Title: A Form of Support
Rating: NC-17
Keywords: Mulder/Scully, Skinner/Other, Mulder/Scully/Skinner, AU, Story, Angst
Archive: Anywhere and Everywhere
Spoilers: It's an AU, with smut, after a large helping of Angst.
Summary: When tragedy strikes, Walter Skinner finds comfort in the most unexpected places.
Author's Note: Inspired by a thread on atxfc. This takes place in a very slight Alternate Universe where it is assumed that Mulder and Scully are "together" and Avatar never happened- but Sharon still existed. Graphic sexual situations, so consider this your last warning if you want to back out now. Feedback is, as usual, worshipped and danced around if sent to [email protected]
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Walter Skinner, Assistant Director of the FBI and former Marine, was breaking. He could feel himself shattering into a million tiny pieces, like the remains of the whiskey bottle scattered across the floor. His eyes, dark and burning with sorrow, rested on the framed photograph cradled in one large hand. Some black, bitter part of his mind found the protective gesture amusing. He'd lost the real thing, because he hadn't been good enough, strong enough, or quick enough, so now he clutched this frail image- as if it could possibly help him ... or her.
With one finger, he gently traced the outline of the woman's hair. Despite the poor quality of the picture, that hair still seemed to gleam; the occasional dark red highlight peeking from the chocolate mass. She had a smile on her face; the photo must have been from the earlier days of their marriage, before his job had come between them like a great smoky wall that choked their relationship. The past few years hadn't seen many smiles ... from either of them. His eyes burned with tears, and with unconscious instinct, he pushed them back. He had to be strong now, even if he hadn't been able to be so when Sharon had needed him to be.
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"Damn it, Walter, why aren't you listening to me?" Sharon Skinner's voice was harsh with frustration. Skinner repressed his brief impulse to sigh, and concentrated instead on weaving the Lexus through the reckless DC traffic.
Instead of the growl he wanted to use, he contented himself with an emotionless, "I am listening, Sharon. I'm also driving. Can't we discuss this when we get home?"
Surprisingly enough, his words did nothing to soothe the temper of his wife. "No, Walter, we can *not* discuss it when we get home. If you can call that soulless apartment *home*, anyway. I will not stand another day of you retreating into that office. *Talk* to me, Walter. Just once have dinner at the table, with me, instead of in your study." Her voice held a hint of pleading.
She was right, Skinner knew. He'd been spending more and more of his time cutting himself off from her, from everyone, really. Drowning himself in a sea a paper, spinning a cocoon of red tape around his soul. The only one that had succeeded in briefly penetrating his hard-won shell was one of the agents under his command, with her cool blue eyes that were a shield thrown up to protect her wayward partner, and auburn hair that burned with all the fire of the passion she had given that same agent...
Guilt stung him, an unpleasant, needling pain. He had no right. No right to neglect the woman he'd married, who he still loved- if the truth be told- and no right to the affection of one of his subordinates. Especially not one who had no interest in him. No right, no matter how much he occasionally wished...
"Walter?" Lost in thought, he barely heard the almost whispered voice. It made no impact on him, until his mind processed the words, barely audible, "Walter, I've filed for divorce."
His head jerked to the side, the car swerved slightly before he brought it under control again. His dark skin flushed, then paled dramatically beneath his tan. A brief serenade of horns punctuated his exclamation, "You what!?"
Sharon faced him, pain hovering in her soft hazel eyes, but her jaw was set in a determination he knew all too well. "You heard me. I filed for divorce. I... need more than this. I can't stand the cold, the loneliness, the *emptiness* anymore. You don't know what it's like, Walter, sitting up until five in the morning when you're gone, waiting for you to call- which you never do � or until someone calls saying that you're in the hospital ... or the morgue. Even worse are the nights when you're here, except that you aren't," Her voice became husky and raw, cutting him to his soul, "I tried, in the beginning, to bring you back from where ever it is that you go, but every time I try, you shove me away. We aren't married anymore, Walter, we haven't been married in a very long time. It's not enough for me... I-it never was." Her voice trailed off to a whisper, tears rolled silently down her cheeks, and Skinner could feel a similar response burning in his throat.
