, another man, someone who can't for the life of him let anyone inside? Not likely. You just don't get to pick, Walter. Something happens, whether it's a chemical reaction or something emotional your lizard brain orchestrates and the developed human brain just agrees to go along with. Or maybe it all is in the heart. I don't know. I only know that I feel this way, I think you feel this way, and whether we chose this or fate did, it's irrelevant."

Mulder's words stole all the oxygen from his lungs. "I can't help but wonder at your lack of judgment. Your feelings, the trust you've shown in me. I can't help but wonder what that says."

"Well, you've never trusted my judgment before. Just consider this more of the same. Go with it. God Walter, and you think *I'm* a fucked-up guy. Whatever I'm looking for, whatever it is that I need in my life -- and I'm sure experts could debate for weeks what Fox Mulder needs -- it's in you. I've tried to find it in others all along, but it never worked. I don't even know precisely what the qualities are, but they're visible in you. Your strength maybe -- it runs through you like blood in your veins. Maybe your honesty. Maybe I have a weakness for helpless, brave, conflicted men and I never knew it until I met you. Does it matter?"

He had no answer. Skinner poured himself over Mulder. He pressed his lips hungrily to Mulder's, and Mulder lunged up to him, the ferocity of his mouth taking Skinner's breath away. They moved back towards the table, then past it, Mulder fumbling at the buttons on Skinner's shirt; Skinner pulling clumsily at Mulder's fly. It was like some comic reenactment of their first time on the stairs, only this time he managed to maneuver them to the forgiving leather of the couch.

Mulder straddled him on top, delicately opening each button on the white shirt, pushing it off his chest. Skinner finally managed to get each button on Mulder's fly undone, but he could only push the jeans down so far with Mulder sitting up at this angle. Mulder ran lips, tongue, teeth over the skin of Walter's neck, his clavicle, his shoulders, and raked fingernails over nipples. His tongue traced the twist and curl of Skinner's ear. Walter groaned into Mulder's mouth when it returned to his. "You want this," Mulder whispered against his cheek.

If he'd been hit on the head with a two-by-four he could not have been more confused. Everything was roiling inside him. The intractable stupidity of desire was embroiled in battle with the alarmed warnings of his sensible self. Desire won first. "Yes." Then his sensible self captured a battle flag. "No."

Another assault by Mulder as his fingers slipped beneath the jeans and found Skinner's erection. "Maybe," he finally conceded, trying to remove the mantle of responsibility and place it firmly on Mulder's shoulders. All the weakness *was* in him.

Mulder stood, laughing above him. He pulled down his jeans and tore the soft cotton sweater over his head. In half a heartbeat he was beautifully, gloriously naked, so sure of himself, grinning above Skinner. Reaching down, he fingered the collar of the shirt. "Don't take that off. You look totally hot like that." Instead he moved his hands to the jeans and slid them down, the tips of his fingers tracing fire along Walter's skin.

He arched up, letting Mulder finish, and then he was engulfed by Mulder's fiery body, his hard cock rubbing against Skinnner's own. The rotation of Mulder's hips, the satiny smooth shaft against his, the feel of Mulder's mouth on his, made him rubbery with pleasure. Desire had easily vanquished sense in this battle; he was completely absorbed by it. Mulder's hands were grappling hooks, his arms steel cables, his legs iron beams, and Skinner was completely at the mercy of that strength and need. More than that, he wanted to take it all in as if he were just some empty vessel.

His hands moved up and tangled in Mulder's hair, pulling him closer to his mouth, twining through it with slow movements. Suddenly he felt Mulder gasp against him, his body arching and freezing, and Skinner could feel the warm hot stickiness spread across his belly as Mulder came, his breath hitching and gulping.

Then Mulder's fingers, trailing through his semen, reached around Skinner's cock and he stroked with slow, languorous movements. Walter could feel Mulder's heart still pounding against his, and his mouth moved down to Walter's chest, his tongue flicking around first one nipple, then the other. He felt his own orgasm so achingly close. When Mulder intensified his movements, Skinner came almost violently, a harsh gasp escaping him.

Seemingly of their own volition, his arms encircled Mulder and they lay there, heaving, Mulder's face tucked firmly into Skinner's shoulder.

