Although it isn't necessary to have seen the episode, this beginning of this story contains spoilers for "Kitsunegari". Having said that, it really has absolutely nothing to do with that episode at all.  The connection is simply that when I watched that episode, it struck me how easy it would be to incorporate the canon of the conversations between Mulder and Skinner inside the framework of a rather tragic slash story where a budding relationship between the two guys was shattered by the act of Skinner taking Mulder's gun and badge, so that in the last scene, where Mulder says "Then how come I feel like I lost?" the reference is to the fact that he and Skinner's relationship has returned to its prior formality.

I've been playing with the idea of writing that story for some time.

This isn't it <G>

Kitsunegari

Walter Skinner stared at the scan of Linda Bowman's head. Even to his untrained eye, it was obvious that the large white spot inside her brain was an anomaly. He looked up at Mulder, inviting him to speak, but Mulder just continued pulling invisible lint out of one of his pants legs and left the explanation to his partner.

"She has an advanced temporal lobe tumor, just like Modell's. It seems to run in the family," Scully said.

"She and Modell are related?" Skinner asked rhetorically, but Scully answered regardless.

"Fraternal twins."

Skinner nodded thoughtfully and threw Mulder a bone. "He meant to protect his sister."

Mulder refused the bait and remained uncharacteristically silent, despite the fact that Skinner had as much as admitted that he'd been right all along. Scully frowned at her partner, concern vying with annoyance, then she spoke to fill the increasingly  uncomfortable silence.

"Apparently, she only found out about his existence six months ago. They were separated when they were two weeks old, raised apart. Her "fox hunt" ... I'm guessing that she wanted revenge for what she feels we did to her brother."

She met Skinner's eyes, then they both turned expectantly towards Mulder.

Who still remained stubbornly silent.

Skinner fiddled with the file on his desk and waited. Then he waited some more. And still Mulder just sulked. 

Mulder did 'sulk' well. His pouty lower lip had been perfectly designed for the expression. and his eyes bore a disconcerting similarity to the mute, wounded accusation Skinner had once seen in the eyes of a doe he'd shot.

Only *once*, because he'd never had the heart to hunt again after seeing the light die in the tiny doe's eyes. Mulder didn't have the monopoly on guilt. He just *thought* he did. Skinner's refusal to join his brother's hunting trips was something that his family often ribbed him about. So it would probably shock the hell out them to know he was seriously considering a little Kitsunegari of his own.

Something, admittedly, easier said than done.

What the hell did Mulder want? Skinner grumbled to himself. A framed apology? A neon sign hung on the top of the Hoover building? What was he supposed to say?  Sorry I put all my doubts aside and believed you wholeheartedly when you said that Modell had the ability to brainwash anyone who got close to him? Sorry I took away your badge and your gun because I was scared stiff that you'd do something that would get you jailed or even killed? 

Sorry that I *care* about you?

But he reined in his feelings of irritation and helplessness, pushed down his irrational anger that yet again Mulder had apparently forgiven Scully for her lapse of faith but was refusing to offer the same forgiveness to himself,  and he aimed at a tone of neutrality as he spoke directly at Mulder. 

"Anything you want to add to that?"

Mulder's sullen "I think that covers it," told him that he'd missed. He'd tried for conciliation and had apparently only managed to ruffle Mulder's feathers even more.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly as he watched his two agents rise and walk towards the door. 

No. Scully walked.  

Mulder *stalked*. His back was stiff with tension, his whole posture radiating silent anger. 

Skinner knew he should just let him go. It wasn't the first time Mulder had stalked out of his office in a cloud of offended pride and it probably wouldn't be the last. 

He didn't even know he was going to say the words until they came out of his mouth.

"Mulder, a moment, please."

Mulder turned back towards him, his expression shuttered. Scully hesitated at the doorway, frowned slightly in Skinner's direction, then shrugged and closed the door behind her, leaving them alone.

Mulder swallowed visibly, but met Skinner's eyes with a defiant glare.

"I just want to say you did a good job," Skinner assured him.

"How's that?" Mulder asked, his tone flat.

"Nobody could have figured this out but you. You knew it was Linda Bowman and not Modell. You were way ahead of me."

"I almost killed my partner."

"Mulder, despite that, you prevailed. You won her game."

"Then how come I feel like I lost?" Mulder demanded. He didn't wait for an answer, he simply turned on his heels and strode from the room.

