That's What Stars Are For

By Gwyneth Rhys

gwyneth@drizzle.com

Love is a beginning, a secret warmth that grows, something that comes alive;
inside skin a soul turns over and opens its eyes.

-- Linda Hogan

The Metro Center station was full of the usual crowds of commuters and tourists. For once Skinner was leaving early enough to encounter the crush, and while it felt overwhelming, leaving work on time was reward enough for dealing with the press of people.

As he moved in the direction of the red line trains, he saw Agent Mulder coming down the escalator, reading the Post and stuffing gum in his mouth.

Curious and impulsive, Skinner followed Mulder down the escalator. His preoccupation with Mulder sometimes went beyond the passing interest stage, when he was willing to admit that. Which of course he usually wasn't.

Mulder stood patiently amid the crush of people. His jacket was slung over his arm, sleeves rolled up in the summer heat that filtered down through the dark, airless station.

When the train came, Skinner got on towards the back, glad for once of Mulder's pattern of general obliviousness when he had his nose in something. Skinner was pressed among a family of German tourists. The car smelled too much of sweaty bodies. Usually when Skinner took the Metro it was so late that there was rarely another person in the same car with him.

Mulder exited at the Dupont Circle station, catching Skinner unawares. He bolted after Mulder, almost not making it out of the car in time. He followed at a distance, trying to keep an eye on Mulder as the swell of people went up that interminable escalator, the longest and steepest of the Metro system.

Mulder crossed the street and went into Kramerbooks. Skinner stopped on the next corner. After quite some time, Mulder came out carrying three books under his arm. They didn't look like the latest fiction bestsellers; each had a bland spine with a long title. Probably more of Mulder's arcane and obscure research material.

Mulder looked so casual, yet elegant at the same time, even with his hair mussed up and his tie askew. He always wore his trousers low on his hips, his shirts bloused out a little. Most men couldn't get away with that and look good, Skinner thought, they would look like they'd slept in their clothes.

At the next block, Mulder popped into another bookstore. Skinner's heart pounded. Lambda Rising, the gay bookstore, was not a place Skinner would have pegged for Mulder's research needs.

Could he possibly be gay? Skinner wondered. That might explain why he never seemed to have romantic relationships with women.

That kind of thinking was moronic, he chastised himself. Making suppositions about someone like Mulder based on what bookstore he went into wasn't fair. Skinner stopped just short of the door. A display of Tom Bianchi photography books and next year's calendars filled the windows. Skinner found himself staring too hard at the display.

Finally Mulder came out and walked up a block before crossing the street, then entered the Starbucks on the corner. With its windows on each corner looking out over the intersection, there was no way to lurk without being seen, so Skinner went past the shop a bit and waited some more. Mulder came out with an iced coffee and walked up Massachusetts, in the direction of the Phillips Collection.

As Mulder walked away, Skinner found his eyes drawn to Mulder's ass. The pictures in the books and calendars filled his head. What would Mulder look like unclothed? he wondered. Not like those perfect boys in the photos, all oiled and exaggeratedly muscled. His body was more subtly toned instead; he had a straight, lean quality that hid his strength. As his figure receded in the distance, Skinner thought of what the flexing expanse of his back would be like. What all the voluptuous curves and arcs that made up Mulder's face would feel like under his lips, his tongue.

A tidal wave of humiliation washed over Skinner. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and turned away, walking back towards the center of the Circle.

I need a vacation so damn bad, he realized with agonizing clarity. This is just too fucked up. I am out of control.

A travel agency. Skinner looked around at the neighborhood. There must be a travel agency somewhere nearby. So he walked, his eyes scanning the storefronts. Anyplace at all, anyplace but here. A couple weeks away and I'll be good as new.

****

"I have no idea what it is," Mulder said harshly. "I've never seen marks like that on a body."

"You can't even hazard a guess? Out of all your monster theories?" Skinner asked, a note of peevishness entering his voice.

"No, I can't," Mulder snapped, turning from the body and walking away from the river bed. "You've wasted your time calling me here. There's no reason you and the local boys can't take care of this."

Skinner ambled after him, exasperated, waving his arm in the air. "This *is* the local boys, Mulder." The area's only law enforcement, two men, were still standing by this latest body to materialize.

"Well then, Cletus and Jim Bob there can take care of it, I'm sure, with your more than capable help."

"That's out of line," Skinner barked.

"Monster boy has nothing to offer the local yokels."

When Mulder reached his car, Skinner grabbed the door frame and slammed it shut before Mulder could get in. "What is wrong with you, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder rolled his head around. He looked at his rental car, which was covered by a heavy coating of dust. It only served to make him more sour. He swiped at his forehead with the back of his arm to wipe off the sweat. At least it was a dry heat.

"Nothing is wrong with me that about ten hours of sleep and getting away from these goddamn mosquitoes won't cure. And getting back to civilization." He took a deep breath. "Look. Sir. I appreciate the situation and that you're trying to help these folks out, but I can't do anything. Whatever's killing these people is probably just a wild animal. Get someone from the Game Department."

"I know it's short notice," Skinner said. "I appreciate that I've dragged you out here suddenly, but they're past the capacity to solve this right now. It isn't an animal, or at least any kind of animal they can identify. There are other circumstances that lead me, us... them to believe it might be something... outside the normal realm of experience." He paused, then said, "Where's Agent Scully?"

"You're the one who grounded her, remember?" Mulder answered bitterly.

"It hasn't stopped you before from dragging her all over the country." He paused. "She has cancer, Mulder. I just didn't want you to keep dragging her around all the time."

"Since we're out in the middle of Buttfuck, Montana, where there would be no proper medical facilities in case something happened, and you yourself grounded her and were the one who called us on this case, I figured it would be a good idea to come alone." Mulder spat each word out with great, irritated force.

"*What* is with you, Mulder?" Skinner was getting really angry now. He had never seen Mulder act so pissy before; it was worse than when he'd blown a gasket and sucker-punched Skinner in the hallway.

Mulder wandered back a few steps towards the river. He kicked at a rock on the ground, stirring up a little cloud of dust along with it. Skinner walked after him, scowling.

Okay, so Skinner was right. He was acting unusually awful, he knew that. But he just couldn't communicate how unpleasant everything was. He wished with all his heart that Scully was here with him right now, able to summon up one of her reasonable, plausible explanations. She could finesse the situation with Skinner.

It didn't help that Skinner was looking mighty fine in his vacation clothes. When Mulder had finally found his way to the town, he was greeted by Skinner wearing a nutmeg-colored t-shirt -- which suddenly conjured in Mulder the overwhelming desire for a grande latte, and he was sure he would not find one in this neck of the woods -- and tight, faded jeans. It was, to put it mildly, distracting, as was the tan that graced his skin. And Mulder wasn't about to let himself dwell on how all *that* made him feel, either. He resolutely and steadfastly refused to go there, ever.

So he changed the subject. "You said there were other circumstances. What are they?" He looked up at Skinner from under his brows.

Skinner rubbed at his neck. "Um." He hesitated. "It would be a good idea if you were to go to the morgue with me. It's kind of hard to explain. But it means a drive into Bozeman."

"Nooo, you said there were other reasons to believe this wasn't a plain ol' animal attack. Come on. What are you holding back?"

Skinner suddenly wished he'd never called Mulder here. This was the stupidest situation he'd ever been in, and this nasty-tempered, sarcastic side of Mulder was making him feel foolish and incompetent. "This isn't the first time bodies like this have turned up." He stopped, unwilling to go further.

But Mulder wasn't giving up. "What and when?"

Skinner looked towards the river bank, where the sheriff and deputy were zipping up the body bag. "It's like a local legend," Skinner said elliptically.

Mulder made a face at him, at once sarcastic and playful. "Legend."

"Just something that they've concocted to make themselves feel better, I'm sure."

"And the legend is about..." Mulder prompted, teasing.

"Something that lives in the rivers... that attacks people." He dropped his voice, kicking his boot toe into the dusty ground, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Mulder wasn't relinquishing the lead. He was almost smiling, Skinner thought. And his eyes were very, very mocking. "Please do go on."

"They said... it's..." He mumbled, dropping his head, "a mmpbdddy."

"What was that? I didn't quite catch that."

Skinner raised his head and looked angrily at Mulder. His cheeks colored hotly. "Mudmonster. Or the mudpuppy, depending on which local you ask."

Mulder laughed. "Mudpuppy? That's entertaining."

Skinner looked to the side, his jaw moving back and forth. "It's one of the unique characteristics of the deaths. All of them had lungs filled with mud or silt. They smothered to death during the attack. And there were similar attacks about ten years ago, not far from here, on the Yellowstone river."

Mulder heaved a huge sigh. "All right. Show me the information."

"If you're really going to help them, would you do me a favor and get your head out of your ass and be a little more cheerful? This is difficult enough for them as it is. This is more than they've had to deal with in their entire careers."