"You smell like garlic," Mulder said sweetly, raising his head up to stare into Walter's eyes.

"And you taste like lemon," Skinner returned.

"Mmm. We're just a regular smorgasbord of delight." His tongue flicked out and licked the edge of Walter's lip.

It was a battle to keep the smile away, but clearly Mulder could see the light of it in his eyes.

"Have I ever seen you smile? I can't think of it. I've seen you give me the smug, sarcastic look, but nothing like a smile. Still, I can see these little lines here," he drew across Skinner's face, around his eyes, with gentle fingers, "and they look like laugh lines."

"I used to smile. I'm not unlike anyone else. There just isn't much reason for it these days."

Mulder rubbed his cheek against Skinner's. "I'm hungry. Are you going to make me dinner? Hey, can you make a Thai iced tea? I love that stuff."

Walter twitched his jaw. "What do I look like, a restaurant?"

Those glimmering green eyes met his, and Mulder was laughing. "Just make me something to eat. We can talk about what you look like," he paused to take Walter's earlobe between his teeth and then release it just as Walter felt the faint flame of excitement flare in his groin, "another time."

Suddenly he wanted Mulder off of him, he wanted to get away. He felt ridiculous lying here like this, covered with semen and sweat and pretty much naked. He pushed Mulder away with the flat of his hand. He rose and pulled the shirt around him. "Look, I need a shower. I'm a mess." He moved for the stairs and looked back at Mulder.

He was sitting there like some harem boy, sprawled across the sofa, the light from outside reflecting in slivers across his skin. Mulder raised his eyes heavenward, a look of pure humor and annoyance at once.

Skinner could imagine the snide barbs waiting behind those lips. "Make yourself at home in the kitchen," he snapped, striding up the steps.

It wasn't entirely Mulder's fault, but he couldn't help piling blame on the agent. The weakness *was* all inside Skinner, he knew. He turned on the water and stepped in behind the glass door. It took so little to tempt him. When he was under Mulder's spell, he could forget about it, roll with the passion, but as soon as it was over he was acutely aware of what he'd just done.

*Enchanted with Mulder's theories*, they had asked. If they only knew, Skinner laughed to himself. Enchanted with Mulder. Enchanted all along. That was a conversation he could just imagine having, with Sharon, with his family. Oh yeah, Mulder and I have been fucking. Sure, he's my subordinate, sure, he's a guy, but what the hell, you only go around once in life, right? The stupidity in his life seemed to be escalating on a logarithmic scale. How to get rid of your job, your family, and the few friends you have in one easy stroke.

Once he'd washed off, he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel from the bar, and when he opened his eyes, there was Mulder lounging against the door. Still naked, of course. Skinner toweled off, not quite looking at his reflection in the mist-covered mirror. He was standing before the counter when Mulder stepped up behind him, staring at him in the mirror with a look of intent study. Skinner looked up and met his eyes. What was Mulder thinking when he looked at people that way? He was so acute, so focused, that Skinner felt like a bug in a glass jar.

"You know, this habit of yours of showering every time you have an encounter could be perceived as rude. A person with less self-esteem could get a complex." His face gave nothing away.

Skinner did not answer, he wasn't about to rationalize himself away to Mulder.

Mulder took a step forward and put the fingertips of his right hand on Skinner's neck. The heat of his body filled the inch or so of space between them, making Skinner feel feverish and lightheaded. Then Mulder slowly ran his fingers down Walter's spine, all the way to his ass.

The muscles of his back contracted and he arched back, his skin turning to gooseflesh at the incredible sensation. Mulder's hand hovered over his butt, then snaked down and cupped around one cheek. Skinner steeled himself, not looking at Mulder in the mirror, although he could feel the other man's eyes on him.

Mulder knelt down behind him, his mouth barely grazing the skin of Walter's lower back. He put both hands on Skinner's ass, tracing his fingertips over the skin in a light massage, before suddenly moving them gently in between. Skinner could feel a jolt of electricity course through him; he had no idea what Mulder was planning, but he was both thrilled with anticipation and terrified.