Caught off guard by the unexpected exit, the door had almost closed behind the retreating agent before Skinner had the presence of mind to bellow out "MULDER!"

For a moment, he thought Mulder would pretend he hadn't heard him. Then after a brief pause, as though he had indeed wondered whether to try that game, Mulder walked back into the office.

"I'm still speaking," Skinner said mildly. "Perhaps you'd like to take a seat this time."

Mulder glared at him with obvious disgust before flopping ungracefully into a chair, his legs sprawled in a deliberate show of casualness but his lower lip still pouting in temper. The knot on his tie had been loosened, a childish defiance against the bureau's strict dress code and, combined with his coltish legs and sulky expression, he looked more like a teenager seated in his Headmaster's office than an FBI agent.

The observation made Skinner's lips twitch with amusement. Fortunately Mulder was too busy staring at the floor to notice. "You know what your problem is, Mulder?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me," Mulder mumbled sullenly.

"You take your job too seriously."

Mulder almost fell off his chair. He blinked at Skinner in total disbelief.

"Nothing to say to that?" Skinner asked pleasantly.

Mulder shook himself. "Three words, Sir. Pot, Kettle, Black."

Skinner's mouth twitched again. "Know what the difference is between us? Unlike you, when I go home I leave this place behind me. I have a *life*. When did you last have a life, Mulder?"

Mulder rolled his eyes in pointed disbelief. "Excuse me pointing out the obvious, Sir, but you work until gone ten most nights. You come in at the weekends. You rarely take holidays. You never turn your cell phone off. Exactly what 'life' are you talking about?"

"Ever heard the term quality rather than quantity?"

"Look, I appreciate the pep talk, but I don't see what this has got to do with the Bowman case and there's a reason personal life is called just that. Now, if there's nothing else..." He began to rise.

"I'm still speaking, Mulder."

Mulder dropped back into his chair with a huff of disgust.

"You're angry with me because I didn't trust you. You resent the fact that I tried to take you off the case."

"You didn't listen to me," Mulder accused petulantly.

"You were right," Skinner agreed. "But that doesn't mean I was wrong. The choice I made was the only logical response to the situation. You had no evidence to back up your suspicions. And I *did* believe you, when I pulled you off the case. If I hadn't believed you, I wouldn't have felt the need to take your gun."

"You didn't trust me."

"Neither did Scully."

Mulder flinched slightly, his eyes wounded.

"I'm sorry. That was below the belt," Skinner admitted. "Nevertheless it's true. The fact is that sometimes, no matter how much you want to support someone you care about, you have to weigh the evidence and make decisions based on facts rather than blind trust. As your superior I consider your safety more important than your wounded pride. Yes, you were right about Linda Bowman but, as you've admitted yourself, your refusal to go home when you were told to almost cost Scully her life."

"If you'd trusted me, it wouldn't have happened," Mulder retorted resentfully, though he dropped his eyes from Skinner's face.

"Possibly," Skinner allowed, "and if I thought that blaming me for what happened would put your own mind at rest, I'd let the matter drop. Only that's clearly not the case."

"It's not a matter of blame. The fact is that I almost shot Scully."

"Just as the fact is that you didn't. Give yourself a break, Mulder. Believe it or not, not all the world's problems can be lain at your feet and I'm getting tired of you wearing a hair shirt all the time. My father has a saying for situations like these."

"Do tell," Mulder drawled disinterestedly.

"Shit happens," Skinner announced solemnly.

For a moment Mulder gaped at him in disbelief, unable to reconcile Skinner's surly expression with the words that he'd just heard.  Then he barked with laughter and a genuine grin crept onto his face when he witnessed a new miracle as Skinner's mouth twitched slightly as though a smile was attempting to crawl its way out of the tightly pursed lips of his superior.

"Shit happens," Mulder repeated wonderingly.

"Indeed, Agent Mulder. On which note, I have a recommendation for dealing with situations like these."

"Which is?" Mulder asked, still grinning.

"Good food, good wine and good company."

Mulder's smile slipped sideways off his face as he contemplated the evening he had planned. The same as every Friday evening. Take-out, a six-pack and a date with 'Daniel'. Not quite what Skinner was suggesting but he was hardly going to admit that. Especially not after Skinner's comments about 'getting a life'.

"Yeah, well I'll take that under advisement," he muttered, rising to his feet once more.

"I haven't finished," Skinner said smoothly.