Mulder glanced at him sideways. "I know. I've done this before," he muttered, walking back to the car. He slid in the driver's side, and Skinner got in beside him. "Uh, would you tell me how to get back into town, please?"

"I'm going to have to give you a bag of bread crumbs."

"Ha. Aren't you a comedian."

Skinner breathed deeply. "Mulder. Please. What is the matter with you? You've been acting like a son of a bitch since you stepped out of the car."

"Sir, what are you doing out here, anyway? Is this what you do on vacation? Why Montana, and why are you involved with murderous mudpuppies?"

"I was just on vacation. I'm fly fishing. Then these bodies started turning up. The first two were found before I got here and in a different county, but in the time I've been here, two more have turned up in the larger Three Forks area."

"What, did you go around handing out your business card, so they called you right away?" He reached in the glove compartment, his arm perilously close to Skinner's knee, and produced a bag of sunflower seeds.

Mulder dutifully drove in the direction Skinner pointed him. He had to admit, the scenery was lovely. And the weather was much more pleasant than the hot, humid stickiness of a Washington D.C. summer. He could see the appeal of the place, if you weren't inclined towards a more active social life. Quiet was the operative word here. "You're fly fishing?" Mulder asked with distaste.

Skinner glared at him as if to say, What of it?

"Do you golf, too?" Mulder snickered.

"No, I don't golf. And what's wrong with fly fishing?"

"I don't know, it's just so... I don't know. I guess I have some deep-seated prejudice against certain recreational activities, which I've never realized before. Although I will never understand the appeal of killing harmless aquatic creatures as a pastime."

"Not everyone kills them. They catch and release them."

"Oh, okay, then, *torturing* harmless aquatic creatures."

Skinner growled low in his throat and turned to look out the window. Okay, so he'd known from the beginning that this would be a bad idea. The minute the Sheriff had knocked on his cabin door, he'd figured it was only going to end up with the two of them, he and Mulder together, in some disastrous, too-close situation.

The instant you took things outside of work, feelings entered into your world. There was too much weirdness there in his relationship to Mulder to sort out. He'd never been the type to think too deeply about himself and his motivations, but he knew enough to know there was something odd about his connection to Mulder. Occasionally Skinner wondered if Mulder was aware of his attraction to him. But Mulder often seemed oblivious to the personal and emotional, so perhaps Skinner was just being paranoid.

They didn't talk the rest of the way back into town, the silence punctuated only by the cracking of sunflower seeds, until they pulled up next to the sheriff's office. Skinner said, "It's getting late, why don't we drive to Bozeman to see the bodies tomorrow? The guys here can show you the photos and give you the jackets. If you want, you can stay with me -- there's a pretty comfortable sofa there and the place is roomy enough for two. I won't be in your way, I don't think."

Mulder considered for a moment. The town wasn't bad, it obviously had more than its fair share of well-off visitors during the fishing season. He could get a room at a motel, but there was an appeal to staying with Skinner. At the very least, maybe he'd get the cheap thrill of seeing his boss in his skivvies or something. Could prove interesting.

"Sure, why not. I need to hook up my laptop, and I want to call Scully and have her pull some files."

"No problem."

They went into the sheriff's office and spent some time going over the situation. Skinner had already laid a little of the groundwork with his mudpuppy admission. The local boys seemed completely non-plussed at Mulder's questions, but they were friendly and professional and answered everything, no matter how odd. This was Mulder's specialty: wheedling information from people about the unlikeliest of scenarios, making them comfortable with the ludicrous. And Mulder listened carefully to their stories, making notes to himself.

Mulder was still in his work clothes, wearing a dark blue shirt, navy tie, midnight blue trousers, and wingtips, Skinner noticed. He hoped Mulder had brought enough casual clothes and a good jacket; it could get quite chilly at night this late in the season, although the first frost was still days away.

September was Skinner's favorite time here -- still hot on sunny days, but most of the tourists had gone back home. At home it was still horribly humid and sticky; here it was dry and crisp. It had been perfect until now.

Admittedly it was a pleasure to watch Mulder work, though. For once they were so close, but there was none of the quotidian anxiety of life under the consortium, or the Bureau's Orwellian professional hearing boards, to make them miserable. Here, there was a kind of visceral stillness; it hit you hard and forced you to slow your pace.

He'd never worked on a case with Mulder; that wasn't really his job, but it was kind of a kick to see how he did things. Mulder was always more polite to strangers than he was to the people closest to him, and he was treating the cops nicely. It was just Skinner he was directing his snide dissatisfaction towards, and Skinner wasn't exactly enjoying *that*. Now he knew how Scully must feel sometimes, when Mulder was at his worst.

After almost an hour of Mulder-style fact finding, they were ready to head out. Skinner felt slightly embittered about the fishing time he was losing because of this case, but he knew he couldn't just drop it in Mulder's lap with no fanfare.

Skinner's own rental car was parked nearby, and he walked towards it. Mulder called out behind him, "Hey! Where do I go?"

"Oh. Well, follow me back to the cabin. Then we can either grab a bite there, or we can go back into town for dinner. There are some great diners here."

"Let me guess -- specialty of the house is dead harmless aquatic creature."

"Steak," Skinner said wearily, "and give it a rest."

Mulder shrugged. "Lead the way."

The place wasn't far out of town, but the local motel it was not. It was part of smallish resort, with one main lodge and cabins scattered about, hidden peacefully behind trees and underbrush decoratively spotted with late-season berries. Mulder half expected Bambi and his mother to come prancing out at any given moment. It didn't look rich, but it did look exclusive -- and mostly it looked quiet, which seemed like the biggest appeal for someone like Skinner.

Skinner drove along a narrow winding road until they reached his cabin. Mulder pulled his gear bag out of the car and followed his boss inside. Even sleeping on the couch here was a better deal than the nicest room in a motel. The place was of medium size, sparsely furnished, which lent it a spacious air. The couch was enormous, and placed thoughtfully in front of the fireplace. To the left was the kitchen, which ran along most of the wall. A counter dividing it from the living room was the main place to eat. Two rooms towards the back -- Mulder guessed bedroom and bathroom -- finished the layout, and small closets tucked into a corner. A narrow, low porch wrapped around the front and side, overlooking a tiny brook that ran diagonally to the cabin.

Mulder whistled. The furnishings were not cheap. There was a TV in the corner -- thank God, Mulder thought -- and Skinner had a portable stereo set up on the counter. Everything a guy could need. "And indoor plumbing, too," Mulder said brightly.

"Yeah, and the stagecoach stops here twice a week." Skinner glowered at him.

"Can I wash up before we go eat?"

Skinner only then noticed the film of grime on Mulder's face and arms, the dingy grey laid over his shirt, and pointed towards the bathroom.

Skinner puttered around in the cabin, pulling out his fishing gear. He should stop at the grocery; it was one thing not to keep the refrigerator and shelves stocked properly if it was only himself, but with Mulder as his guest, he should make sure there was enough food for two.

My guest, Skinner thought wryly. How odd to think of Mulder as my guest. Well, why not? This whole vacation was turning into the Twilight Zone.

When Mulder came out he looked cleaner but no happier. Skinner wordlessly picked up his keys and went out the door, with Mulder tagging along after him, shoulders slumped and brow furrowed.

They drove in silence back to town and parked outside the diner. Skinner was itching to ask Mulder again what his problem was, and this time get a solid answer. But he knew that when Mulder was ready to tell, that would be the only time it could be dragged out of him. Mulder had a stubborn streak that could put Skinner's to shame, and Skinner did not relish butting heads with him.

Even Mulder admitted the menu looked good. They perused it for a while, Mulder gulping the coffee he'd ordered before they'd even sat down, Skinner sipping at his iced tea and trying not to laugh at that. While they waited for their meals, Mulder finally broke the silence.

"You still haven't told me how you got involved with this."

"I've been here before. A few people knew I was with the Bureau. The speed with which these bodies are turning up, and the fact that it's spread over a wide area, was a little much for them to handle, and I happened to be in the neighborhood."

"Convenient."

"I'll say. Besides, it's been a really long time since I've done any field work. I'm very rusty."

"Somehow I doubt that," Mulder said mildly. His eyes had a slight gleam to them; Skinner couldn't help but wonder what was going on in his brain.

"Did you get enough to go on today?"

"No, it'll help to see the bodies tomorrow. Are you expecting me to go there by myself, now?"

"Um, well, no. I was hoping you would, but I can see you're still in orientation mode."

"You talk about me like I'm a kid on my first day of school. I've handled hundreds of cases all over this country. Orientation my ass." He made a face and stabbed at his salad with a fork.

"Mulder, what is going on?" Skinner asked morosely. "Would you *please* just tell me what's got this bug up your butt? Because frankly, I'm about ready to pop you one." But he flashed a smile when he said it.