He swallowed it grimly, determined not to give in to the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. Not here, not now. Instead, he awkwardly reached out one hand toward his wife, ignoring the minute trembling along its length, and laid it gently on her shaking shoulder. "Oh, God, Sharon," He turned his head to look at her, driving on mental autopilot by this point, "I didn't know... I'm so sorry." He took a deep, harsh breath when she said nothing. "I...damn it, Sharon, I lov..."
The sudden squeal of brakes, and scream of colliding metal shattered the air around them. Skinner yanked harshly at the wheel, slamming on the brakes. He caught a twisted, confused glimpse of a wall of rippling metal racing towards the windshield as the Lexus slued about. Sharon screamed, her voice eerily echoing the sounds the car made as Skinner desperately tried to avoid the inevitable. There was no chance, he realized, as they slammed into the overturned tractor trailer and his head rammed the side window with enough force to send him spiraling into oblivion, no chance at all.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Skinner isn't accepting any visitors." The nurse tried to smile in the reassuring, non-threatening way that all medical personnel perfected, but the weak gesture died on her lips as she took in the grim expressions of the two people facing her. Anger or sorrow she was used to, but not this stoic determination. They stared at her silently for a moment, then passed a quick glance between them. The smaller of the two, a woman with auburn hair and glittering blue eyes, spoke.
"Did you tell him who was here, Ms..." she glanced at the nametag, "Birken?"
Sandra Birken nodded. "Of course. He asked to be left alone," Actually, *asked* would have implied some sort of civility. Perhaps 'barked' or even 'snarled' would have been more accurate. But, it rarely helped to tell a patient's friends that he was being difficult, so she continued neutrally, "Mr. Skinner still has a great deal of trauma from the accident, I'm afraid. And then, with the death of his wife..." Her voice trailed off as the woman's face darkened.
"Who told him? Didn't they realize the effects that kind of psychological blow could have for someone in Skinner's condition?"
Sandra interrupted hurriedly, "No one here told him. He already knew."
For the first time since she'd given the couple the bad news, the man turned from his morose contemplation of the door to her patient's room. "He knew? How?"
The redhead, Agent Scully, turned a frosty glare on him for a brief moment. "Not *now*, Mulder." Mulder shrugged slightly, and returned his attention to the door. Sandra looked from one to the other in bemusement. She got the definite feeling that more was going on here than she knew. Or wanted to know, she told herself firmly.
In mild confusion, she fell back on protocol. "I really am sorry, Agent Scully, Agent Mulder, but if he doesn't want to see you, there's nothing that I can do. You can come back again tomorrow and see if he feels better, then." Unlikely, but it was worth a chance, she supposed.
Both the agents frowned, and shared a long look. Finally, Agent Scully's shoulders, clad in a very nice looking wine red suit, slumped slightly, and she nodded politely to the nurse. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Birken. We'll try again later." They turned and walked away, Mulder's hand a supporting presence at the small of Scully's back. Sandra frowned as she remembered that the agent had said 'later', not 'tomorrow'. She thought about making a advisory note on the duty roster, then decided against it. She got off in an hour, and it would be someone else's problem. Besides, she wished them luck. The man in room 302 *needed* friends, even if he didn't realize it yet. But it really wasn't any of her business, she reminded herself, and there were still bedpans to clean.
A few steps away from the from entrance of the hospital, Scully lost the control she'd been hanging onto with every muscle in her body. She stopped in the parking lot, her entire body trembling fiercely. She felt Mulder's arms enfold around her, a warm, secure presence against a grief that surprised her with its intensity. She leaned gratefully into his body, soaking up the concern that fell like bright sunlight onto her skin.
"We'll come back later tonight, and see if the watchdog is a little less vigilant," he whispered in her ear, his voice was also rough, with an emotion she couldn't name. She could feel his love for her, soothing the nameless pain within her. She gave a final, expressive shudder, then stood on her own again, swiping at the tears that ran freely down her cheeks. It was good to cry, she knew, therapeutic to release the tension through weeping, but she wanted to do it somewhere less public, where only Mulder would see the raw emotional chaos she'd felt since they heard about the accident. She turned to look at the taller man, her partner ... her lover for the past three and a half years.