The hot fire of Mulder's breath was all over him, and he leaned forward against the counter, his dick pressing almost painfully against the tile. He nearly shot up to the ceiling when he felt Mulder's tongue flick out against the opening of his body, roaming there, teasing him with its sinful, wet warmth. Moments, maybe eons of this, before Mulder plunged his tongue into the tight ring of flesh. Skinner felt his knees tremble weakly and he leaned into the counter, supporting himself on quivering arms. Mulder's hands kneaded at his ass, his tongue burning a hot, silvery trail through Skinner's body.

One hand slipped between his legs, fingers teasing along the perineum, and Walter squeezed the edge of the counter, hardly able to keep his balance. Rockets of pleasure were exploding inside him, along his skin, behind his eyes. Mulder took Walter's balls in his hand and rolled them, moving them with such slow, gentle expertise that Skinner's pleasure was almost overridden by the wonderment of where he'd learned to do such things.

Finally he felt teeth dig lightly into his upper thigh, then farther up, until Mulder stood behind him in the mirror wearing an utterly placid look on his face, his eyes locked on Skinner's. He ran fingers down Walter's spine again, bringing a sharp inhalation of what little breath Walter still had.

They stood there for a long time, Mulder's body pressed up against Skinner's, staring in the mirror, Mulder's hand ranging across flesh, between dark spaces, exploring. Walter was unable to look away from those chameleon eyes, burning in this light with a bluish-grey cast.

Eventually he looked away, embarrassed by his position, by what was happening between them, but too feeble with pleasure to protest. And that was when Mulder pounced, the predator he had become showing its teeth. Mulder leaned towards Walter's ear, his breath causing convulsive shivers, and whispered, "Would you like to know what it feels like?"

Skinner turned his head slightly to the side, and kept his gaze directed downwards. He could not look in the mirror and let Mulder see how vulnerable he'd made him, let him see what pleasure could do to weaken him. And then Skinner nodded, slowly. It was enough for Mulder, who seized his ear between teeth again, licking the outside edge, bringing that shudder back.

He moved away, pulling Skinner by the elbow, and led him towards the bed. Skinner suddenly remembered something, as if it could ward away what he'd just got himself into. "Weren't you hungry?" he asked, finally looking at Mulder, noticing the flush of his skin, the wet ripeness of his mouth.

"I was... but I know what I'd like to eat right now." He moved onto the bed, pulling at Skinner.

"I suppose I let myself in for that one." Walter lay down beside Mulder, his heart beating erratically. He could feel an intense pressure in his chest.

"Well, yes, you did," Mulder answered slyly, his hands moving over Walter's body. He teased at the soft area inside Skinner's forearm, then the inside of his elbow. The hands didn't seem to stop moving, finding their way to the inner thigh, the flank, and back to his nipples. It was very difficult to concentrate; Mulder was finding erogenous zones Skinner hadn't imagined he'd had.

"Somehow that always sounds cannibalistic to me."

Mulder laughed, not hesitating in his explorations. "Sex as cannibalism. Well, I suppose it's a possibility. After all, a lot of societies have practiced cannibalism, it's not that unusual. Some of them link it to religious practices, others for supernatural powers. In fact, I was reading recently about a theory that some groups of the Anasazi might have even practiced cannibalism as a form of terrorism, that they were trying to instill fear into clusters of other natives moving into their already difficult living areas--"

He could no longer hold it in; Skinner threw his head back and laughed. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. When he finally looked at Mulder he saw the other man sitting on his heels, staring at him, wide-eyed.

There was the hint of a smile behind the surprise. It moved Skinner to stop laughing, but then he couldn't help himself, and he started all over again. Finally he managed to get hold of himself. "Jesus Christ, Mulder, you've got to be the only person in the world who would go on a rambling discourse about cannibalism in ancient Indians in the middle of some heated sexual encounter. You're truly amazing."

Mulder opened his mouth a few times, back and forth, before he could get anything out. "You're laughing."

"Yeah, Mulder, I'm laughing. But not with you, at you."

"Hardy-har. I can't believe you're laughing. I've never even seen so much as a smirk, let alone an all-out guffaw."

"I don't guffaw."

"Yes you do," Mulder intoned, leaning closer, his tongue snaking out to twirl around Walter's nipple. "And I like it. I'll have to think of something else stupid to do to make you laugh like that."