Mulder wished Skinner would warn him when he was going to smile like that. He did it so rarely that it was like watching a solar eclipse or something. The kind of event you wanted to plan your day around.

The fork in Mulder's hand clattered to the table. He put his hands up over his face and rubbed. Other people in the diner stared at them. "You said go to the Belgrade airport. Don't drive from Butte, you said. It's too far. Do you realize how hard it is to get out of the Belgrade airport if you don't know where you're going? Do you have any idea how much time I wasted, driving around and around on those goddamn *farm roads*, trying to find my way onto something resembling a normal highway? I couldn't even get back into the airport, for Christ's sake! It would have been much, much shorter for me to drive from Butte. I don't get lost, sir. I never get lost. But I was lost for over four bloody hours today -- I was lost even after I thought I'd found my way. Did you see how dirty the car was? And how filthy I was? I would have shot someone dead for a cup of coffee and some soap and water by the time I finally found town, and then you grabbed me and hauled my ass back into the car and made me drive out to look at a body and come up with definite answers in five minutes. That was my day, sir. Flying, getting lost, eating dirt, and you barking at me." He waved at the waitress for yet more coffee.

"I apologize." Skinner went after his t-bone with gusto.

Mulder just continued to stare at him. Skinner had apologized. That was even rarer than the smile. What was next? An earthquake? An interplanetary alignment?

"Apology accepted, grudgingly."

"There's something else, isn't there?" Skinner's eyes bored into his.

"Yeah. I hate not working with Scully." But that was all he was willing to let on; he wasn't ready to tell Skinner everything just yet, if ever. Sometimes he liked holding on to a snit, carrying a grudge. At times, it felt damn good. Scully had once told Mulder that she thought he liked to be melancholy. He'd snorted at that, but knew deep down she was correct.

"Okay, you've made that perfectly clear. But I can't have her keep doing these things, Mulder, not if she's going to get better. This isn't what a person in her condition needs."

"She's not going to die," Mulder said with false confidence.

Skinner looked at him, helpless and overcome with sadness. What on earth could he say to Mulder about that? "No, of course she won't." But there was no conviction behind his words. He knew Scully meant everything in the world to Mulder.

They ate in silence for a while. Finally Mulder said, "Why fly fishing?"

"I don't know, Mulder. Why do you think it's so weird?" Mulder only shrugged in response. "I grew up with it. My dad taught me and we used to go regularly. I like the mathematical precision of it, I think. It's very methodical, very orderly in its own way."

"Did you grow up around here, then?"

"No, a small town in Idaho called Kuna. Right outside Boise. But it's really farm country there, though it's not much of a drive to get to good fishing spots."

"I'm kind of surprised that you grew up on a farm. You don't look like it. I mean, you dress well, you've got a lot of style in many ways, you can definitely see your tastes in your apartment. And you're pretty damn smart."

"So someone who grew up in a rural area couldn't possibly have taste, class and intelligence?"

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to *say* it, it oozes from your pores, that disdain."

"I just haven't met a lot of people raised on farms."

"I wasn't raised on a farm. I said it's a farming community. My dad was the local constable."

Mulder looked sheepish. "I'm a sort of city boy, I guess."

"Well, you've sure got the crappy major attitude of one, that's for sure."

"But you're not fishing with your dad. Is he..."

Skinner shook his head. "No. He died a couple years ago." He played with the straw in his drink, bending it into sections, unfolding it, and swirling it around in his tea.

"You miss him a lot."

"Very, very much." Skinner was silent, staring out the window, the reflection of the neon from the sign casting purple and pink shadows. It had long since grown dark outside and most people in the diner were heading out now.

"I guess I envy people who had childhoods like that," Mulder said wistfully. "There was nothing normal in mine, especially after Samantha was taken away. I always wonder what it would have been like to go fishing with your dad, have him take you to games."

It seemed as if Mulder was only growing more and more dolorous as the day wore on, and Skinner was feeling more and more helpless to do anything about it. He just wanted Mulder to solve this situation and leave, soon. The memory of following him around Dupont Circle a few weeks before still stuck in his brain like a maddening song phrase that wouldn't go away. There was a certain risk in having him here, he knew, but Skinner liked to think he was at least capable of keeping his hands off his own subordinate.

"Pie," Mulder said.

"What?"

"I assume they have pie here, and that it would be good."

Mulder had suddenly become quite animated. Apparently Skinner now knew the way to Mulder's heart, and it was pie.

"I'm sure they do." He beckoned to the waitress, who came right over. Skinner could tell she was enchanted by Mulder's looks. Well, who wouldn't be? He was wearing a dark blue long-sleeved t-shirt, relatively tight jeans, heavy work boots, and he looked very, very good in spite of the bad day he'd had.

"What kind of pie do you have?" Mulder asked sweetly, and Skinner thought that if he'd asked her in the same tone of voice to go out into the parking lot and do him on the car, she'd have dropped everything in a flash.

She started rambling off the list and when she hit "peach," Mulder shouted ecstatically, "yes!" He ordered two slices, one for now and one to go, completely ignoring Skinner. So Skinner waved a hand and said, "One for me, too."

At least Mulder had the decency to look embarrassed.

They finished their pie, Mulder making rapturous faces while he ate. Skinner tried hard not to look at him directly, but the faces Mulder made only served to make Skinner inconveniently aroused. Was that how Mulder might look in the throes of passion?

They didn't speak much more before they returned to the cabin. Skinner grabbed one of the pillows from the bedroom and a blanket from the closet, and tossed them to his guest. "I'll go to Bozeman with you tomorrow if you think we can wrap it up early enough for me to get in some fishing. But I really do want you take this over."

Mulder nodded. He watched Skinner walk into the bathroom, then went out onto the porch. Outside the cabin windows, the sky was a rich black. The lower edge of it was obscured by the treeline, but when he looked up he could see such a collection of stars that they took his breath away. Cassiopeia to one side, and Jupiter over there. The moon was barely visible, an opaline sliver suspended in a black velvet field. He hadn't really been out in the wilderness like this since... well, he wasn't going to think about that, it bore way too much resemblance to this case, and that was already making him bitter enough. And it would also make him think of Scully.

He heard the noise of the door and saw Skinner standing there, toweling at his face, shirt off. It gave Mulder a jolt. After a moment Mulder realized that his mouth was hanging open. Just guys, he admonished himself, remember we're doing the just guys thing and this isn't a big deal.

"Bathroom's all yours," Skinner said, but paused. "What are you looking at?" There wasn't much you could see in the thick darkness but a few amber lights glowing from the other cabins and the main lodge.

"Not looking, really. Just enjoying the silence and the sound of the water. And the stars. September's a good month for sky watching."

Skinner looked at him with slight amusement. "I guess you would know a lot about stars."

There was a veiled comment in there Mulder resolutely chose to avoid. "A nice 10-inch scope would be wonderful out here. Wonder if they have some small telescopes in town?"

"I'm not authorizing telescope purchases on your expense form, Agent Mulder." Skinner turned and went back inside.

Mulder watched him through the windows. His body was unbelievable. Big strong shoulders, wide chest dusted with dark brown and grey hairs, flat, firm stomach and narrow waist. His arms rippled with muscles, and his back was well-defined, the lats sharp and strong. It wasn't going to be easy to sleep here tonight.

For too long, after he'd first met Skinner, he had written him off: merely the consortium's quisling, an antagonist whose purpose was to foil Mulder and Scully in their work. But in short time, Mulder had seen through the pretense and found the truth about Skinner. In doing so, interest had turned to attraction; attraction gave way eventually to desire. But Mulder knew, as well as anyone could, that Skinner was not a slave to passion and feelings. Mulder had doubted for so long that Skinner could be interested in him that it had taken on the luster of gospel truth, regardless of its accuracy. And it was not a situation Mulder could remedy, even if he didn't believe it to be the truth. He couldn't just blurt out someday in the office, "Hey, Walt. I think you're hot; wanna have a homosexual affair?"

Mulder went back inside, peeled off his clothes, and lay down on the couch. The image of Skinner's back and his ass as he'd walked away made Mulder feverish. Eventually he moved his hand down to his cock, stroking himself, before he stopped, shamed by what he was doing while under the same roof as Skinner. It's a good thing I already have a reputation as an insomniac, he thought sadly, and turned on the television, volume low.

The drive to Bozeman was nice. At least the roads were paved, which was an improvement over yesterday. The leaves of the deciduous trees were only hinting of fall color. In one direction, things were flat farmland, in another direction there were rolling hills and mountainous terrain. Everywhere there seemed to be rivers or divergent creeks, and he could see why the area was so popular with fishermen. Or the Hollywood types who were slowly taking over the state.

The sky above them was completely blue, with not even the tiniest fluff of cloud to mar the scene. It really was big sky country, Mulder realized. He could see why it would appeal to Skinner in many ways; this seemed like the kind of countryside that accommodated that mythical big strong guy he embodied to Mulder. He could see Skinner as a cowboy or a sheriff or something else decidedly western. There was just that ruggedness and no-nonsense quality about him.

