Part Eight

"Another spare rib?" Luke asked genially.

Walter wiped his mouth, belched, stared sadly at the blurry stack of now bleached bones piled on his plate, and shook his head mournfully.

"Too full," he admitted. "I'd like another Scotch though." He stared happily at his glass, admiring the way the amber liquid simply flowed back up to the brim without even a gesture from his host. Useful trick for parties, he told himself, and then belched again.

"Now, where were we? Oh yes, we were discussing your Death, weren't we?" Luke said, adjusting his wings and then relaxing back in his chair.

Walter's face drained of some of the color that the meal and drinks had managed to restore.

"Would you rather discuss this later?" Luke asked, his expression remarkably sympathetic. "It's all a bit of a shock, I'm sure. Maybe you'd rather wait for Alex to come back."

"I thought Alex had gone to help Mulder?" Walter queried, although admittedly he hadn't allowed himself to give much thought as to *why* Alex was helping Mulder or even why Mulder needed the help in the first place. Selfish as it seemed, even to himself, he was finding the fact of his own unexpected death somewhat of a priority in his thoughts.

"Well, you know Mulder," Luke replied easily. "He's an ungrateful little fuck at times. You can always trust Alex to fall for the heartbreakers. Sometimes I suspect that Alex has a masochistic streak wider than the Red Sea." He gave Walter a slow wink and smiled. "Or maybe he just likes the make-up sex. Those boys are *so* hot together they'll steam your glasses, Walter. Speaking of which, you do realize that you don't actually *need* to keep wearing those glasses, don't you? In fact, you'll probably see better without them."

Walter fumbled for his wirerims, removed them and cautiously looked around. As Luke's face immediately snapped into focus, he realized that a good portion of his blurred vision hadn't been due to the scotch, after all.

"It's just that I don't *feel* dead," Walter replied quietly.

"Well, good ribs will do that for you," Luke agreed.

"I'm a bit confused," Walter admitted, not for the first time. "How can I be sitting here, eating and drinking, if I'm dead?"

"You're not. Well, let me rephrase that. The human body formerly known as Walter Sergei Skinner, is currently lying in an abandoned warehouse and will shortly be discovered - thanks to a little interference by someone who's not as clever as he thinks - but I digress. The point is that *you* aren't that body, Walter. You never were. You just wore it for a time, just as you've worn other bodies before. You, the real you, is as immortal as I am."

"You're talking about my soul?"

"You *are* your soul. Walter Skinner was just a disguise you decided to live inside for a time."

"Then why do I still look the same?" Walter challenged.

"Pure stubbornness, I suspect," Luke replied, with a grin. "Seriously, most souls *do* choose to keep the appearance of their last mortal body until they get bored enough to go back down. Sometimes it takes a century or two to get to that stage, other souls go back down within a few days. It depends on the individual. I suspect that you will be one of the former. You seem comfortable with yourself, which is half the battle. Too many souls leave their mortal bodies before they've learned to like themselves. Those are the ones who dive right back into a new life in the hope of getting it right the next time."

"So you're saying that souls get re-incarnated over and over again, into new bodies, and Purgatory is just some kind of way station between those lives?"

"Generally," Luke agreed. "It would become horribly crowded here otherwise, wouldn't it?"

"Then what's the point?" Walter demanded.

"You want to know the meaning of life?" Luke asked.

"Essentially."

"Forty-two," Luke quipped, then sighed at Walter's frown. "You've really got to learn to loosen up, Walt. You're not in the FBI now. A sense of humor is not optional in Purgatory."

"So I gather," Walter replied dryly. "I still want to know what's the point of all this living and dying business. Why are eternal souls being born as humans at all?"

"Because every time a new human is born, they have to have a soul. It's one of HIS rules. There's a finite number of souls, so everyone has to take a few turns. We don't interfere. You lot sort it out among yourselves," Luke replied.

"But what is the point?" Walter repeated, frowning with frustration. "I'd understand if I was sitting here with the memory of all my previous incarnations, but I'm not. I'm just me, Walter Skinner and, from what you say, I stay me until I get bored and decide to become someone else who then won't remember being *me*. What's immortal about that?"