He stared back, his arms still resting on her shoulders. His hazel eyes were expressive, conveying all the nuances his speech rarely did. Those eyes matched the confusion and grief she knew was in her own face, but still... "Are you sure about this? This isn't just me, is it, Mulder? Because if it is..."
He stopped her with a shake of his head. "No, Scully," He ran an agitated hand through his short brown hair, "I love you, you know that."
"*Now*, anyway..." They shared a crooked smile, remembering the elaborate dance that had led up to the admission of their mutual love almost four years ago.
"Now," Mulder qualified, before his expression sobered again, "But... I love him too," He shook his head, as if to make sense of the nonsensical, then grinned, "Or, I at least lust after his body. But seeing him, or *not* seeing him like this... it's... Hell, I don't know *what* it is, but it's not something I enjoy." He took a ragged breath. "It's almost like I'm losing you all over again..." Scully felt his hands tighten on her shoulders briefly, then with a rueful grimace he took them away entirely.
Scully sighed, missing the contact. She glanced around at the busy parking lot, where some people were already starting to stare at them sympathetically. "C'mon, Mulder, let's go some place warm and brood."
Mulder shot a sly glance at her, and winked. "Do we *have* to brood, Scully?"
Scully's face reflected exaggerated shock, and she allowed herself to laugh, "Mulder, since when have *you* ever turned up the chance to brood?"
"Since I found something better to do, obviously," he said, casting a sly, sidelong glance at her mouth.
The look- half little boy lost, half aroused male- startled a smile out of her ... and an answering surge in her body. They turned as one and walked back to the car, Scully falling a few steps behind. She loved to watch Mulder move, especially from behind. He was like a lithe jungle cat, but only half-grown, still unsure of his own inborn grace. It was endearing, and sexy as hell. They stopped near the trunk of the car and shared a scorching kiss that was only a promise of what was to come. And if it wasn't all that it could have been, if there was something- someone -missing, they didn't remark on it.
They swayed in the dim lights to the romantic strains of some nameless symphony, Scully's head resting on Mulder's shoulder. Their hands, which had started out in the traditional places, had started to wander, as if they tried to secretly seduce each other. It was a delicious game, teasing each other, seeing who would give in first to the subtle, unfufilling sensations. Mulder's hands slid under the work blouse Scully wore, inch by tantalizing inch, while she fought to keep her muscles relaxed and unconcerned. In retaliation, her own hand had crept upwards into the thick thatch of his dark hair, gently touching the sensitive scalp. He barely bit back a groan of frustration at the ghostly touch.
Finally having made his way under the silky material of the blouse, he lightly began to stroke the soft skin there. He could hear Scully's breath quicken, even as she nuzzled with seeming nonchalance in his shoulder. Her roving hands became bolder, however, briefly tangling themselves in the nest of his hair, then caressing the sensitive lobes of his ears. He couldn't repress the slight intake of breath that shook him, however, when she casually brushed her pelvis against his, and he could feel her smile against him.
Taking her movement as an indication to turn up the heat, his nimble fingers found the soft ridge of her spine, and danced upwards. Scully felt her spine arch involuntarily as sparks of sensual fire leapt to the core of heat gathering between her legs. She moved against him again, this time blatantly bringing the joining of her thighs in contact with his erection, hidden under the cloth of his trousers.
Mulder gasped softly, and heard Scully's throaty laughter in response. She remained pressed against him, and his hands moved swiftly now, undoing buttons. She tilted her head upward to meet his eyes, and pressed a fiery kiss against his lips, even as a catlike smile glittered in her eyes. He finished with the buttons, and spread her shirt as far apart as he could, with her arms entwined about his neck. "Low blow, Agent Scully," he whispered huskily, fumbling eagerly with the front clasp of her bra.
She chuckled again, while sliding her fingers down to the neat row of buttons on his shirt. "Haven't you heard? All's fair in love and war, Agent Mulder."