"Worry about that later," Skinner grumbled, feeling the heat come back between his legs.

"Front or back," Mulder asked, his hand prowling over Skinner's chest.

"What?" Walter asked, trying to find his way out of the fog in his brain.

"Which way... do you want to do this? Makes no nevermind to me, you're wonderful either way." He ran a hand over Skinner's chest, almost petting him. "I can't believe you're so open to this. That you'd let me..."

"You don't own curiosity, Mulder. Other people feel it too."

A strange, strangled noise escaped Mulder's lips. His noises were fascinating to Walter, so childlike, uncontrolled.

Skinner blinked and noticed what Mulder was doing with his other hand. He really had planned this out, and the sight of the tube of lubricant brought a brief, though powerful, surge of anger. Mulder had known he'd succumb, Mulder had planned on his weakness. He wanted to smack it all away, shove Mulder off the bed.

But Mulder seemed oblivious to Skinner's anger. It took a few seconds of watching Mulder run his hand back and forth over his own cock before Skinner could calm down and get back to what Mulder had asked him. He was gorgeous like this, so gratified with pleasuring himself. Mulder ran hands over his own nipples, toyed with his balls... he was utterly, deliriously, magnificently shameless and Skinner was drawn to his hedonism like moth to flame.

"Whatever you want," Skinner said placidly. It was all so new to him, he couldn't imagine having a preference. Mulder clearly did, and he moved his fingers inside Skinner, who jolted before Mulder placed his mouth greedily over Skinner's cock.

Walter was determined to ride with the sensations, to not let the strangeness of the situation unnerve him, and he could feel those tiny Roman candles of pleasure exploding inside him again. Finally Mulder withdrew his mouth, then his fingers, and thrust himself none too gently into Skinner. Mulder's eyes seemed to be in a distant universe; he wore a look of faraway concentration, even though his eyes were locked onto Skinner's. He was panting shallowly, his muscles bunching and contracting, trying to hold on to himself. Skinner watched Mulder move above him, letting out a hiss of breath as Mulder shoved himself in deeper. It wasn't what he'd thought; it was both interesting and painful at the same time, but what he found most fascinating was watching Mulder above him. He loved looking at that lean body, its lithe, sinewy muscles tensed, its shapes and contours so different from his own. Shivering pleasure ran through Walter, electric and white, as he concentrated on the thought that Mulder was totally inside him, a part of him. Mulder's face was uninhibited, his eyes glazed over -- for once he seemed to have nothing to say. Only tiny gasps escaped those luscious lips as his eyes slowly closed.

Skinner moved his hand across Mulder's chest, up to his jaw, and caressed the rough skin, running his thumb over the lower lip. Mulder's eyes flew open and he looked fiercely at Skinner, his breath panting in time to the thrusts of his hips. And then he stopped, hanging his head down onto Skinner's chest, hips jerking a few times before stilling completely, the heat of him spilling throughout.

Walter caressed Mulder's head, moving his fingers through the luxurious hair. He liked this -- Mulder incapacitated by pleasure, silent and spent, lying helplessly over Walter's own body.

Finally Mulder raised his head and stared at Walter, his hand moving to firmly cover Skinner's rigid cock. "Oh, your turn."

"That's not--"

"Do me." Mulder rolled off onto his stomach.

"*Do* me? Where do you come up with these things?" But Skinner's protestations were flimsy, because he could feel that heavy, overwhelming desire in his groin.

He moved one hand and caressed each cheek of Mulder's ass, so soft and golden. He followed Mulder's pattern and wasted no time, plunging into him with abandon, and Mulder arched, almost springing onto his knees. Skinner groaned and thrust hard, his left arm wrapped tightly around Mulder's ribs, his right hand twining through Mulder's hair.

God, he would pay for this in the morning, in more ways than one. The weight on his thighs and back, the strain he was putting his body through would show later. His hand still throbbed hideously. But now he was only concerned with the sensation in his cock, and the need that swept through him like a shock wave. He grabbed at Mulder's hair and pulled his head back, watching Mulder's neck arc, the way the muscles on his back flexed and rolled. A steady stream of unintelligible words poured out of him, he could tell he was saying something but he had no idea what it was -- blaspheming curses, entreaties, pornographic inanities, it didn't matter. He could focus only on the river of pleasure running through him, and his words were just a babble of incoherent joy. And then it was over too fast as the grenade of a climax exploded through him.