Mulder slammed his ass back into the chair with a long-suffering sigh.

"Since, as your direct superior, I'm responsible for your well-being and, in view of your own accusation that it was my error of judgment that has put you in this state of mind, I feel it's my duty to ensure that you follow my recommendation. It's four-thirty. If you leave now you've got plenty of time to get ready before I pick you up at Seven."

"Ready for what?" Mulder asked stupidly, fishing around in his suddenly panicked mind for whatever strange logic had brought the conversation around from a discussion of the Modell case to Skinner asking, no *ordering* him out to...what? Dinner?

"Dinner," Skinner confirmed.

"With respect, Sir, you can't make me."

"I can't make you what? Enjoy yourself for a change?"

Mulder glared at him and struggled manfully not to say the obvious. He lost. "What on earth makes you think I'd enjoy dinner with *you*?"

Then he flushed furiously, as it occurred to him that his mother would have clouted his ears for being so bluntly rude to another person.

"What makes you so sure you wouldn't?" Skinner countered.

Mulder shrugged awkwardly.

"Trust's a two-way street, Mulder. You're angry with me for not supporting you on this case but you're not even willing to trust me enough to eat with me? Besides, don't you think it's about time we got to know each other better?"

"I guess," Mulder muttered, his mouth twisting as though he'd swallowed something bitter. 

"Excellent," Skinner announced cheerfully.  "I'll see you at Seven."

~#~#~#~

"See," Skinner announced, as he pulled up in front of Mulder's building . "You survived a whole evening in my company."

"It was fun," Mulder agreed, then blushed furiously at saying something so inane. "I mean...um... it was a nice place."

It *had* been a nice place. Good food. The kind people described as home-cooked. The kind of food Mulder hadn't eaten since he was twelve years old.  After Samantha had...well, best just to say he'd spent his teenage years becoming increasingly convinced that the height of culinary cuisine was a TV dinner. 

And it *had* been fun. Assistant Director Walter Skinner had spent the evening regaling him with tales of life growing up in the apparently immense Skinner family. They hadn't mentioned work at all. Well, Skinner hadn't and the few times Mulder had mentioned anything that might put a dampener on the evening, Skinner had swiftly (but gently) changed the subject.

It had been impossible to maintain a funk, when Skinner had been unashamedly digging through the dirt of his less than illustrious childhood just to entertain him.

He wasn't sure he'd ever feel the same sense of awe and dread in Skinner's office now he knew about the time that Walter and two of his brothers had spent three days battling each other for the bathroom after scrumping apples from a neighbor's orchard.  "Crime doesn't pay," Skinner had announced solemnly. "Those apples might have tasted good going in, but they sure as hell hurt coming out. Only time I had the shits worse, was after a dodgy curry, and at least *that* time I wasn't facing getting my ass blistered by my dad for stealing in the first place.  Course," he'd added with a wink, "he waited till he was reasonably sure all the evidence had um...'gone' before touching my bare butt." 

Skinner's voice abruptly pulled him back into the present.

"I eat there a lot," Skinner said. "It reminds me of home. I don't get to see a lot of my family these days. My fault, of course."

"Yeah, well, you're lucky to have the option," Mulder muttered, as Skinner's comment dampened his mood. He'd enjoyed listening to Skinner's childhood tales. It had felt as though Skinner was offering him an honest and open view of the kind of normality he'd missed. A second-hand, but still valuable, glimpse at how *normal* people grew up. 

Suddenly it felt less like a gift than a slap in the face.

"I *am* lucky," Skinner agreed, his tone soft and sympathetic. "I thank God every morning for the family he gave me. I have parents who as near perfect as I can imagine parents to be. I have brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces and cousins and...hell, there are so many Skinners that family gatherings are more like conventions than parties. But I haven't actually gone to one of those gatherings for years."

"George Burns said, 'Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city'," Mulder quoted.

Skinner startled, then chuckled ruefully. He twisted in the car seat until he was facing Mulder directly and, even in reflective glare of the streetlights, Mulder could see the dark stain of a blush coloring his cheeks.

"I..um...well, I figured something out tonight," he said quietly. "You were right, Mulder. I *don't* have a life either. The only way I could spend a whole evening with you, without mentioning work, was by talking about the life I *used* to have."

"It's the job," Mulder offered, his temporary resentment drowning in a sudden wave of empathy. "It eats you up from the inside. It swallows everything. It makes having friends impossible."