"Oh really?" His own eyes suddenly glowed with a combination of amusement and passion. "What about this?" His cool thumbs grazed the highly sensitive surface of her nipples and she moaned in encouragement. "Or this?" His hands abruptly left her breasts, teasing a growl of displeasure from his lover. A displeasure that soon vanished as he deftly undid the fastenings of her skirt, allowing it to fall in a puddle of crimson around her ankles.
She had finished with the buttons of his shirt, and now bent her head to his small nipples, tasting them and gently grazing them with her teeth, as Mulder tightened his grip on her curving hips. She could hear his heart racing, feel the warmth he radiated, and the tiny jumps of contracting muscles in his chest. The light, intoxicating scent of warm cotton and warm male filled her nostrils, heightening her arousal. She left his nipples, and began a feathery trail of kisses downward, following the taut lines of his abdomen. His wordless sound of pleasure echoed in her ears, as she reached the provocative border between flesh and fabric. And beneath the fabric, she could see his erection straining at its prison, eager to touch and be touched.
His fly came loose easily, surrendering to her determined efforts in a matter of seconds. Mulder's trousers fell, much as her skirt had, in a formless pile around his feet. He stepped backwards out of them, and Scully took the time to divest them both of the remaining clothing.
When they came together again, it was on the bed, a connection of limbs and lust, and moist, heated skin. He entered her swiftly, his cock penetrating her center with barely controlled force. She rose to meet his thrusts with equal passion, all thoughts of endurance or patience gone in the white lightning of their desire. Together they were Fire, rushing against each other, fueling each other, leaping towards a sun-like conflagration that threatened to consume them both. Even as the explosive climax overwhelmed them, each yearned for Earth to ground to, for a center to hold on to even in the fury of their consummation. The fell back into their bodies, satiated and exhausted, but not entirely satisfied.
In his narrow hospital bed, Skinner awoke from a dream of soft, romantic music and two pairs of burning eyes, into his reality of pain and icy grief. He stared wordlessly at the institutional ceiling, without noticing, or acknowledging, the single tear that left a trail down his bruised cheek.
"What the hell do you mean, 'he checked out'?" Mulder said, blistering the young nurse with a glare that should have sent the young woman running for cover. Nearby, Scully had cornered a passing doctor and was demanding the same thing, albeit in a slightly more controlled tone of voice.
The nurse, confronted with a highly upset FBI agent, and seeing no backup in sight, stuttered helplessly. "H-h-he checked out, sir. I d-d-on't know when, it was on the last watch. Ask them!" With that, the nurse turned and fled, professional dignity in tatters. Mulder ran a hand through his already snarled hair. How the hell could Skinner *leave*? He glowered at the open door, and empty, sterile room.
Scully stalked over to him, every inch of her frame radiating anger and frustration. "They don't know *where*, they don't know *when*, and they don't know *why*. Apparently, he was such a pain in the ass that when he demanded to check out, they just let him."
"Stubborn bastard."
"You think?" Even angry, her eyes glittered momentarily with humor. "Reminds me of what happens every time I pick you up from the hospital."
Mulder's lips twitched, even as he scanned the hall for someone else to interrogate. "Like I said, Scully- stubborn bastard."
She followed his gaze. "Forget it, Mulder. If they knew where he was going, one of us would have gotten it out of them by now." She paused for a moment, then mused, "You don't suppose he went back to their apartment, do you?"
He shrugged. "It's worth checking out. It'd be morbid as hell, though, and considering that it'd be the first place we'd try, unless he actually *wants* to be found, Skinner's probably looking for a hotel of some kind."
Scully sighed, briefly considering the multitude of hotels and motels in the greater DC area. For all their sakes, she hoped Skinner was waiting for them.
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Skinner stood in uncomfortably in the bedroom of his and Sharon's ... of *his* apartment, a small framed photograph in his right hand. Absently, he dropped it into the roomy pocket of his dove-gray trenchcoat, and stared at the beige walls. They were as bare as the rest of the apartment. All of his and Sharon's possessions had been cleared out while he was in the hospital, at his express command. The apartment was already back on the market- Skinner had only stopped by to return his keys and make arrangements to store the few personal items he felt like keeping. As much as seeing the empty rooms hurt, it was far preferable to walking in and seeing everything the same, as if the apartment only waited for Sharon to walk through the door.