Skinner had a kind of world-weary calmness and acceptance that appealed to Mulder; it stood in direct contrast to his own more questioning, driven and quixotic qualities. He wondered how many more fascinating layers there were to uncover, how much he might still be able to see in Skinner before they both went back to the Bureau, to the starched, distant personas they wore there.

This person, the one he was seeing now, was completely antithetical to that other formal person. Was this the real Walter Skinner? Was it that this place, so relaxed, so open and still, allowed him to be the person he truly was? Perhaps the bureaucrat and the put-upon boss weren't the true manifestations of the man; and now here, privately, Mulder saw the real human being. It was thrilling and terrifying that he might never see it again.

By the time they reached the morgue Mulder was feeling a little better about Montana as an entity, although he still had enormous doubts about the case. Yet he was not quite ready to tell Skinner that.

The bodies were of men between the ages of twenty-seven to forty-six. Each had died from drowning, all with ligature marks and bruises about the upper torso, and mangled, ripped flesh. All had been fishing when they disappeared. Mulder wished Scully were here to do a more detailed autopsy on them; she would know to look for the odd and unusual. He wandered around, poked, read, and talked with the coroner. They provided as much detail to him as they could.

Yet Skinner could tell something was raising Mulder's hackles. When they started to talk about the drowning, and the mud in the victims' lungs, he watched as Mulder turned sarcastic and antagonistic, a tone which so far Mulder had reserved solely for Skinner. It took him by surprise; he'd thought Mulder was finally calming down.

Skinner grabbed him by the arm. "Excuse us," he said pointedly to the coroner. He yanked hard on Mulder's arm, pulling him into a hallway.

"What is your problem?" Skinner barked. "These people are trying to be helpful and you're poking holes in their work."

"No, I'm not. I'm just being firm about what I want to see."

"Oh Christ, Mulder. Since when did you become a medical examiner? Stop trying to overcompensate for Scully not being here."

Mulder made a face at him and peeled Skinner's hand off his arm.

"Are you done here, Mulder? Because I want to go fishing, and I don't need to sit around on my vacation listening to you insult the locals. I don't want to be your partner, especially not when you degrade other people's work."

Skinner walked out, hurling open the door, head down. He left Mulder to tidy up the ends and get the hell back out to the car.

More and more he wished that he hadn't called Mulder in, that he'd just requested someone from the closest field office. The nature of the killings had warranted an X-File, and he believed in Mulder enough that he thought the agent was capable of solving the case in short time. But nothing was worth enduring this behavior.

Mulder wasn't so awful that he was bucking for a censure, but he was just bad enough to be worth hitting. There was more than a bad plane ride and dusty drive going on here, but Skinner was not patient enough to find out. He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his nose; he could feel a headache coming on.

Over the past few years, he'd entertained silly fantasies about what it would be like to be with Mulder privately, away from the office and the strictures of everyday life. When he felt really daring, Skinner actually considered whether Mulder might be able to return his interest. He'd often thought Mulder seemed like the experimental type. But now he realized that if this was what Mulder was like on private time, who wanted it? Certainly not Skinner; he had enough trouble with his life as it was.

Eventually Mulder got in the car, and Skinner just turned to glare at him.

"It's okay," Mulder said, resigned. "I made up to them." He buckled the seatbelt and asked, "Can we stop somewhere? I'm dying for an iced tea or a Pepsi or something."

Skinner merely nodded, and started up the car.

"I'm disinclined to believe that the victims drowned in water. I think you're right, I think it's the mud that killed them. I think the water came later. The other thing is that I think those marks on the bodies are in fact consistent with a known species. Just not one that we'd expect."

"Thank you. I'm glad you could be more cooperative about it."

"You're ever so welcome."

"I'm hungry."

"Oh, you mean my head wasn't filling enough?"

Skinner glared hostilely.

He found a hamburger joint and they ordered lunch, as well as the biggest drink Mulder could get. They ate while they drove, Skinner clearly having mastered the art of steering with his knee while using both hands to eat a dripping, extra-large cheeseburger.

"Do you have a theory, Mulder? Anything at all to support your questions to the coroner?"

"Yes, I do. But I don't have anything strong enough to report to you yet, okay?"

That seemed to end the conversation, and they didn't talk again until they got back to town. Skinner had cranked the radio up and found a decent rock station to listen to, so Mulder leaned back in his seat and listened, watching the scenery go by.

Somehow he always managed to let Skinner down, no matter what he did. Precisely how he did it, he wasn't sure. In his heart, Mulder knew that Skinner was right about his behavior -- he was taking out his failures and problems on others, and he should get himself under control and act like the professional that he was.

As he drove, Skinner occasionally glanced sidelong at Mulder. The rhythm of cracking sunflower seeds was broken only by the sound of Mulder pulling ice out of his drink, then chomping on that.

He couldn't imagine a person more orally fixated than Mulder; he would put money down that at some point the man had smoked, and took up the seeds as a less dangerous habit than cigarettes. With such an oral hang-up, what could he be like in bed?

As they approached town, Mulder asked, "Can you take me back to the place where we were yesterday, where the last body was found?"

Skinner sighed. "All right. But you're following me, because I'm going to stick around and fish near there. It's a good spot, and I'm not going to let a body spook me off of it."

All Mulder could do was laugh. "Such a sentimentalist, you are."

Shrugging, Skinner said, "I've already lost three days of a very limited vacation to this thing. I'd prefer to go upstream about a mile, but since you want to go there anyway, it'll do until tomorrow."

They got Mulder's car and Mulder followed him to the river. It was a lovely spot, rocky along the bank, the landscape around it covered by heavy brush, with a few trees here and there. The body had been found at a sharp bend where the water was almost still. Mulder paced back and forth along the bank, bending down occasionally to poke at something.

When Mulder would turn back occasionally, he'd see Skinner staring at him. Skinner had his fishing stuff near one hand, rod in the other, and he leaned casually against the car. He looked wonderfully comfortable, Mulder thought, just standing there, hip out, watching him. His FBI hat was tilted back on his head, and the sunglasses made him look kind of cool and butch -- well, that and the long-sleeved white t-shirt, sleeves pushed up past his elbows. Most of the other guys Mulder had seen fishing along the river as they'd driven past looked geeky to him, but he imagined even in hip waders Skinner would radiate that macho coolness. Of course, he wasn't the least bit prejudiced. Skinner could probably wear a burlap bag, flip-flops, and a straw hat and Mulder would think he was studly.

"You about done?" Skinner finally called.

Mulder walked up the bank and stood next to him, picking up pebbles and tossing them downstream. "Yeah, I'll let you get to your torturing and maiming."

"What were you looking for?"

"You know how you said about ten years ago, there were similar murders? I'm wondering if it was a dry period. This has been a really hot, abnormally dry summer, right? The river is awfully low, lower than it's been in years."

"And this is useful how?"

"You'll see," Mulder practically spat at him. He had instantly turned surly and was refusing to give anything away, which only served to exasperate Skinner further.

"That again?"

Mulder wheeled. "You know what? I'm here, aren't I? I'm working on the case, so you don't have to deal with this any more. Spooky's on the job. You don't need to know my absurd theories, you can just go on with your vacation. I'll tell you when I have something to tell you." Mulder made shooing motions at Skinner.

"And do you know what, Mulder? I opened my cabin to you. I drove you to Bozeman. But I'm still your superior and I'll be goddamned if I'm going to let you talk to me like this, and take this shit from you. If you don't develop a better attitude, and fast, I'm about this far," he put his thumb and index finger a millimeter apart, "from ramming this pole down your throat. I thought you got this out of your system the other night when we discussed this."

Mulder looked off into the distance. First he turned in one direction, then the other, staring. Skinner watched with impatience, trying to tamp down his anger.

"Really. I have had it with you, Agent Mulder. *What* is the matter?" Skinner waved his fishing pole in the air.

Mulder wandered away, and Skinner put his pole down and followed.

"Look, sir, just let me do the work and stop worrying about me, okay?" Mulder said, whirling around to face him.

"I most certainly will not. I didn't ask you here to be made miserable on my vacation, especially when I was trying to get away from y--" he stopped, alarmed at what he was giving away. Mulder stared curiously back at him.

After a period of silence, Mulder took his sunglasses off and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. "A while ago I had this case I was really excited about. Kind of a Loch Ness monster thing called Big Blue. For once things looked like they were really going to turn up right." He looked away, clearly ashamed. "It was an alligator. I ended up killing an alligator. Even Scully didn't get much mileage out of it, I looked like such an idiot. And now I've got mudpuppies or mudmonsters, and I will bet you ten to one it's something that's going to turn out to be embarrassingly mundane. I don't want to theorize and be made a fool of. Okay?"