"No. That's *your* excuse," Skinner replied, with a wry grin. "Mine, according to Sharon, is that I'm a surly, uptight bastard with too much pride to ever admit I *need* anything as mundane as a 'friend'."

Mulder shuffled uncomfortably on his seat. "I..um...do you want coffee?" he blurted, then blushed furiously and reached for the door handle, as though the act of leaping out of Skinner's car would make the words he'd just uttered disappear.

"I'd love a coffee," Skinner replied, cutting the engine and reaching for his own door handle.

Mulder poked his head back into the car, his eyes panicked. "Well, it's late and you've still got a long drive home, and I guess you've got plans for tomorrow so maybe you'd rather..."

"I'd love a coffee," Skinner repeated firmly.

"I've only got instant."

"I love instant."

"And I'm out of cream."

"I love black coffee. Relax, Mulder. I'm an easy-going visitor."

Mulder gulped, swallowed heavily, and dipped his head in defeat.  "Shame you're not so easy going about expense reports," he muttered sulkily.

Skinner just smirked and climbed out of the car.

~#~#~#~

He was pleasantly surprised to find that Mulder's apartment, while cluttered with the debris expected of a bachelor with eclectic tastes, was a more pleasant place than he'd realized on the few occasions he'd previously visited.

Possibly due to the fact he was entering it in the capacity of a guest, rather than a harried supervisor.  He found that having the opportunity to sit on the black leather couch and stare around the room in idle curiosity, rather than stepping over body bags or dodging gun-wielding Scullys, made a considerable difference to his attitude to the place.

From the sounds emanating from the kitchen, it was clear that Mulder had mysteriously found some real coffee. There was no mistaking the sound and smell of freshly ground coffee beans. He suspected that Mulder's comment that he only had 'instant' hadn't been a genuine error as much as a deliberate lie.

Instead of feeling irritated, he was impressed that Mulder had the balls to produce the coffee regardless.

He found a remote stuffed down the side of the couch, turned on the TV and flicked idly through the channels. He was more interested in knowing which cable stations Mulder subscribed to than in actually finding something to watch.  Then he rose and began a seemingly idle perusal of Mulder's bookcase, his index finger tracing over each spine as he read the titles:

"UFO's and the National Security State"; "Alien Agenda : Investigating the Extraterrestrial Presence Among Us"; "The day after Roswell"; "Glimpses of other realities"; "Dead Reckoning: The New Science of Catching Killers"; "Dark Dreams: Sexual Violence, Homicide and the Criminal Mind", "The Ins and Outs of Gay Sex: A Medical Handbook for Men."

His finger jerked back off the book as though he'd received an electric shock. Heart thumping he tentatively reached towards it once more, half-convinced that it would either vanish in front of his eyes or the lettering on the spine would contort into a different phrase. When it remained real and solid under his finger, he tipped the spine backwards, letting the book spill out of the bookcase into his hands.

"I don't know if you take sugar, but I haven't got any" Mulder announced, walking into the room with two mugs of coffee, his expression defying Skinner to comment on the fact he'd not only found real coffee but, apparently, cream too.

He kindly waited until Mulder had put the coffee down, before raising his hands and letting Mulder see the book he was holding.

Mulder turned a worrying shade of puce.

"It's um...it's not mine." 

Skinner frowned down at the book and then met Mulder's panicked gaze with an arched brow. "Oh? So whose is it?"

"I ah, that is, um, I'm not um..."

"It's an X-file," Skinner announced, with a knowing smile.

"Huh?" Mulder said, clearly scrabbling crazily around his brain to invent a plausible excuse. "It's...it's *research*," he announced triumphantly, nodding at his own cleverness.

"Research?" 

"For..um...oh yeah, that case in Stevestson. The Kindred. Remember?" 

"Oh yes," Skinner agreed. "An 'alien' killer who could apparently change genders, who left a trail of bodies then just disappeared into nowhere along with an entire community of other 'aliens'. Apparently they made their getaway in a UFO.  It was one of your more memorable reports. I suppose I should be grateful that *some* of your research came out of a text book that isn't on MUFON's list of required reading."

Mulder offered him a weak smile, obviously too relieved he'd taken the bait to argue the fine points of the investigation itself, and reached for the remote.

"There's nothing on," Skinner announced. "I already checked. Though we could always..."