He caught himself before he turned to glance at the doorway. It didn't take much to pretend that he could see her standing there, that soft smile lighting up her face, the love in her gentle eyes. The love that he'd betrayed, in the worst way possible. He closed his eyes briefly against the pain of the truth, his hands clenching into hard fists. He relished the bite of nails, and the ache of tightened muscles. He deserved the pain, deserved the scars that marked his face, his back, and his legs.
Skinner didn't need a mirror to see the marks of the accident, they glowed to his mind's eye like the mark of Cain. The red, barely healed slash on his left cheek, which pulled the corner of his mouth into a cynical, humorless smile; the ever-present mass of pain down the left side of his back marking a ladder of slashes from shoulder to hip; the ragged mess that all that remained of his knee. It was oddly amusing, in a sick sort of way. He garnered more scars in five minutes on the DC freeway than he had in his entire career as a fighting man. Maybe there was justice in the world, he mused. After all, Sharon's pain was over now.
He spun around angrily, then had to clutch for the hospital-issue cane against the wall. When the flaring agony in his body had died down, he made his way- with more care- toward the door. A small modernish table remained next to the door. It had been left behind by the tenant before them, so Skinner had decided to leave it for the one after him. Besides, it made a convenient place to leave the keys. He pulled the silver key off the keychain, and removed the small label marked "Apt." It was written in Sharon's handwriting, and he crumpled it into a small ball with a few, savage movements of his fingers. The key dropped to the glass tabletop with a dull chime. A carefully folded envelope fluttered down beside it a moment later. A moment after that, the apartment was empty ... except for the ghosts.
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"Mr. Skinner?" Skinner turned and nodded at the woman behind the counter, pretending not to notice the way her eyes widened at the sight of his face. "Y- your ticket is ready, sir." She held out the folded slip of paper the way someone would hand a slab of raw meat to a hungry lion. He took it with resignation, barely restraining a sigh as her hand flinched from his own. He stalked away from the desk without speaking, his shoulders stiff and set.
The girl watched him go with sad, blue eyes.
"I, Walter Sergei Skinner, hearby terminate my employment with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I understand in tendering my resignation without notice, I do forfeit any salary owed to me at this point in time... Scully, he's lost it!" Mulder read, his voice rising with each word until he flung the neatly typed paper to the barren floor of Skinner's former office. "I do not believe this. What the *hell* does he think he's doing, just *leaving* like this!" Mulder paced, his muscles tensed beneath the lines of the well-taylored suit.
Scully picked up the paper, skimming over the rest of the resignation, then folding it neatly and sliding it into her pocket. Her lips were pressed tightly together, as she found herself wanting to join Mulder in the impressive string of curses he directed to the air. The landlord looked between them, confusion written on the older man's face.
"Uh, is something wrong? I mean, Mr. Skinner didn't mention any sort of problems with the law."
Scully looked over at the man, and tried a reassuring smile. It felt strained and awkward on her face, more a baring of teeth than anything else. "He's not in trouble, Mr. Dawson, we're looking for him for personal reasons. I don't suppose he mentioned where he went?"
Dawson shook his head slowly, remembering the brief conversation over the phone. "No, ma'am. Mr. Skinner just mentioned that he had been in, and arranged for his stuff to be removed, and left the keys on the table. It wasn't till I got here that I saw the letter, and you two showed up a few moments later." He shrugged, "Sorry, I couldn't be more help."
Mulder had stopped pacing long enough to listen to Dawson's story, now he watched him with an intensity that made Dawson almost feel like a criminal, himself. With a quick glance at Scully, Mulder asked, "You said he called you?" Dawson nodded. "Could you tell where he called from? Did it sound like a street, or a car, maybe inside a building of some sort?"
Dawson considered, leaning against the doorframe, and trying his best to remember the background sounds of the call. He didn't know what good it would do, but the young fellow seemed so passionate about it, that he found himself getting caught up in the urgency of it all. There had been background noise, lots of people, and in the distance, just barely audible...what had that been? A light came on, and he grinned up at the two agents, feeling pleased with himself. "Mr. Skinner called from an airport, there was a boarding announcement right before he hung up," he crowed triumphantly.