They collapsed, apart, across the bed. After a time Skinner found some words. "I can't move. I think you killed me," he muttered into the pillow.

"I haven't even started yet." Mulder rolled over onto his back with a groan. "But first I think I'll just pass out for a little while."

"Where exactly did you learn all this stuff?" Skinner asked, surprised at his own satisfaction with Mulder's new arenas of expertise.

"Bad Brad's XXX. Very instructional." The sated, smug look Mulder wore made Skinner laugh out loud. "Nice, arty feel to them. You might find them helpful. I'll bring them over some time. Not that you're not doing a good enough job already or anything. You're just an animal." Walter glared at him with lowered eyes. "You're going to hit me if I say one more thing like that, aren't you?"

Skinner's boss-voice rumbled out. "Yes. And if I hit you, it will be hard."

A mocking shiver met that response. "There's a sick little part of me that might enjoy that."

Skinner put his hands over his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?"

Mulder laughed out loud, and snuggled down into the sheets, draping his leg over Skinner's. He ran his palm over the top of Skinner's head, then kissed him there. "Always wanted to do that." Skinner clenched. This honey-sweet, childlike person almost frightened him. Mulder was so gentle and delicate at times it seemed he could be blown away with a puff of breath. And it was not Skinner's solitary discovery. Everyone else had clearly seen this in him; he had the scars to prove it.

Eventually he felt Mulder relax next to him and assumed he must have fallen into a doze. Skinner got up and went to the bathroom, quietly washing himself off. He went to the kitchen. Everything was still sitting on the counter where he'd left it.

When he came back upstairs he was carrying a tray with two plates of pasta, two beers, and two forks. He stood in the doorway, watching Mulder.

He really was beautiful, Skinner realized. It may not be the most masculine word, but it was the word that applied to Mulder. Lying on the bed amid the pooled sheets, one arm thrown up above his head, face turned sideways, and the left leg bent up and out, he looked so carefree and relaxed. His face was boyish and soft. It was terrifying to Skinner that sometimes he believed he could fall for that face. That he wanted to look at it and touch it: the flaring bump on the bridge of the nose, the strong jaw, the aggressive tilt of chin and those pouting, curvaceous lips. Christ, he even had nice feet.

Skinner moved softly into the bedroom, and sat down on the bed, watching Mulder stir and open his eyes.

"Oh man. I was out like a light." He sat up a little and rubbed his eyes.

"You sleep a lot, you know? A less confident person might get a complex." Skinner put the tray on the bed.

Mulder's lips twisted and he threw Skinner an amused look that said *go fuck yourself.* Walter always liked that look, he liked the sarcastic side Mulder presented at times. It was... enjoyably spunky.

"You're an amazing sedative. And I mean that in the most positive sense. Is this for me?" he asked delightedly, not waiting for an answer, picking up the plate. Skinner watched him eat, the way his throat moved when he drank the beer.

Eventually he picked up his own plate and ate, perched on the edge of the bed, still watching Mulder -- who did not seem to mind being watched. When Skinner had eaten enough, he put the plate on the tray and stared at Mulder some more, finally drinking some of the beer.

"You aren't drinking so much any more," Mulder stated, putting the plate on the tray and wiping his lips.

"Not really. I thought a lot about it while I was away, and I realized I didn't want to be one of *those* guys, either."

"I'm sorry you didn't find the sanctuary there that you wanted. I feel partly responsible for that." He drank the last of the beer and set it on the tray.

Skinner put the tray on top of the tansu chest, then lay back on the bed next to Mulder. "It's not your fault. I thought a lot of times it was, but it was more about me, and tangentially Sharon, than anything else."

"You thought of me?" Mulder rolled over on his side, lightly stroking his fingertips across Skinner's arm.

"Of course. Not all of it was good though. Sorry."

"Like what?"