Skinner walked away from Mulder to pick up his gear. "Okay. See you back at the cabin."

Mulder looked after him, helplessly. That avuncular support was always so touching.

When Mulder arrived, Skinner was already working on dinner. He'd caught a good-sized trout in his limited fishing time and was just starting the potatoes. Nearby he kept a glass of sublime Oregon cabernet, sipping occasionally, getting a nice buzz while he cooked. He didn't cook often, but when he did, he liked to do it in style.

Mulder cocked his head to one side in a bemused way. He watched for a while, silently.

But Skinner wasn't about to put up with the mocking he expected, so he turned his back on the agent.

"Mm, what's for dinner, dad? Dead ha--"

"Shut up," Skinner snapped.

"Sorry. No, really, did you catch something?"

"Yes, I did, which is a minor miracle considering how little time I spent on it. A pretty good-sized trout."

"I don't think I've ever had a trout before."

"You're in for a treat."

"What else?" Mulder asked, poking into the pots and pans. "Potatoes, carrots... yum. Smells good. Can I have some wine, too?"

"Help yourself." Skinner pointed towards the bottle.

Mulder poured himself some and sat down at the counter, hooking up his laptop. "I downloaded some files today. Hope you don't mind if I work while I wait." He slid his glasses on.

"Not at all." Skinner went back to his efforts, trying to keep his mind off Mulder wearing glasses. Why on earth that made Mulder seem ten times sexier than he already was, was a mystery. But it was definitely highly attractive. He'd seen Mulder wearing his glasses once before, but only briefly.

Within a few more minutes dinner was ready, and he filled a plate for Mulder before sitting down next to him.

"This is really good wine," Mulder said. "Is this another one of your hidden mysteries -- Walter Skinner, oenophile?" Mulder speared a chunk of trout, then rolled it around in his mouth to taste the flavors. "This is good, really."

"Not even close. Sharon was the wine expert, I just remembered a few things from her. But I like the stuff. I suppose you're thinking I should be drinking cheap beer?"

"No. It's just... you keep coming up with all these little surprises."

Skinner had no idea what was behind that subtle smile; he wondered if he could ever find out for sure. Skinner was not generally the passive type. He wanted to do something, take action. But he knew how absurdly dangerous that could be for both of them. He'd thought he was taking this vacation to get away from Mulder's inexorable pull on him; instead he was sharing a cabin in the woods with him, cooking for him... who knew what else? It had to end somewhere.

"Listen," Skinner said lightly, trying to keep himself from thinking too hard about it, "about the alligator thing. No one thinks you're an idiot. *I* don't think you're an idiot. You thought you had something. Mulder, you saved people's lives. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Come on. Spooky Mulder fails again. Monster boy looks like a joke. I know the drill."

"If it makes any difference, I'm not judging you on those things."

Mulder bowed his head, smiling shyly. "Yes. I guess it does matter, sir."

"Can you stop calling me sir while we're here? It feels really weird."

"What do I call you? Big Wally?"

Skinner scowled. "Walt will do fine, thanks."

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm not sure I can think of you that informally."

Skinner knew he was teasing, but he just didn't have the emotional capacity for it. Everything felt too wound up, too taut, as if something would snap and it would all go whirling out of control. He took his plate and glass, and went to sit on the couch. He flipped the TV on and went from station to station until he found a news show.

After a while, Mulder started making funny noises. Skinner finally looked over and saw Mulder alternately paging through something on his computer and stuffing his face with food. He watched for a while, amused by the way Mulder moved, the sounds he made. Eventually Skinner asked, "What has your attention so strongly?"

Mulder waved him over. "This is what I was looking for."

He put his finished plate on the counter and stood behind Mulder, perhaps a little too closely.

"Your mudpuppy hasn't just been active once before. He's -- it's -- been active three times before. And check this out. Every single multiple murder case that matches these specs occurred in an unusually dry year. Little snowpack and runoff, very hot and dry summers, leading to lower than normal water levels. Near-drought conditions." Mulder turned slightly, suddenly aware that Skinner was horribly close to him. He could feel Skinner's breath against his shoulder, smell the slight tang of sweat, the wine on his breath. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "This is what I was talking about earlier. I think this will be the answer to our question."

"What question is that?"

"Whether this is a typical animal attack. I think it's an animal, all right, and I think it's an attack. But not the kind of animal you might think, and not the kind of attack you'd expect, either."

Skinner's face was awfully close, and Mulder suddenly realized he wasn't wearing his glasses. Such huge brown eyes. They were so much sweeter than Skinner would want anyone to think of them. Then Skinner reached a finger forward and said, "You have something right here," and brushed a flake of fish off the corner of Mulder's chin.

Time seemed suspended, and Mulder could only hear his own heartbeat loudly, drowning out all the other noise. He opened his mouth, but no sounds came out. The auto-save warning on his computer suddenly boinged at him and he blinked.

"Walt. Are you making a pass at me?" Mulder asked lightly.

But Skinner obviously did not find that funny or provocative. He picked his glasses up off the counter and pulled the earpieces over his ears, then pushed the bridge up. "No, Agent Mulder. No. I'm not making a pass at you."

Skinner went to work washing the dishes, while Mulder stared dolefully at the computer. Well, that had been hideously foolish. For one brief instant he'd thought maybe there was something finally sparking between him and Skinner. How naive. Still, his reaction was odd, Mulder thought. Most men would be blustering and angry, making a big show of how they weren't a queer, and probably throw you out on your ass after a fight. Yet all Skinner did was put his glasses back on and turn away, more sad than angry. It had never before occurred to Mulder that Skinner would have fears and worries, a lack of self-esteem if he were to put his emotions on display. But now he saw it clearly.

Geez, Mulder thought. Getting lost was turning out to be the theme of this case. He kept getting misdirected no matter what he was doing -- didn't matter whether it was a physical landscape or an emotional one, he was in serious need of a map and compass.

After washing and drying the dishes, Skinner wordlessly went back to the couch and pulled a book off the end table, alternating between reading and watching TV. Mulder continued to flip through his files. Finally he got up and went into the bedroom, saying "I'm going to call Scully," as he closed the door. Skinner had not acknowledged him at all.

For the fifteenth time Skinner tried to read the same paragraph, but he was still as stuck on it as he'd been the first time he tried to read it over twenty minutes ago. His mind was completely fixed on the half-assed moves he'd put on Mulder; even the TV wasn't enough to drown out the noise in his head.

Probably the best thing he could do would be to find Mulder a room in town at a motel. Skinner had only a couple more days here anyway, and Mulder would have to move if the case weren't resolved by his departure time.

It wasn't pleasant for him to acknowledge the power Mulder had over him. It seemed at times that he only had to look at Mulder and he lost the ability to make judgment calls. Skinner had thought he'd safely compartmentalized any sexual interest in men long ago, once he'd married, but it had always held there beneath the surface, a lingering doubt about his paths, a distant ache in his soul.

On the few occasions he thought about it, he realized that such compartmentalizing could have contributed to his silence and reticence in marriage. Instead of recognizing and admitting his past, he'd directed his fears and feelings unpleasantly towards Sharon. His desire for her had eclipsed any desire for men. But a sliver of that past had always remained visible, hidden only by relative darkness. Still, he had chosen his life carefully, and he was not one to look back.

After an inordinately long time, Skinner gave up waiting for Mulder to reappear and knocked on the bedroom door. He opened it without waiting for Mulder's answer. Mulder was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head resting on his hands. He looked up when Skinner entered, and his eyes and nose had a faint tinge of red about them; clearly he'd been crying. It always stunned Skinner, how emotionally open Mulder was. Part of what made Mulder attractive, certainly, but also something discomfiting and somewhat scary to a man like Skinner.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I was thinking of heading to bed."

Mulder nodded. "Sorry. I was just lost in thought."

"Scully?"

"She wasn't too good this week. It comes and goes. That's why I hate leaving her. But she still managed to find all the stuff I wanted."

Skinner nodded. "That's good."

Mulder got up off the bed and started for the door. He stopped, turned back, then seemed to think better of it and went out. He closed the door gently.

For most of the night Skinner wasn't able to sleep, thinking of him on the other side of the door. He wouldn't even let himself get up to hit the head, because he didn't want to take the chance of seeing Mulder. It wasn't until nearly three a.m. that he finally went to the bathroom, and as far as he could tell, Mulder was asleep. He stood for a moment by the door, looking out at the form on the couch, sighing. This had become the most expensive vacation he'd ever taken.

When he rolled up to the cabin the next evening he did it at exactly the same time as Mulder. The two of them had not seen each other since the night before; Mulder had left first thing after dawn, before Skinner had even come out for breakfast.

"No catch?" Mulder asked, drawing his head back in mock surprise.

Skinner tossed his things on the couch and spoke over his shoulder as he walked towards the bathroom. "Caught two. Not big."

"Where are they?"

"I released them."

"Ah. Bet the fish just love that."