Mulder and Scully visibly relaxed, identical expressions of relief lighting their faces. "Thank you, Mr. Dawson, you have no idea how much that information will help us," Scully said, briefly clasping the landlord's rough hands in her own. Mulder, after a brief nod of gratitude had already slipped through the door, and now waited impatiently a little ways down the hall. With another smile, Scully hurried past, and the agents trotted down the hallway, disappearing around a corner.
---
Skinner wandered slowly through the dark, rain-drenched street, the other pedestrians parting around his solid form like flotsam around a half-submerged rock. Neon in bizarre, violent colors threw fitful, lurid shadows across his clothing and skin. It also highlighted the scantily clad bodies of women and men who shouted and gestured to the passersby in ways that should have been enticing, but ended up farcical, a stale and mechanical reproduction of seduction. Nothing like the honest fire in eyes that shone with the pale blue of gas jets, or the gleam from a painfully intense hazel gaze, for that matter. But he shied away from the thought as soon as it surfaced, letting the black depression that still chased him drown that fickle spot of warmth that still haunted his heart. Instead, he replayed that last moments of Sharon's life with masochistic glee, submerging himself in the familiar ache and picking at the mental wounds even as one hand lightly touched his scarred face.
"Hey, sweetie, ya gonna just stare at me all night?"
Startled, Skinner's hand dropped to his side, and began to process the outside world again. He, unknowingly, had been watching on of the prostitutes; a tall, slender man with dark hair and hooded brown-green eyes. 'Bedroom eyes', the romance novels Sharon used to read would have called them. Unlike most of the other males, this one didn't dress femme, instead he went for muscle shirts and skintight jeans. He stood, showing his ... assets in a practiced pose, a smile on his well-formed lips that was half-challenge, half-wicked humor. A smile, Skinner realized, that was hauntingly familiar. His mouth went dry, even as an entirely unwelcome warmth coiled in his loins. He swallowed, turning his head so that the scar was lost in the shadows. His gaze, turned to hot amber by unwilling desire and the neon glare surveyed the man. Wasn't this what you came for, Walter? a small voice taunted. No, he answered silently, not this, not *him*. He turned away with a hard shake of his head.
A hand stopped him, grasping then releasing quickly, as if the owner hadn't meant to reach out. Skinner stopped, and the prostitute jumped out in front of his path. "Hey, look, I didn't mean to scare you away or nothing. Look, I got a room upstairs. We'll have a little fun, you know?" Those eyes, so like another pair he knew, looked pleadingly into his own, completely ignoring the disfiguring scar. Skinner felt a shudder race through his bones, even as his cock stirred to life. He would hate himself for doing this, he knew that. But since he already hated himself, why the hell not?
"How much?" The question came out in a low growl, laced with the edge of bitter surrender.
"200," was the nervous reply, as the man took in the tailored suit. He bit his lower lip briefly, and looked away. Skinner knew that he probably didn't bring in that much in an entire night. Not that it mattered. If he was going to Hell, he mused, there was no reason why he shouldn't pay for the privilage.
"Done." His 'date' looked up, startled, as Skinner slipped a small wad of bills out of his wallet, and folded them into the hastily outstretched hand.
"Uh..." The man stared at the money for a moment, then clutched it to his chest, and smiled at Skinner, a sight which caused the older man's heart to contract, as he pictured other lips revealing the surprising flash of teeth.
He shook the fantasy off, determined to remain grounded for at least a moment longer. "You said there was a room?" He said softly, but with an edge of steel underneath.
"Yeah, this way." The man, nameless for all his familiarity, stumbled to a doorway only a few feet away from their position and entered. Skinner followed cautiously, away of the dangers- sexual and otherwise- he was courting. The door revealed a narrow stairwell, which climbed steeply into the second story. With the silent sigh of the damned, he followed the ascending feet.