"Ah, well I never said being an immortal soul was a *good* thing," Luke admitted. "Tell the truth, you're just all canon fodder for the game."

"What game?"

"The Heaven and Hell game," Luke said, with a wry grin. "Think of it as being an immense game of football, with a goal on each side. The ball in play doesn't count until it's in the back of one of the nets."

"Football?" Walter asked, blinking furiously.

"Hate to break it to you, Walt, but you're all just balls. You're bouncing around the field and your only way to stay in the game is if you avoid being drop-kicked into a goal. Doesn't really matter which one you land up in, Heaven or Hell. Once you're in the net you *usually* don't get out again. You should count yourself lucky that Alex has the hots for you. It's not many angels who can be bothered to try and catch a soul who's been kicked out of play."

"The hots?" Walter asked, with a weak smile.

"Don't worry about it," Luke replied lightly. "He's probably too busy playing at being in 'lurve' to remember to molest you too."

"Oh," Walter replied weakly, wondering why he felt disappointed.

"Can't say as much for the rest of the guys around here. Randy buggers most of them. Especially the ones on vacation."

"Vacation?"

Luke pointed at one of the snoring Angels. "That's Ashriel. Strictly speaking he works for HIM but his job sucks donkeys. He's responsible for separating souls from their mortal bodies. Well, not personally. Obviously he's got a whole team of lesser angels to actually do the work but, still, it's a high pressure job at times. He's not been quite himself since the last world war. He spends a lot of time here, just chilling out."

"When you say 'HIM', I assume you mean God?"

"Shush," Luke interrupted quickly, pressing a finger to Walter's lips. "Don't say the 'G' word. It's guaranteed to make certain ears prick up and start listening in to our conversation."

"Can I say Devil?" Walter asked drolly.

"If you must," Luke sighed. "Though it's a very maligned and misunderstood word."

"Why did I know you were going to say that?" Walter drawled.

Luke just shrugged good-naturedly. "Whatever. You must at least have figured out by now that *nothing* is quite what you were led to believe."

"You're not what I expected," Walter admitted. "You're short of some horns and a spiked tail. On the other hand, this could all be an elaborate charade. You're supposed to be the Prince of Lies, aren't you?"

"Wasn't that Robin Hood? Oh no. I remember now. He was the Prince of Thieves," Luke replied, with a wicked grin.

"So Alex is one of yours? A fallen Angel?" Walter asked a little sadly, though it was admittedly difficult to sit with his affable host and maintain his former impressions of what it meant for an Angel to be 'fallen'.

"Alex is mine, yes," Luke agreed, with a fond smile. "But I don't think fallen is the right adjective to describe him. If you asked him, he'd say that he 'jumped' but the real truth is he just burnt out."

"Burnt out?"

"Ash thinks *his* job sucks. It's a piece of piss next to Alex's previous career and Alex is still relatively young, which I think had a bearing on his decision to quit."

"What's relatively young in Angel terms?" Walter asked.

Luke shrugged and frowned. "Can't remember exactly how old he is," he admitted, "But I'm sure he wasn't much more than a fledgling when he supervised the flood."

"*The* Flood, as in Noah?" Walter asked incredulously.

"Was there another?" Luke snorted sarcastically. "Of course, his name was Hasmed then. He changed it by deed poll when he moved to Purgatory."

"I remember Hasmed!" Skinner exclaimed suddenly. "He was one of G… one of HIS five angels of punishment, wasn't he?"

"I love it when a soul went to Sunday School," Luke chuckled. "You're right. I told you his job sucked. He burned out in the end. It's not easy spending day after day spreading pestilence and plague. He came here for a well-deserved holiday and never left. To tell the truth I get most of my recruits that way. Of course, the spare ribs help."

~#~#~#~

"So what do you think?" Michael asked smugly, his words echoing just a fraction too loudly in the marble-domed room. Then, conscious of several disapproving glares from the other occupants who were all kneeling in quiet contemplation, he dropped his voice. "It's so simple, it's beautiful, isn't it? We use Scully to get Mulder away from Alex. We're not 'harming' him. We're not 'killing' him. We're not even letting the Aliens kill him. We're just letting his best friend rescue him from a bad influence. They'll probably never even know we interfered."