"NO," Mulder yelped loudly, as Skinner opened his video cabinet. "Let's talk. Yeah...let's just talk some more about your family, huh?"

Skinner ignored him and began to rifle through Mulder's tapes, deliberately giving a title by title recitation of what he was finding: " 'Invasion of the body snatchers'; 'Cat women of the moon', 'Devil girls from Mars',  I'm sensing a pattern here, Mulder, let's see...'Plan 9 from Outer Space', 'Wham! Bam! Thank You Spaceman?'  Jesus, you actually *watch* this stuff?"

"They're classics," Mulder argued weakly. "It's just more of the same," he said, as Skinner abandoned the videos and began flicking through his DVDs. "Absolutely nothing you'd find interesting, Sir. How about I put on a CD?"

Skinner pulled one of the DVDs out of the rack and loudly sucked in a breath as he read the cover.

"Daniel and You," he began, adjusting his glasses a little as he peered at the small print.

Mulder tried to snatch the case out of his hands. Skinner blocked the move easily by simply turning and stepping to the side.

"Make Daniel do whatever you want him to do! Make him suck your cock, jack him off, screw him, stick a large dildo up his ass! This is pure interactive simulated sex that will make you cum on command!!" Skinner quoted, his eyes widening . "Features an interactive menu that details what uniform fetish this stud will interact in..."

"Please, Sir," Mulder begged.

"So exactly which *research* do you prefer, Mulder?" Skinner asked, straight-faced. "The captain, the football player, the fireman or the businessman?"

"It's not what you think."

"It isn't?" Skinner rumbled, putting the DVD case down and reaching for the next one. "Woodsmen? 'A pair of dusky-skinned backpackers tear down their campsite with some muscular flip-flop fucking, and two loggers have a whole lot more than just their permits checked by the Ranger whose relentless ass assaults provoke multiple rounds of cum.' "

"Stop it," Mulder demanded, his face screwing up in combined anger and embarrassment. "You've got no fucking right to look through my private stuff. Get the hell out of here, Skinner. NOW."

"But I haven't drunk my coffee yet," Skinner replied innocently, putting the DVD down and moving to sit on the sofa once more.  He stretched out his legs, reached for his coffee, took a long gulp and sighed with satisfaction. "Good blend," he said. "But then, you've always struck me as a man with excellent taste."

Mulder's mouth dropped open in a weird imitation of the fish that were merrily swimming through the tank behind him and he stared at Skinner as though convinced he was an alien clone.

"Well, except for in videos," Skinner added, with a nonchalant shrug. "I think ''Wham! Bam! Thank You Spaceman' is suggestive of a somewhat warped perspective on visual entertainment."

Mulder's jaw dropped even further. With a wary look in Skinner's direction, he grabbed his own coffee and retreated to sit on his computer chair, which was as far away as he could seat himself without moving into the next room.

"Oh, and ties. You show a remarkable lack of taste in ties. Though I've always suspected that's a deliberate act of defiance against the fact you have to wear them in the first place," Skinner continued.

Mulder's eyes flicked nervously around the room, as though searching for the location of a huge pink elephant, as Skinner failed to comment on the DVDs.

"I'm not gay," he blurted suddenly. 

Skinner snorted rudely, and tipped his head in the direction of the video cabinet.

"I was married," Mulder snapped.

"So was I," Skinner replied, with a careless shrug. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Mulder jerked in his seat and dropped his coffee with a resounding crash. He shook his head furiously. "That's not funny. I think you should go, Sir."

"I should," Skinner agreed. He waited just long enough for Mulder to sigh with relief, then added. "But I don't want to."

Mulder opened his mouth then shut it again and stared at Skinner in obvious bewilderment.

"I made a decision today," Skinner said, his voice soft. ""You could have died out there, again, and I'm tired of it, Mulder.  I seem to spend my life bouncing from one Mulder crisis to the next, never knowing whether the next phone call I receive is going to be the one telling me to get my black suit out of the cleaners."  He tipped his head in the direction of Mulder's bedroom. "I've already seen 'you' in a body bag. It's not an experience I want to repeat."

Mulder had the grace to blush. 

"But I accept the fact that you're a grown man," Skinner continued. "And you're going to keep on putting your life at risk, regardless of how I feel about it or of what sanctions I take to try and *make* you take better care of yourself."

"What are you saying?" Mulder challenged. "That you don't want to be my Supervisor anymore?"