The door closed, and the two men came together in a heat that burned like ice, stirring Skinner's cock to rampant life, even as his heart froze. The trenchcoat fell to the carpet with a rustle of cloth as he caressed the slender muscles of his bought lover with rough urgency, thrusting them under the faded muscle shirt and peeling it off. When it fell to the floor, he attacked the other man's skin with his mouth, closing his eyes as he ran his tongue across the smooth skin. With a grunt he stood, and his hands fell to his own shirt, tearing at the stubborn buttons, heedless as one after another popped in his haste. Other hands sought to help, roaming to his trousers, fumbling with his fly. Skinner tore the shirt the rest of the way off, lost in the sight of a bent head of dark brown hair and artist's fingers tearing open his fly.
He buried his hands in that thick hair, just as his pants fell sloppily around his ankles, leaving his cock chained only by the thick veil of the white briefs. He groaned as the man (Oh god, so much like another...) pulled the underwear down, freeing his erection. A hot, talented mouth covered his cock, and Skinner's grip tightened, as he buried himself in that bitter paradise. He could hear his breath, harsh and desperate, as he thrust his cock down the willing throat. It opened for him, taking him in completely, as cool hands kneaded his ass and urged him ever forward. Skinner accepted the invitation and plunged forward, grunting with each stroke that he made. His eyes remained riveted on the sight of his cock slamming in and out of the other man's mouth, the face conveniently obscured by that beautiful, chocolate hair.
Skinner gasped as a finger explored his asshole, sliding around the contracting sphincter, even the other hand danced between his legs and gently cupped his balls. The finger penetrated with a tiny thrust, and Skinner made a long, anguished sound of pleasure/pain.
"Oh, fuck," he gasped, caught between two sources of excruciating pleasure. "Oh, fuck...Mulder!" As soon as the word, that delicious forbidden word, fell from his lips, the fantasy crumbled, but his traitorous body continued, convulsing as the mechanical force of his orgasm hit and overwhelmed him. It ripped the last syllable of the word into a scream that flayed Skinner's throat, and rent his heart.
He pushed the man, the not-Mulder, away from him as dry sobs fought their way up from his chest. The prostitute stared, as Skinner fumbled his clothing on, and stumbled down to the street. When the 'john' had disappeared, his gaze turned with disbelief to the crumpled pile of bills that lay scattered on the stained carpet.
A tall, disheveled man walked slowly through the shadows cast by the towering hard trees. He shivered as the stiff wind pushed seeking fingers through the gaping halves of his shirt, raising goosebumps on his sweat-filmed flesh. His head was bowed, his eyes- eyes that his wife once compared to cinnamon as they lay together in bed- were dull, barely seeing the track before him. Not that he needed to see it, however. The way was as familiar to him as the route to his office ... his *former* office in the Hoover Building. He could have walked it crippled, blindfolded, and backwards. Of course, one out of three wasn't bad.
His feet grudgingly carried him around the last curve, and Skinner raised his head. Before him, bathed in cool moonlight, sat a small, roughly hewn cabin. In the night, it blended in wonderfully, seeming more a natural thing than man-made, as alive and secure as the ancient forest around it. A refuge from death, and failure, and damnable, unreachable love. Just what he needed to flee from the world, and allow the darkness to either cure him or kill him. At this point, he couldn't care less which one it was.
Entering the cabin was the work of a moment. The door opened with a thin scream, which Skinner ignored, except as a pleasant reassurance that no one had been here since his last visit. Inside, blackness folded softly about him, cushioning him in it's silent vacuum. He dropped the cane beside the doorway and entered the dark gratefully, finding his way to the bedroom by memory alone. He sat heavily on the naked mattress, and slowly pried his shoes from his aching feet. He could hear Sharon's voice, "Walter, we really should make arrangements to make a driveway up here. It's such a long walk..." He'd always disagreed, preferring the appearance of a true getaway. He still did, but walking a mile and half with that damn cane hadn't been an experience Skinner cared to repeat.
The shoes finally released their hold, and he lay down on the mattress, curling up on his good side. The scars throbbed and burned, still protesting his flight from the prostitute's apartment. The memory of how far he'd allowed himself to go still sickened him. He had his wife's picture in his *pocket*, for God's sake!
"Sharon," he whispered, feeling the wounds gape within him once more, "Oh, god, Sharon, I'm sorry..." He said it again, and again, leaking tears even after he fell asleep in the cold and lonely bedroom.