"Hmm. Well, I thought about how much I'd failed you and Scully. How much I'd let you down. And I realized that by letting... this kind of thing... happen, I was letting you down again. It's not my position to give in to whims and needs, and I'm risking both your job and mine."

"I know. But it's my choice. And I don't want guilt to weigh on you like that." Mulder lay his head on Skinner's shoulder, put his hand over his chest. "I can't believe *you* feel guilty for *me.* Look at all I've done to you. There's no one more culpable for misery than me. That's why... I wanted, even in my anger at your rejection, for you to find some kind of solace in Asia. It hurts to know you didn't."

Skinner was silent for some time, trying to find words to express what he needed Mulder to know.

"There were times... I thought about where you were, what you would be doing. I thought if I could feel it strongly enough, you would know I was there, that I was thinking of you. That wherever you were, you would know I was there, with you." He felt a flush of embarrassment at this confession.

Mulder's words feathered across his chest. "I knew."

Skinner rolled over on his side, looking hard into Mulder's eyes. "A long time ago, you said you wanted some kind of grace or redemption, that you hoped your feelings would give you that. Scully's forgiven you. And it's not for your parents to forgive you, because you did nothing wrong." He ran his fingers over the pale, ghostly scars on Mulder's wrist. "What you're looking for won't come from them or from Samantha. It isn't forgiveness *from* them, Mulder. It's *for* them."

"And you?" Mulder's eyes searched his, his gaze flickering like cold winter light.

Skinner swallowed hard, as if he could keep the words in his throat. But they came of their own accord. "There was nothing to forgive. Anything that happened to me because I allied myself to you... well, it was my choice. My eyes were open. I did it because of you."

Mulder smiled, a sphinx-like look that made Skinner's heart ache with its loveliness. "That's all I need to know." He closed his eyes.

Walter watched him fall asleep before he pulled the covers up over them both, and then closed his own eyes. He couldn't imagine what tomorrow would be like. But for once, he wouldn't worry about it.

When Mulder awakened, he was not at all surprised to find the bed empty, and the room devoid of any sign of Skinner. He got up and went for the shower, deciding that if Walter was going to run away after every event he might as well use the place as he saw fit. Skinner had thoughtfully brought his clothes upstairs.

He pulled on his jeans and yanked the sweater over his damp hair. As he went down the stairs to get his shoes, he smelled the warm aroma of breakfast -- toast, eggs, and coffee. Around the corner, as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could see Walter sitting at the table, reading the paper, an extremely large cup of coffee in front of him. He was wearing those incredibly faded jeans Mulder remembered from the last time and a soft grey Henley that showed off the curving muscle where neck met shoulder. Mulder briefly considered walking over and sinking his teeth in there. This time, however, Skinner's feet were bare -- he was not planning to go out, at least not now.

Mulder stopped for a moment and watched Walter, who looked up slowly from his paper. "Help yourself." He nodded his head towards the kitchen.

All he could do was laugh. "Okay." But he didn't move. "So you didn't bolt this time." He couldn't predict how Walter would respond to this -- bellow at him, or close up. He was surprised when Skinner just went back to his paper.

"Eat something. There are starving children in Thailand."

Nodding, Mulder went to the kitchen and poured himself coffee, dumped as much sugar into it as he could, and poured in so much milk it became beige. He grabbed two pieces of toast and sat down across from Skinner, who eyed him suspiciously.

"Not much of a breakfast person. I'm usually hungry by the time I get to work."

Skinner nodded. He put the paper down. The awkward silence descended on them like rain. Finally a drawn-out, ragged sigh left Skinner's mouth.

"I have a million things to do today." He didn't meet Mulder's eyes.

"I know. I'm okay."

Those round, soft brown eyes finally looked up. "I didn't want you to get the wrong impression."

*Well,* Mulder thought, *that could mean a million different things.*

Mulder got up and dumped the cooling coffee into the sink, placing the cup there. He went back and stood above Skinner. He'd thought before that it would be like some long, protracted war with them, that Skinner would fight him each time. And he'd been right, he could see that. It would always be Mulder coming to Skinner, who would duel until he gave in, and this little war would rage on between them. That was okay with Mulder. He'd found something now, with Walter and with Scully. Found this place that felt a bit like grace; but what it really was didn't have to do with faith or spirit. What it really was, was happiness.