"It would make things easier," Skinner admitted. "In more ways than one. But no, that's not what I'm saying. The decision I made today was that I was sick of wasting time, when I have to face the fact that there may not *be* any time.  I'm sick of the rules that say I have to remain impartial. I'm sick of pretending that I don't *care* about you. The decision I made today was that, whether you welcomed me or not, I wanted to at least tell you that I want to be your friend."

"My *friend*?" Mulder repeated incredulously.

"I know," Skinner chuckled ruefully. "It sounds so childish out loud, doesn't it? Hey, Mulder, I wanna be your friend. I feel like I'm back in grade school."

"Exactly what *kind* of friend are you talking about, Sir?" Mulder demanded.

"The kind who calls me 'Walter' when I'm sitting in his living room."

Mulder flushed at the gentle chide but jerked his head in the direction of the video cabinet. "So this sudden decision of yours to be my 'friend' has nothing to do with my 'taste' in visual entertainment?" he challenged.

"I didn't *know* about your taste, until twenty minutes ago," Skinner pointed out. "Besides, I'm hardly a 'Daniel', am I?  It's not like I found a copy of 'Daddy's Angel's' in your collection, is it?"

Mulder's eyes widened and he chewed furiously on his lower lip as he muttered something under his breath.

"What did you say?" Skinner demanded.

"I said I...um...broke it."

"What?"

"I had it on video but I...um...broke it."

"I'll lend you my copy if you like," Skinner offered. "Since we're 'friends', now."

Mulder rubbed his face, sprung to his feet and began pacing up and down the room like an agitated cat.  "I don't believe this. I'm in the fucking twilight zone. Assistant Director Walter Skinner is sitting in my living room, offering to lend me gay porn." He swung suddenly towards the older man, his eyes blazing with suspicion. "You're either a replicant or this is one fucking big set-up.  You wired, Sir? Is that what this is about? You're trying to get rid of me, for once and for all?"

Laughter rumbled out of Skinner's throat. "You could give paranoids a bad name, Mulder." 

He pulled off his jacket, unknotted his tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"What'reyoudoing?" Mulder squeaked.

"Proving I'm not wired," Skinner replied smugly. He rose to his feet, let his shirt slip to the floor and turned around slowly to give Mulder a good look at his bare chest. "I'm not quite Lance Gear," he admitted, with a smirk, "but I work out a bit."

~#~#~#~

 Mulder gulped heavily and found himself incapable of replying.

It wasn't that he was speechless. He could think of a *lot* of things he wanted to say. He just was finding it peculiarly hard to even breathe, let alone drag words out of his mouth.

Skinner saying he 'worked out a bit' was like Schwarzenegger saying he picked up the odd weight. 

It wasn't that he was surprised Skinner was so buff. He'd always known that Skinner's suits hid one hell of a body. Even in the dim lighting, when he'd been too busy keeping his eye on the ratbastard to pay much attention, he'd fully appreciated the view of Skinner's torso the night he dropped Krycek off at Skinner's apartment.

The problem was that *knew* he was going to make a total fool of himself.

In answer to Skinner's earlier question, the only 'uniform' Daniel ever wore for him was that of a businessman.  And the reason he'd 'broken' his video of 'Daddy's Angels' was that there was a particular scene where, if he freeze-framed quickly enough, he could shoot his wad in front of a big, bald beautiful man who looked so familiar that he invariably howled 'Skinner' as he came. 

And now Skinner was standing in his apartment in the flesh, revealing far too *much* flesh, and, having seen his DVDs, was clearly expecting him to just drop his pants and bend over.

He was fucked, and not in a good way.

He was fucked because he knew he *would* drop his pants. He'd spent *years* fantasizing about having Skinner in his apartment, countless nights lying on his couch, jerking off to videos of guys who bore a vague resemblance to his boss, while his fingers had crept inside his ass in a frantic attempt to create the sensation of being split by Skinner's cock. And now Skinner was standing next to that same couch, his chest bare, his pants tented by the evidence of his obvious interest, and Mulder just didn't have the strength to say no.

But he wanted to.

Oh, God, he wanted to.

Because he could cope with only having a fantasy lover. He could handle waking up to nothing but a test pattern on his TV and a sticky mess on his stomach.  What he couldn't handle was the idea of waking up to an empty apartment, knowing that Skinner had fucked him then simply gotten dressed and walked out the door.