"I think it's too dangerous," Rafe whispered. "I made a deal with Luke and I'm not stupid enough to cross him."

"You were stupid enough to strike the deal in the first place," Michael snapped.

"Gabriel said that Skinner was too proud to be saved," Rafe replied defensively.

"Ironic, isn't it?"

"What is?"

Michael rolled his eyes in disgust. "That it served *our* purposes to try and damn a soul that obviously didn't deserve to be damned. Makes me wonder whether a little more effort on Gabriel's behalf might have brought this Skinner over to *our* side."

"Does it really matter now?" Rafe asked tiredly. "What's done is done. Anyway, why do you imagine Scully can control him now? She never managed before. We can't kill Mulder. We can't even stand by and let the aliens kill him for us. No matter how stupid I was to make the offer, the rules of the game are clear. A deal is a deal."

"You weren't stupid," Michael corrected thoughtfully. "Just misled."

"What do you mean?"

"Gabriel," Michael replied, his eyes narrowing accusingly. "*He's* always been the one who's been so determined to keep Mulder alive. I think he *knew* that Alex could save Skinner. He set you up, Rafe."

"You're saying that Gabriel is working for Luke?" Raphael gasped.

"Don't make me regret saying you aren't stupid," Michael snarled. "Of course Gabriel isn't working for Luke. Gabriel's working for Gabriel. As usual."

"I can understand him keeping Mulder alive *before*," Rafe replied thoughtfully. "The moment Mulder died, it would have been obvious that he was Gabriel's *real* son. The wings are a hell of a giveaway. Still, we all know now so why would he leave Mulder's soul in jeopardy when the secret's already out of the bag? It's a bit late to worry about his reputation now."

"Unless he's got another secret…" Michael ruffled his feathers thoughtfully, then his eyes widened in horror. "No. I can't be right. It's not possible."

"What?" Rafe asked nervously. "What is it, Michael?"

"I think he died, Raphael. That's the secret that Gabriel's trying to hide. Mulder *did* die."

Raphael shook his head. "No he didn't. He was just in some form of alien-induced coma. I admit no one understands why he survived being buried alive, but he wasn't dead. He couldn't have been. We're all agreed on that because…"

"Because he should have spent those three months *here*?" Michael interrupted.

"Exactly. If his mortal body had died, he couldn't have stayed in it. We know he didn't turn up in Purgatory. So that's that. Mulder didn't leave his body so he didn't *really* die."

"But what if he did?" Michael whispered.

"You're suggesting he died and *stayed* in his mortal body?" Rafe demanded, with a dramatic shudder.

"No, I'm suggesting that he died and went somewhere else. Somewhere he doesn't remember because he's mortal again but that he *will* remember if he dies."

"There *isn't* anywhere else," Rafe snorted. "If he'd gone to either Heaven or Hell, he'd still be there."

"Like Elias stayed in Heaven?" Michael asked, his expression sick. "Mulder won't be the first prophet to be transformed into a Sarim, will he? Shit, he's already got the damned wings."

"No. Absolutely no way, Michael. HE swore he wouldn't do it again. He said he'd *never* make another Sarim."

"As I recall, he also said he'd never create another race of beings after the human experiment failed," Michael pointed out. "In the scheme of things, what's another Angelic Prince compared to his creation of these aliens?"

"Do you think Luke knows?" Raphael whispered, his face draining of color.

"I don't think so but it explains why *we* were under orders to either kill Mulder before he had a chance to fall or at least keep him away from Alex's influence. If Mulder *is* a Sarim and he joins forces with Luke…"

"Shit," Raphael groaned. "I've really fucked up, haven't I?"

"In the history of fuck-ups, yours stands in a class of its own," Michael agreed.

"What are we going to do?"

"Nothing now," Michael admitted. "If we bring Luke down on our heads, he's liable to start sniffing around and wondering *why* Mulder's so damned important."

"What about Scully?" Rafe reminded him. "Isn't she already on her way to 'rescue' him from Alex?"