Skinner stopped and turned, then walked back towards Mulder. He pulled a fly out of the vest. "This is a somewhat typical dry fly. See how small this hook is?"

Mulder made a face. "And that makes it okay? I don't know much about fish, but I would bet you ten to one they're feeling the pain."

Skinner rolled his eyes heavenward, then went back towards the bathroom and closed the door. He called out through the door, "What do you want to do about dinner? There's still some food left in the fridge, or we could go back to the diner."

"Maybe they'll have strawberry rhubarb pie tonight," Mulder said wistfully.

"What?" Skinner called.

"Nothing," Mulder muttered. He definitely wanted to spend time with Skinner, no doubt about it. But the diner was probably the best bet; it felt safer to be in public with him than alone. There was some kind of romantic freight they were carrying, but he wasn't sure how to unload it all. And after last night's misguided steps, he must tread carefully.

It was already late by the time they got to the diner. Mulder made a point of ordering pan-fried trout just for show. He had deliberately asked Skinner to explain some of the intricacies of fly fishing, and to tell him more about fish in general.

Eventually, worn out of talking, Skinner skewered him with his patented assistant director stare and asked, "So, what did you find out today? I'm assuming you did something while you were here, not just gaze at the scenery."

The look on Mulder's face was a mixture of chagrin and confidence. Skinner couldn't quite figure out how he managed that.

"Well. Remember yesterday, I was telling you about the dry spells? Have you ever heard about those big walking catfish that burrow in mud? They come out every few years or so, and they're huge. Really enormous things, and they have evolved huge fins with which they pull themselves around. It's very unsettling the first time you see it." He opened the folder he'd brought with him and showed Skinner a photograph.

"Ugh," Skinner said, suddenly uninterested in his meal.

"Yes, I know. They estivate, or hibernate, whichever things like this do, I've never remembered how that works. When the lakes or rivers get low enough, they're brought out of their torpor, and scare the hell out of the locals."

"Okay, but what does this have to do with the murders here? You're saying it's big homicidal catfish?"

"Sort of. I think the local legends grew out of some very specific facts. The mudpuppy thing makes sense in an odd way, because of the whiskers on catfish, and their facial shape. Over the years, stories about that would be embellished. In sixty-three, there were two survivors in Park county, and they described something that looked just like this, with binocular vision. I mentioned the wounds on the body the other day, right? They were consistent with an animal attack of sorts. Imagine the fins enlarged, with claw-like talons. It's not unheard of; there are some fish with fins that have sharp, talon-like edges."

Skinner was suddenly very glad that there was almost no one left in the diner and that they were sitting by themselves. "Giant catfish are killing fly fishermen in Montana."

"Well, that's an oversimplification. Have you heard much about bioaccumulative toxins? They're chemical effluents that contaminate rivers and lakes, seas, what have you, and end up in large quantities within tissues of living organisms. Dioxin is probably the most famous. One of the scariest things they're finding with dioxin and some of its related compounds is that it mimics hormones. It has an estrogenic effect. There are numerous and sundry mutations being reported in amphibians and fish in contaminated rivers, and resultingly in the mammals and birds that feed on them. I could list off the types of mutations, but I won't bore you. Some of these bioaccumulatives could be coming from industry, say, or pulp and paper mills, nearby. What if somewhere along the line, one of these already mutated walking fish just got a little more mutated? What if its fins were as big as human arms? What if it was big enough to kill people?"

"But why? Why would it?" Suddenly Skinner felt enormously sympathetic to Scully.

"I don't know. It's awake, it's hungry. It goes looking for food, spots some guy in hip waders in the middle of the stream and says, lunch. But it doesn't eat humans. So it spits it out and goes, ick, pttooey. Humans aren't its normal meal. There were huge bite marks on three of the victims and chunks of flesh torn out. We're not talking about a biological wonder here, Walt, we're talking about a mutation with no greater brain capacity than a regular fish. And there could even be a whole family of them, who knows? It would help explain the wide area of the killings."

"What about the mud in the lungs?"

"That was my first doubt. Those guys didn't drown in water. They drowned before they got in the water, they drowned from the mud in their lungs. This thing is fast. Grabs them, drags them through the mud face forward, and before they can put up a fight, they've got lungsful of silt. Then it pulls them to a safe eating spot in the comfort and safety of the river, and then it gets a bad taste in its mouth."

Mulder stopped, staring at Skinner. Waiting. Finally he said in a boyish voice, "I know. You think I'm as crazy as Scully usually does."

"No. No, Mulder," Skinner answered, his voice filled with wry amusement. "Hell, it makes about as much sense as anything else."

*What a vacation. What a goddamn stupid, strange, and hilarious vacation.* He'd gone to so much trouble to get away from Mulder, but here he was in a little diner in the middle of Montana, with one of the sexiest men he'd ever met, listening to theories on mutated walking killer catfish. And all in all, it wasn't a totally bad time.

"This sounds suspiciously like your flukeworm guy, doesn't it?"

Mulder blushed. "Yeah. Oh God. I just know it's going to turn out to be some kids from town playing a prank, or an alligator." He put his head in his hands.

Skinner laughed, and Mulder's head snapped up at the unfamiliar sound.

"I believe you, Mulder. But do the local law enforcement listen to this?"

"You know, that's the oddest part. I spent some time talking with the sheriffs in both Jefferson and Gallatin counties -- they had the other deaths. And they didn't think I was crazy at all. Made me feel sort of... wistful. Wondering what it would be like if everyone else took me that seriously."

Skinner sighed deeply. He waved the waitress over and ordered strawberry rhubarb pie for both of them. Mulder looked excruciatingly happy. "So. How on earth do we stop it?"

"I have absolutely no idea. It doesn't have a pattern. It just seems to move from river to river, and it's hit in four separate counties. I'm enlisting the help of the local boys in getting the Fish and Wildlife Department in. Maybe we can figure some kind of lure for it. I don't know. All this is assuming I'm correct, anyway. And right now I don't know for sure that I am."

"This is really disgusting. Can we talk about something else?" Skinner asked. He was enjoying his cup of decaf coffee, listening to the lovely old standards that were playing on the big classic jukebox in the corner. Someone here had very good taste in music.

They ended up back on the subject of childhood, a subject Skinner wasn't that sure he wanted to talk about -- but it beat the hell out of walking catfish.

Eventually Skinner noticed the lights had gone low, and the restaurant was empty except for the waitress and manager cleaning up for the night. "We closed the place," he said, surprised. Somehow talking to Mulder like this made time fly. He'd had no idea it could be so pleasant.

Everyone in town knew they were the FBI guys, looking into the deaths, so people seemed willing to afford them special consideration, even if it meant letting them stay after they should have been kicked out.

Mulder moved for his wallet as Skinner got up to pay the tab, but Skinner waved him off, saying, "No, it's on me." He walked to the register while the waitress came over to take his money. He paid her, then turned back to see Mulder standing by the door, bathed in the reflected neon, just as one more song rotated on the jukebox.

Nat King Cole's honeyed tones began singing Stardust, and Skinner stopped for a moment. It had always seemed to him like one of the most beautiful songs ever put on vinyl, and it caught him there, that first line: "And now the purple dusk of twilight time, steals across the meadows of my heart..."

Mulder had turned just then to look at him, and they stared at each other across the distance, suspended, as if there were no solid flooring beneath them. Skinner felt like he had stepped into a movie, an overly romantic epic you'd catch on late-night television. Then he shook his head to clear the fog away.

Mulder tossed his keys up in the air, catching them on the downswing.

It knocked Skinner completely out of his reverie, and he suddenly felt more foolish than he ever thought possible. The waitress must think they were a couple of dimwits, standing there staring at each other.

Following Mulder, making passes at him, now getting gooey-eyed over him in public. Could it get more humiliating? Skinner strode through the doors with grim determination.

When they reached the cabin, Skinner went straight to the bathroom without saying a word. Mulder stood for a while in the main room, not sure what to do, before he pulled on an extra shirt and went outside on the porch. The stars seemed to fill the night again. The moon sat high in the sky, and with all the light from the stars and the moon, he thought he could practically read out here.

After a few moments Skinner joined him on the porch, but he didn't turn to look at him. Skinner stood beside him, silently. Mulder could feel the heat from his body, although they were not touching.

Eventually Skinner said, "Still the same old stars as before."

Mulder laughed quietly. "Yeah, they don't change much from state to state. You know, I've always wanted to see the Southern Cross. Someday I'll have to go to Australia just so I can."

"You like it that much, huh? What were you thinking of?" Skinner asked conversationally, although Mulder thought he detected a little strain, as if Skinner was feeling uncomfortable.