If he could have breathed, if he could have spoken out loud, he'd have said:

/I can't let you fuck me, because I'm in love with you. Because I've been in love with you for years. Because I don't want to be your 'friend' or your fuck-buddy. Because I want *more* than you want to offer. Because you're going to break my fucking *heart* when you walk out that door/

But his heart wasn't broken *yet*. It was thumping wildly, and his cock was straining at his pants like a crazed snake, and his ass felt so empty that it was actually aching, and the idea of letting Skinner leave was somehow as terrible as the idea that he'd stay.

So, silently, he began unfastening his belt.

~#~#~#~

He watched Mulder's eyes darken, saw the frantic pulse in the side of his neck, heard the ragged sound of his breathing, and almost forgot to breathe himself.

He was living a fantasy come true. 

After years of shamed, furtive desire for the younger man, a desire he'd masked behind a surly mask and a barking tongue, his genuine attempt to at least offer his friendship had jumped unexpectedly into a whole new and wonderful ball park.

It had been guilt, as much as anything, that had driven him to ask Mulder to dinner. Guilt that he'd been using his position as Mulder's supervisor as an excuse to keep a impenetrable barrier between the two of them. That he'd used that persona to convince Mulder that he didn't even *care*.

When the truth he'd been hiding for so long was that he cared too damn *much*.

He'd been scared.

Scared of the younger man's perception, of the lightning-fast brain that leapt so easily to make the connections between broken pieces of a puzzle. He'd been terrified that if he let down his defenses, even the slightest amount, that Mulder might see his darkest, most terrible secret.

That he was in love with him.

That he had been for years.

That he was a stupid, pathetic, middle-aged man who should have known better than to fall for any of his agents, let alone a male one.

And though, sometimes, he'd imagined that Mulder's eyes lingered on him just a little bit longer than the social norm and had, even, imagined seeing serious interest in the hazel eyes on the night Mulder had brought Krycek to his apartment, Skinner knew that the heart always chose to see what it *wanted* to see.

It wasn't reasonable to believe that the reason Mulder had forgiven Scully her lapse of faith more readily was because he cared *less* about Scully's trust than his own.  Mulder had never given him the impression that he was interested in *any* man, far less done or said anything that suggested he was interested in *him*.

So Skinner could genuinely say that his intentions that evening had merely been to let down the barrier between them. To trust that Mulder might at least accept his friendship, despite his desire.

But learning that, contrary to popular opinion, Mulder wasn't subscribed to any adult channels, finding the book on gay sex, discovering the DVD's, had changed *everything*. It didn't guarantee that Mulder would welcome his advances. It didn't automatically give him a green light. But it sure as hell removed the idea that Mulder would be morally outraged by the idea of another man being in love with him.

It also dramatically reduced the chance of Mulder filing a sexual harassment suit against him.

And he'd be lying if he denied using Mulder's accusation of a wire to strip off his shirt and reveal his physique for approval.

Skinner *knew* he was a man who looked immeasurably better without clothes. 

He'd jumped at the opportunity to reveal his plumage to the younger man, to prove the truth of the adage that bald men had more testosterone. He had the kind of build that other men needed steroids to reproduce and, if the natural testosterone that helped build his muscles was paid for in the premature loss of his hair, he considered it a fair deal.

So he watched Mulder's eyes darken, saw the frantic pulse in the side of his neck, heard the ragged sound of his breathing, and felt his own cock rear to excited, dribbling attention.

It was only when Mulder started to unfasten his belt that Skinner felt the first twinges of doubt.

This wasn't what he wanted.

He didn't want *sex*.

Well, of course he wanted sex. He'd have to be dead and buried not to respond to a clear offer from someone as heart-stoppingly gorgeous as Fox Mulder. 

But he didn't want *just* sex.

He wasn't in *lust* with Mulder.

He wanted a 'relationship'. He wanted to go to bed every night with Mulder in his bed and wake every morning with Mulder in his arms. He sure as hell didn't want one quick fuck, only to be thrown out of Mulder's apartment in the middle of the night when it was over.

And suddenly, he wished, with all his heart, that he'd just let Mulder walk out of his office that afternoon without calling him back.

But he still found his hands moving down to unfasten his own belt.

~#~#~#~

Mulder's fingers fumbled on his zipper, trembling uncontrollably, and it felt wet in his hands although he knew it was his own sweat that was greasing the metal so that it slid through his grasp as he tried to pull against it. Panicked, angry, he ripped the zipper downwards so violently that it caught on the black silk of his boxers, and he yelped as its teeth nipped shut against his swollen cock.