"Oh shit," Michael groaned.

"So it's fuck ups all round then?" Rafe chuckled.

Michael just flipped him the finger.

~#~#~#~

For the first three hours Mulder had at least been able to comfort himself with the fact that walking in the tight leather pants was even more pleasurable than driving in them. Even as the sun rose high enough to make his cock and balls sweat-drenched and sticky inside their leather furnace, the friction of soft, clinging leather sliding back and forth over his groin kept his mouth twitching into a smile despite the perspiration dripping down his face.

Twice the sensations became so overwhelming that he stopped and jerked off at the side of the road, pumping his hot flesh with equally sweaty fingers until his dick was soft enough to be stuffed back inside the furnace of his pants.

He *really* hoped that Alex was watching and gnashing his teeth.

But as he entered the fourth hour of his slow trek towards civilization, even the sliding caress of his pants ceased to be enough distraction to make him forget his *real* problem.

It wasn't the fact that he was walking alone in the middle of nowhere, with absolutely no idea how long it would take him to find a gas station. It wasn't that he was undoubtedly being tracked by armies of shapeshifting aliens, bounty hunters, consortium goons and the FBI's finest, all of whom would happily use him as target practice. It wasn't even that his mouth was so dry that he'd happily kneel down and slurp water out of a muddy puddle.

No, all of those problems seemed completely insignificant next to the source of his *real* misery.

He had blisters.

Not those girly 'my heels hurt' kind of blisters but 'fuck with me and die' blisters. The type that let you manfully struggle on, ignoring the pain, until they grew so large that they burst off the back of your heels, taking so much skin in the wake of that explosion that nothing less than grafts would cover the weeping wounds. Until your only option was to take your shoes off and hobble down the road, uncertain which leg to limp on because they both hurt so fucking much. Until the soles of your now bare feet became as bruised and blistered as your now fleshless heels.

Mulder was in so much pain that he didn't know whether to cry or to laugh. The irony of the situation didn't escape him. He'd been shot, knifed, drugged, buried alive, almost eviscerated by claws, had holes drilled in his skull and still he could honestly say that he couldn't remember *ever* feeling as damned sore and miserable as he was now with just two lousy blisters on his heels.

He slumped into a miserable heap at the side of the road, deciding that pride could go take a flying leap off a short cliff, and too thirsty to raise his voice above a whisper, he gave in.

"Alex…Please. I'm sorry. I *do* need you."

He was so relieved when Alex immediately materialized in front of him that he forgave him the smug grin. Or at least he thought he did, until he found himself surging to his feet, his hand moving of its own volition as it formed a fist and smashed into Alex's face.

Alex's look of complete wounded surprise, as he staggered and collapsed to his knees, struck Mulder as funny and he began to laugh uncontrollably. Perhaps it was hysteria, he told himself, because he couldn't stop laughing even though Alex's darkening expression spoke volumes of how unfunny *Alex* found the situation.

Alex looked pissed, he realized, trying to choke back his sniggers. Alex looked…well, hurt was probably a better word, he admitted to himself.

"Sorry," he mumbled, when he finally got control of himself. "I didn't mean to do that."

"Your fist slipped?" Alex drawled sarcastically, his eyes cold.

"No, I mean I just….actually I don't know what I mean but I'm sorry."

Alex nodded and shrugged. "Okay," he agreed.

"It's not okay," Mulder argued, oddly unsettled by Alex's acceptance of his violence. It made him feel ashamed of himself and he didn't like the feeling.

"It's not like you haven't hit me before," Alex pointed out mildly then, instead of rising to his feet, he leant forward and sympathetically touched Mulder's sore feet.

There was a tingling sensation, more pleasantly chilly than cold, and then the pain in Mulder's feet ceased abruptly. Mulder looked down at his now unblemished heels and sighed with relief.

"Thanks," he muttered, feeling even more of a bastard as he compared his healed feet with the rapidly rising bruise on Alex's cheek.

Alex just shrugged and smiled.

Which just made Mulder feel worse.

"I'm being a prick aren't I?" Mulder sighed.