Despite all the hopelessness, the crushed beliefs he'd experienced in the past few years, happiness had come to him like Persephone with springtime. Walter had helped him find this. He had given Mulder the armor and the tools to survive the world. Love was a weapon he could use to defend himself.

He slid his shoes on and picked up his jacket. "I'll leave you to it." He traced fingertips across the back of Skinner's hand, dangled them there for a moment. "Thanks for last night. For everything, I mean. Not just the obvious." Then he felt a wicked smile encroach. "A guy could get used to this."

"What? Coming over, eating my food, keeping me awake all night?"

"Sex with another guy. Not so bad, really."

Skinner looked down and turned his head. "Mulder... I don't want you to think..." He stopped, obviously straining for words. "It's not just sex, you know. There's more to it than that."

Mulder smiled and moved away to the door. "I meant what I said last night," he stated confidently, opening the door.

Skinner stared at him. "You said a lot of things. What one?"

"You'll figure it out." He closed the door.

Mulder spied Skinner walking across the lush green lawn and hurried over to catch up with him. Walter was always on the move somewhere. Mulder appreciated that focus in him, that constant working towards a goal, mindful only of what he had to do next.

"Sir," he called, and watched as Skinner's head snapped around. The sky was that funny pinkish-grey that signaled it was going to snow. The wind today was numbingly cold and the clouds looked so low he could touch them. The last of the dead leaves were springing and twirling across the grass. It even smelled of snow, Mulder thought. Skinner bundled his long black coat tighter around him as he stopped, looking sourly at Mulder.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were on your way to Florida." So like Walter: no small talk, no greeting.

"We will be in a few hours." Mulder made a face. "You neglected to tell me Scully and I weren't going alone."

Skinner put his hands up. "Not my fault. Talk to the bean counters." He had that look in his eye, Mulder realized. That wary cast, too much white showing around the iris, like a frightened horse.

"I hadn't seen you in a few days. I just wanted..." Well, Skinner probably knew what he wanted. He'd be taking off for a week, out of his hair, and Walter probably knew that Mulder didn't like ending things on so tremulous a note.

"Agent Mulder. Do we have to talk about this now?" Skinner narrowed his eyes.

"Why not? Where else? At least no one can hear, unless they're following us with a parabolic mike, and why would they? Look, I just wanted to say something I didn't before. That I don't have to have your devoted attention every day. That if things go this way, that's fine with me. I'm willing to play it your way."

"My way." Skinner looked like he was going to crawl out of his skin.

"Yes. I won't push it. I'll be perfectly distant and respectful in the office. I'll be circumspect and deferential and never forget to call you sir. You don't have to worry. I would never compromise you."

"Then everyone would know something was wrong," Skinner muttered darkly.

He couldn't fool Mulder, though. Not after having seen the look on his face when Mulder had run his hands down his back. "I know that this is something you want, too. You've told me, in so many... words." Mulder stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, hiding from the wind that was cutting into him.

"Have I." His words were flat, distant, but Mulder could see that spark of fire behind the eyes.

Mulder nodded. "However you need to do it. On your own time."

"And what if I don't want to?"

There was an arrogant satisfaction, a piquant, sharp exhilaration in Mulder. "You will."

Skinner tilted his head to give Mulder his best scowl, which had none of its intended effect. "Really? What makes you say that?"

Mulder remembered that day in the conference room as he had accused Blevins. The way Skinner had looked at him across the table, everything laid bare between them. Whatever tiny seed of trust Skinner had planted between them may have taken a beating in its early stages of growth, but it had finally blossomed there in that moment.

"Because I know you."

Skinner looked down at the ground, wincing. He started to turn away, then looked back over his shoulder at Mulder. "You think so."

Unable to tell whether it was a question or an argument, Mulder hesitated. Then he smiled, just a little.

Walter turned away, nodded, and walked away towards the Hoover Building, his coat flowing behind him in the wind. Mulder turned his face up to the clouds, feeling the first flakes of snow dropping on his cheeks and eyelashes.

The cold really didn't bother him at all.

End

For Tina
April, 1998

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