He grimaced, locked his jaw and tried manfully not to whimper out loud.

"You alright?" Skinner asked, with a puzzled frown.

Mulder shook his head, averting his eyes from Skinner's, and wondered whether it was truly possible to die of embarrassment. His cheeks felt so hot, he imagined his face was scarlet, and he began silently composing the words of his lawsuit against Armani.

"It's stuck," he mumbled, through clenched teeth.

Skinner's face flooded with concern, he took a step forward, clearly forgetting he'd just unfastened his own pants. They slid down his hips, tangled around his ankles, and he tripped over, his chin striking the edge of Mulder's coffee table so hard that his glasses flew off.

Mulder saw him lose his balance and automatically attempted to catch him. His abrupt  movement jerked the trapped zipper loose and it ripped free, tearing a chunk out of his boxers and several layers of skin off his cock.

With a howl, he collapsed to his knees, just inches in front of Skinner and bowed his head in pain at the exact moment that Skinner attempted to raise his chin off the coffee table.

His nose met Skinner's forehead with a resounding crash and the two of them swayed groggily, their knees almost touching, their eyes glazed, Skinner's mouth dribbling from a bitten tongue, Mulder's nose streaming blood from the impact.

"I bink you boke by nobe," Mulder mumbled. 

"Well, I guess it at least proves neither of us are replicants," Skinner quipped, gingerly dabbing at his tongue with an index finger.

"I bink I boke by cock too," Mulder added, staring miserably down at his aching groin.

"Let me see," Skinner said, then realized he couldn't see a hell of a lot of *anything* without his glasses. He settled for fumbling through the black silk and giving the swollen flesh a hearty squeeze. 

"OWWW!"

"Sorry. Can you see my glasses anywhere?"

"Boke."

"Shit.  Do you need to go to ER?"

Mulder shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to slow its bleeding. "S'okay," he said carefully. 

Skinner squinted at him. "I think you're going to have two black eyes."

Mulder glared at him, tried to point out that *he* had a spreading bruise on his chin that made him look like he'd lost a boxing match with a grizzly bear, realized he still couldn't breathe well enough to speak properly and sniggered instead.

"You think this is funny?" Skinner demanded.

Mulder lost it completely, doubling over in a fit of hysterical giggles. The more he laughed, the harder he found it to breathe, and for some insane reason that just made him laugh harder.  He gradually became aware of a bear-like rumble and realized that Skinner was laughing too.

"I think this has put the kibosh on our plans," Skinner sighed, when he regained control. "I can't see and you can't breathe. Looks like all we'll be doing tonight is literally sleeping together."

"Ou onna tay?" Mulder gasped.

"Well, even if you want me to go home, I can't drive without glasses," Skinner chuckled, sounding surprisingly pleased with himself. "So you're stuck with me, whether you like it or not."

Mulder looked at him in surprise, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he automatically filtered the comment through his profiler's brain.  Skinner seemed...no, *Walter* seemed happy at the idea of them just 'sleeping' together. More than happy...almost relieved.

He frowned, confused by the apparent mixed-signals, then realized Skinner wasn't happy that they weren't going to have sex. Skinner was relieved that he was going to be spending the whole night instead of fucking and running.

Which meant... which surely meant....

"Ou onna tay," he repeated, a statement this time, rather than a question.

"Of course I want to stay," Walter replied firmly, as though he didn't understand how Mulder could have any doubt. "I want to stay tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after that. I want to stay as long as you'll have me."

Mulder stared at him in disbelief, looking deeply into the dark, myopically blinking eyes, and had a peculiar revelation that the only reason Walter was saying the words out loud was that he *couldn't* see his face. It was undoubtedly easier to say that kind of thing if you didn't have to watch an expression of possible rejection.

If Walter hadn't broken his glasses, he might never have risked saying it.

Which was kind of funny, since if Mulder hadn't broken his nose he'd have found it easier to reply.

"I uv ou," he blurted.

For a moment, Walter just continued to blink stupidly. Then Mulder gasped as he felt a pair of arms tighten around him like a boa constrictor.

"I love you too," Walter laughed. "I love you too, Mulder."

And Mulder decided that maybe he wasn't going to sue Armani, after all.

The End