"I don't know. I think... I think we've lost the importance of the stars. In ancient times, it was the stars and planets that began our vision of time. Astrology was a science -- the movement of heavenly bodies could be the key to your future, to the success of an enterprise. And then the stars became our guide as we expanded out into the world. I mean, think of it -- you were a sailor, you knew your stars. Where Sirius was in any given location. Or how to use the North star as a locator. Those things *mattered*. Astronomy was the handmaiden of the sailor, as Daniel Boorstin called it. Knowledge of the skies was the difference between life and death, success and failure.

"But science has changed us, and astronomy isn't the useful tool it used to be. It's theoretical. The celestial is now the province of arcane study, or the place for poets and artists and musicians. We don't need stars any more, they're not for the great thinkers and creators and scientists. They inspire perhaps, but they don't guide and educate. They're decoration. Their purpose has left us as we left them behind."

Skinner turned to him then. His face was serious, but there was a soft, interested quality about it. He moved forward an inch or so and planted his feet firmly in front of Mulder. He slowly moved his arm around Mulder's waist, sliding the flat of his hand there, then spread his fingers wide to press gently against the small of Mulder's back. Silently, he leaned forward and kissed Mulder. Light but firm; not a passionate, crazed kiss. A perfect first kiss. Skinner never got closer, never moved his body forward. There was no contact except Skinner's hand and his lips.

Finally Skinner pulled away and looked at Mulder, calmly and gently. "Well, Mulder. That's what they're for."

Mulder could only stare stupidly at Skinner, his mouth open, the skin on his lower back tingling. After a few silent moments of Mulder's muteness, Skinner shook his head lightly and walked away, into the cabin and into his bedroom.

It took a while for Mulder to get his act together. He went inside and sat on the couch, rubbing his face with his hands. *Okay. First Walt made a pass at me, which he denied, but probably only because I embarrassed him. Next we're swooning at each other over schwoozy music, then he gives me a perfect kiss underneath the stars. So, then... he does want me.* He shook his head. *Gee, ya think?*

His steps towards the door were halting, unsure. Mulder wanted to rush in, shout questions at Walt. Have you always been interested in men? How long did you want this? What took you so long? But he knew that no questions, no prodding, would get Walt to tell him any such answers; they would come only in time, when he was damn good and ready.

Mulder knocked lightly on the door but didn't wait for Skinner's voice, opening it and stepping in with false confidence. Skinner was sitting on the edge of the bed, in the process of taking off his t-shirt. Mulder watched as the muscles of his triceps flexed. Finally Skinner looked at him, waiting patiently.

"I really hope you didn't think I was going to sleep after that," Mulder said softly.

"I was hoping you wouldn't."

He sat on the edge of the bed next to him. "You sure know how to surprise a guy."

"I get turned on when people wax philosophical about esoteric things like stars and the purpose they serve."

Mulder leaned forward, putting his forehead against Skinner's. He could feel Skinner's breath against his cheek, and it made him shiver.

Skinner's hand moved along Mulder's shoulder, up to his face, where he pulled Mulder into a kiss. They rolled back onto the bed before Skinner stopped and said, "Mulder, there's something I need to tell you."

"This isn't one of those social disease warnings, is it? I mean, we have condoms, right?"

Skinner laughed. Man, that was a wonderful sound, Mulder thought. All rumbly and deep, a real laugh that came from down in the gut.

"No, it's just embarrassing. But I wanted you to know, because I feel like an idiot and it might affect how you look at me." He paused, looking away towards the wall. "I ended up on this vacation because I needed to get away from your presence. A few weeks ago, I followed you. I saw you in the Metro station and I just wanted to see where you were going, and next thing I knew I was following you around Dupont Circle. I just... it seems like lately I always want to know what you're doing, where you're going. I want to know too much about you."

"I know."

Skinner looked back at him. "What do you mean, you know?"

"I saw you following me."

Rolling his eyes, Skinner shook his head. "Jesus. That makes it even worse."

"I thought it was cute. I'd wondered for a long time if the way you were looking at me was the way I'd hoped you were looking at me. It didn't seem very likely, though, too much of a longshot that we'd both be feeling the same things. That was the first time I thought maybe it wasn't just wishful thinking on my part."

"I didn't believe that you could... be interested in me." Skinner's voice was a whisper, like velvet on his skin.

"How could I not?" Mulder whispered back. "You're everything I have ever wanted."

Moving a hand over Skinner's chest, Mulder explored his skin, then placed his lips firmly over Skinner's, tasting him, learning the texture of his mouth and tongue.

After a lengthy reconnaissance, Skinner pulled away from Mulder and asked, "You went into Lambda Rising. What were you doing in there?"

"Not everyone who goes into a gay bookstore goes in because they're gay." He grinned. "I went in there because I knew you were following me. I was supposed to meet someone at the Phillips, in front of the Renoir, just before closing. But when I saw you, I thought it might send a signal, and I was walking by Lambda anyway."

The look on Skinner's face was priceless, a mixture of horror and amusement. Mulder almost couldn't stop himself from laughing. "By the time you called me here, I had grown convinced you didn't get my point. I haven't made the best steps with you since I got here, but the fact that I'm on your bed right now... well, maybe I'm making progress."

Skinner pulled Mulder against him, landing a fierce, bruising kiss. "I'll say." Mulder noticed the moonlight falling across the pillow, its glow illuminating the room softly. They circled each other, drawn by a gravitational pull; Mulder the bright companion star to Skinner's sun.

Starving. Skinner was positively famished, and he couldn't believe how late it was. He rolled out of bed, stiff but pleased from all the activity of the night before. But when he opened the bedroom door and looked out, Mulder was nowhere to be seen. He called out "Mulder?" and received no reply. The bathroom door was open, so clearly he wasn't in there. Peering out the door, he saw Mulder's car, but no sign of Mulder anywhere.

For some reason, Skinner felt slightly panicked, as if he'd driven the man away simply by having sex with him the night before. Deep-seated anxiety about becoming involved with a subordinate rose to the surface. He was afraid Mulder had more sense than he did right now, and that Mulder's sense had led him to get the hell out of Dodge before things got worse. Maybe he was out finding another place to stay.

Skinner pulled eggs and back bacon out of the refrigerator, but he felt much less hungry now. *He* should be the one with sense; that shouldn't be Mulder's job. Not at all.

Behind him the door opened and Mulder came in, sweaty and red-faced from a run. Okay, so now he *was* feeling even stupider, even though he hadn't thought he could have. Skinner managed a barely audible, "Hi."

Mulder wiped some sweat off his forehead and sat down on one of the stools opposite Skinner. He had a foolishly huge grin on his face, which for some reason made Skinner want to scowl.

"Are you going to cook for me, too?" he asked happily.

"I suppose I could." Skinner suddenly wished he'd put on more than just his jeans; Mulder was looking at him as if he were another piece of that pie he was so enamored of.

"Come here," Mulder said, reaching up and over the counter, hooking a finger in the waistband of Skinner's jeans. "You looked so grouchy when I came in." He kissed Skinner; a long, lingering exploration.

"I thought maybe sense got the better of one of us, and you were putting some distance between us."

"Sorry, no sense here." He got up and this time grabbed Skinner by the arm, pulling him around to the living room, then to the couch, on top of him.

After a lengthy round of kissing, Skinner looked at Mulder intently. "I feel like I should be calling you something besides Mulder right now. It seems a little too English public school. But I also know that the few times I called you Fox, you'd have liked to clock me. What on earth do I call you in a situation like this?"

Unbuttoning each button on Skinner's jeans and sliding them down his hips, Mulder said, "Pumpkin? Honeybunny?"

Skinner gasped and arched as Mulder's fingers started stroking his cock. "Har har. If you hate Fox so much, why don't you use your middle name?"

Mulder wiggled and let Skinner's hands roam across his body, his face enraptured, his eyes closed. Finally he said, "And then I'd be Bill Mulder, because everyone would want to call me Bill instead of William. You can imagine how much I want to be called that."

"So I just call you Mulder even in the middle of... this." He moved down Mulder's body, kissing his chest, his stomach, the tops of Mulder's thighs. His mouth found the warm, soft skin below Mulder's balls. Everything Skinner had thought Mulder would look like naked had proven true, and then some. Skinner thought it possible to become addicted to this, just looking and touching.

"It's not too English public school for me. I'm used to it; in fact, the people I love most call me by my last name." He moaned. "Since I'd like to think of you in that group..." He trailed off as Skinner took Mulder's cock in his mouth. "Oh... well... and... okay," Mulder mumbled nonsensically.

By the time they finished, it had long since passed breakfast time, and was now into lunch time. Skinner finally got up off the couch and began working on some food, while Mulder called out, "I'm hitting the shower." He turned and waggled his eyebrows at Skinner. "You made me all dirty."

Skinner shook his head as he threw eggs into the frying pan. So all right, maybe it wasn't such a horrible vacation after all.

Mulder's goal for the day, he said, was to see if he could figure out a movement pattern in the attacks, and he would be spending some time with the Fish & Wildlife boys. He actually seemed excited for the first time since he'd started working on the case; or at least, excited about something that wasn't pie.