Alex's fingers paused momentarily on Mulder's feet and he looked up through long lashes, his expression wry. "Is it safe to answer that without ducking?" he asked quietly, just a whisper of humor dancing below his steady tone.

Mulder chuckled tiredly, his right hand sneaking out to lightly caress the dark bruise on Alex's cheek. Although he knew the bruise was just an illusion, it still made him feel uncomfortable to look at.

"Get rid of that?" he asked quietly.

"I thought you liked to see me wearing your mark," Alex countered.

"Is that what is is?" Mulder mumbled to himself, sliding his fingers under Alex's chin and gently forcing his head up until he could stare directly into the deep green eyes of his nemesis and lover. He swallowed, feeling both uncomfortable yet strangely relieved to admit the word to himself.

Lover.

What else could he call Alex? What other word could describe their relationship without making him feel even more of a bastard than he already did?

Perhaps it was wrong, perhaps there was something sick and unhealthy about feeling affection for a creature like Alex, but was that any worse than telling himself that what kept happening between them was just sex?

"You're a demon, Alex," he began and Alex flinched and tried to pull his head back, his eyes bitter and wounded, but Mulder tightened his fingers and forced Alex to stay in place. "Maybe, in some fucked up way, that makes it easier."

"Makes what easier?" Alex asked cautiously, a small v-shaped frown of confusion forming between his eyebrows.

"To forgive you," Mulder admitted with a rueful sigh.

"Huh?"

"I fell in lust with you the first time I saw you, stupid ass hair and bad suit regardless," Mulder chuckled. "Hell, I never would have touched you. You were just so young and cute and clueless. You reminded me of some stray puppy, with your big innocent eyes and your complete inability to take no for an answer. It didn't matter how many times I cut you out, you just kept bouncing back, no attitude, just this whole eager-beaver routine. After years of Scully's constant questions, your eagerness to believe me was just too damned seductive to resist.

"But, of course, you knew that didn't you? You knew exactly which buttons to press to make me relax my defenses and actually start to like you, you little bastard. I think that's why I hated you so much. Your charm chipped away at me until I couldn't resist you anymore and then…well, it turned out that it was all an act. It hurt, Alex. Not only that you deliberately set out to sucker and then betray me, but that the Alex I fell in love with never even really existed."

"In love?" Alex whispered, his eyes huge.

"So I hated you for that, more than anything that you actually *did* though, let's face it, the less we say about what you did, the better."

Alex just nodded miserably.

"But, somehow, it's almost easier to handle the idea that none of it was a choice on your behalf. It's just your nature, isn't it? You were right before, when you said I shouldn't judge you by human standards. If a wild animal bites a person, even kills a person, it's not being evil; it's just acting according to its nature."

"I'm not an animal, Mulder," Alex pointed out.

"No," Mulder agreed, with a wry smile. "But neither are you human, so my emotional responses to your behavior are probably inappropriate. You've helped me sometimes. A lot of times, really. Yet I never remember the good things you've done, just the bad."

"Well, that's *human* nature," Alex chuckled.

Mulder nodded. "So, tell me, Alex. What's a nice demon like you *really* doing on a nasty planet like this?"

"Other than intending to have my wicked way with a certain sexy Fox?" Alex purred.

"How wicked?" Mulder demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"I think it's time our relationship stopped being so one-sided, don't you?" Alex suggested, licking his lower lip slowly. "Maybe it's time I explained the advantages of having an inhuman lover."

"Oh? How do you intend to do that?" Mulder asked coolly, though his cock battered the front of his pants with an eagerness that belied his earlier efforts to soothe its hunger for the green-eyed demon.

Alex snapped his fingers and a sleek black Ferrari appeared next to them, its engine purring in time with the blood throbbing inside Mulder's groin.

"Since you have such a problem believing what I say, why don't we cut the crap, drive to the next town and then I'll give you a personal demonstration."

Mulder opened his mouth then shut it again, deciding he couldn't actually think of anything to say. So he obediently climbed into the passenger seat and, as Alex snapped the gearshift into first, Mulder just stared though the windscreen and didn't even try to hide the smile that had crept onto his face.

Go to Part Nine