When they split off and went their separate ways, Skinner almost felt a twinge of regret. It was his last real day in Montana. It would have been nice to spend the day with Mulder after such an auspicious, though late, beginning. But he certainly couldn't see Mulder wanting to learn how to fish, nor could he see him sitting idly by on the bank while Skinner cast around in the water. And Skinner most decidedly did not want to work on an X-File, even with Mulder.

So he enjoyed the feel of the sun on his back for a while, standing in the cold, rushing water of the river, but it didn't hold his interest. He let his line drift too often, and he wasn't paying total attention to where he was casting, either.

Instead he found himself remembering the texture of Mulder's body against his, the wonderful taste of his mouth, the way his fingers tended to play some kind of rhythmic tune, internal only to Mulder, on his skin all the while they were having sex. His musings about Mulder's oral fixations had proved dead on in the most erotic sense. Within seconds it had been clear that Mulder liked to bite. Not vicious, skin-breaking bites, but soft, sensual nibblings. What had been most surprising to Skinner was how extraordinarily inflaming and arousing it was.

They would have to get serious and think about what they would do once back home, but right now Skinner wanted to push that back as far as possible.

All the time he'd wasted worrying about following Mulder around that day. All this trouble to escape Mulder. But here they were, having the time of their lives.

Skinner finally gave up, deciding it would be more fun to spend his last day with Mulder even on a case, and waded back to the bank. He'd started taking off the boots when he heard a sound behind him, somewhere upstream. Lifting his head up, he looked around, but couldn't see anything. Stupid monster stories had him spooked, he realized. There was something very effective in Mulder's paranoia -- it spread to others like the flu.

Skinner collected his gear and was just about to go when he heard another sound, this one a loud grunting noise. Now that really sounded like something. Wheeling, he got one quick glimpse of a repulsive, huge grey thing coming at him. It looked exactly like a cross between Mulder's giant catfish and something... mammalian, he realized. In that split second it lunged and grabbed him by the leg with its nasty saw-like teeth. He shouted in pain, the feeling of being stabbed in the leg by a hot knife coursing through him in an instant. Teeth cut into his lower calf, just as claw-like fins grabbed him and pulled.

*Fuck!* Skinner realized. *I don't have my gun.* He grabbed for his fishing pole and stabbed it against some rocks while kicking at the creature, trying to pull away from it.

The pole bent but refused to break. He was fighting at both ends, his legs and feet kicking at the thing below him, while he used his arms to find a purchase on the rocks and break the pole. Finally the pole snapped and he turned, pain shooting though his legs as the monster ripped through his flesh. Blood poured from his wounds. Skinner raised the pole up and stabbed the ragged end into the monster's head, right between its eyes.

A few hundred feet away, Mulder got out of his car, checking the makeshift map Skinner had drawn for him. Skinner had been fairly specific about where he'd be fishing, although Mulder could not see any sign of his boss's car anywhere. He was hoping to catch him by surprise, thinking it would be nice to watch him from afar and check out Walt's fine, fine ass displayed above the hipboots.

Just as he started walking away from the car, he heard an incredible, horrible shrieking sound, not human at all. It echoed off the rocks, piercing and angry. Mulder tried to follow the sounds, getting some sense of direction from it, but then it stopped. However, it was immediately followed by a bellowing, which Mulder realized was definitely a man, and probably Walt. He pulled his gun out of the holster as he ran, rounding a small group of trees. There he saw Skinner on the ground, bloody and enraged, violently kicking at a thrashing fish-like thing.

For a split second Mulder stopped in his tracks, the power of seeing one of his theories come to life in front of him causing him to hesitate. Then Skinner hollered again and Mulder was snapped back to action.

"Walt!" he shouted, but Skinner didn't even really turn towards him, just kept fighting as the thing continued to pull him, flailing, along the bank. Mulder realized the thing was trying to turn Skinner around to drag him by the head, just like all its victims, and for an instant he puzzled at that. Maybe heads made better carrying handles.

He moved closer and aimed carefully, pumping six slugs into the creature near its head. It continued to fight for a moment, then with a huge, arcing shriek, expired. Skinner yanked away from it, climbing to his feet with great difficulty. Mulder ran over to pull Skinner up.

"Hi honey, I'm home," Mulder said.

Skinner was out of breath, heaving in great gulps of air. Crouching, Mulder pulled away the shreds of fabric that were the remnants of Skinner's jeans and shirt. "My God, you're a mess. We've got to get you to a doctor."

There was no argument coming from Skinner. All he could do was give a violent shudder. Eventually he said, "Jesus. Jesus Christ." An oily, blackish substance oozed from the bullet holes and the area where Skinner had stabbed it with the pole. He shuddered again. They both just stared for minutes, before Skinner turned to Mulder.

"Well, that's no alligator. Does that renew your faith, just a little?" But in spite of his attempt at sounding jocular, he looked as if he might pass out.

Mulder poked at it with the toe of his boot. "So," he said cheerily. "Anyone feel like fish for dinner?"

****

Mulder stood on the balcony of Skinner's apartment, looking out at Crystal City. If you kind of squinted your eyes at it, he thought, it had a pleasantly sparkly quality.

It wasn't necessarily that things were different since they'd got back earlier that day. What it felt like was more an expectation that things would change soon. Because he'd wrapped the case up unexpectedly early -- how convenient of the fish monster to attack Walt, Mulder thought wryly -- they'd been able to come back on the same flight together. That had its own advantages. This time Mulder did not get lost at the airport, and the annoying series of short hops across the country were decidedly more pleasant with Skinner's body alongside his in the too-small airline seats.

Skinner was slightly more formal once they got back to Washington. Not distant and closed, as Mulder might have expected, but clearly back in his world, with the seriousness required of him. Mulder didn't mind. He had a lot of very, very nice memories to tide him over.

Once they'd taken Skinner to the doctor and got him fixed up as best they could, they had gone back to the cabin to eat and rest. Except, rather than rest, they'd made love all night.

Skinner must have been in considerable pain, but despite that, he had so clearly wanted the sex, even as Mulder had initially tried to demur. It was as if Skinner had wanted this for so long that he could not let even one moment of physical contact escape, especially not because of some stitches and bandages. And Mulder, with just a little prodding, had been forced to admit he felt no differently. The sex had been so slow, so sweet; not so much making love as divining each others' needs and desires.

While not inexperienced, Mulder had not really had a lover like Skinner before. There were wonderful, unique qualities to him, qualities Mulder could wax poetic about given half a chance. Skinner was surprisingly tender, but powerful and strong; there was a fury in him, yet he was achingly gentle. It had been awkward at first to work around Skinner's wounded legs and lower torso, but Mulder was nothing if not inventive.

He smiled to himself, thinking about it, and about that morning, too. About Skinner's slow, quiet smiles, and what Mulder was starting to think of as his stealth laughs -- unexpected, almost too quiet to catch. Low and under the radar. And most of all, the feel of Skinner's incredible body beneath his hands; a heavenly body, Mulder thought.

Behind him the sliding glass door opened, and Skinner limped over to stand next to him. "How is she?" he asked, as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation. Oh yes, Mulder thought, I like that, too. He assumes.

Mulder had gone immediately to see Scully upon his return, even though he'd never said where he was going when they split up at the airport. Skinner just seemed to know. "She's okay. Not great, but okay. I think things are getting worse, but there's no way she'll tell me that."

"Whatever happens, I have faith that you'll find a way out of this. You shouldn't doubt yourself so much."

Mulder turned to look at him then, smiling just a little. Skinner's eyes had something in them, something like light flickering on the surface of a dark pool. Or maybe it was the stars contained within their dark brown depths.

Eventually Mulder said, "So, now we're back to work. I assume you'd still like to see me, or I wouldn't be standing on your balcony like this. But it could be complicated, and it could get... ugly, if anyone finds out."

Skinner looked out over the city, towards the direction of Washington. "Yeah, well, you know." As if that explained the whole thing. "Sometimes if you love someone, it's worth it to get beat up a few times over it."

Love. Mulder liked how he dropped that in so casually. It was so perfectly Skinner to sideswipe you with affection, to drop a word like love in there as if it had no more weight than air. Mulder looked away, laughing to himself.

After awhile Mulder asked, "How are your legs feeling?"

Shrugging, Skinner said, "Not great. I'm just hoping there wasn't some kind of mutated bacteria in it, too, and I don't turn into a fish over the next week or so."

"I only asked because I was thinking about last night. And how I'd like to tie you to the bed and lick every inch of your body."

"You don't have to tie me down to do that."

"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" Mulder moved towards the door.

"I don't know, Mulder. You're the one with all the answers."

Skinner smiled at him, that same quiet, unexpected smile. Yup, Mulder thought. Definitely something to plan your day around.

Or maybe even your whole life.

End

2/6/99

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