----------
"Okay, Mulder. What now?" Scully peered at the map laid haphazardly across the hotel bed. "In case you hadn't noticed, Denver isn't exactly a *small* city?"
"I know, Scully. But Skinner had to have a reason to come *here*, right? I mean, he's not exactly the kind of guy to pick a city at random."
Scully attempted a smile, "No. That would be *you*."
Mulder shrugged, unable to argue the charge and not in the mood for their usual banter. Instead, he returned his attention to the city map. They'd spent most of the time since their arrival calling hotels and motels, looking for Skinner. No luck with either the name, or the description. Either Skinner was staying with a friend or relative, or he'd already left the city. They were working they're way through the rental agencies, but it was slow, frustrating work. And neither of them could shake the feeling that they were running out of time.
He wished that it was possible to use Bureau resources, but they were officially on a leave of absence; besides, awkward questions would be raised if it was known that they were using their free time to chase after a wayward A.D. Even more so, if it was discovered that they were withholding the lawful resignation of that same A.D. So, they did it on their own.
Or tried, anyway. Mulder stood, his next round of hotels and rental agencies marked on a small notebook. Scully rose a moment afterward, holding a similar pad. They compared listings, marked off the repeats, and went to work.
Two hours later, after approximately one hundred phone calls, Scully got a lead. She quickly wrote down the rental clerk's info, thanked him with almost embarrassing sincerity, and raced through the connecting door between her and Mulder's room. He looked up, and immediately dropped his phone into its cradle, a hopeful smile spreading across his face.
"I take it, you found him?"
Scully shook her head as she dropped onto the bed beside him. "Unfortunately, Skinner remains at large. However," she waved the sheet of paper, "we now know what he's driving, *and* we can see the clerk who handed him the keys, if we go down there in about three hours."
Mulder sighed, "No home address for the clerk?"
"No, the manager won't approve the release of that information over the phone. Evidently, I didn't sound FBI enough for him." She rolled her eyes, then looked at the paper again. "Still, it *is* a lead, and we've needed one."
"No argument here. By the way, before I started with the locals, I called Holly, and asked her to look at Skinner's personnel file, and see if there's any family in the area." Mulder was carefully avoiding Scully's gaze as he talked, waiting for the explosion.
It didn't come. Instead she said, with surprising mildness, "Mulder... I wish you wouldn't involve other people when you get the urge to break the law ... did she find anything?"
"She's still looking," he said, then leaned close and whispered, "...and you know that I only want to break the law with you."
She turned to face him, which put their lips only centimeters apart. So it was only natural that she moved that bare inch more, and brought them together. They sighed with pleasure as their lips, then their bodies, met. Suddenly, they knew a highly agreeable way to kill an hour or two.
"Well, *that* was an amazing waste of time," Mulder muttered as he slid into the driver's seat of the rental. Scully simply scowled, and tried to remember to breathe deeply. I Will Not Murder Idiot Teenagers, she repeated mentally, I Will Not. She slowly unclenched her fist, wincing as the joints creaked from the strain she'd been putting on them. She glanced down. Four deep red crescents marked the smooth white skin, and as she watched, the middle left one began to sluggishly seep blood. Damn.
"Mulder..." Her voice was unsteady.
"Look on the bright side, Scully. If she'd said it to his face, 'freakish' wouldn't be the only adjective she'd be able to apply." He tried to keep his own anger out of his voice, and failed miserably. If *this* was the reaction Skinner had been getting from people, he could suddenly understand just what had prompted the A.D. to head for the hills, so to speak.
It was, in fact, uncomfortably close to what Mulder might have done in similar circumstances. Except that Mulder would have left some sort of cryptic clue. Or so he told himself, conveniently forgetting the times when he hadn't. And now he and Scully were playing the part his partner used to do alone. He turned to regard her, his face painfully solemn. "Scully?" She raised an eyebrow in inquiry, "I hearby swear that I will never, *never* ditch you again... okay?"
She didn't even blink. "Mulder, drive."
"Yes, ma'am." He pulled quickly out of the parking lot, taking a small part of his anger out on the loud squeal of the tires as he joined traffic. They drove back to the hotel in silence, but both knew that their thoughts were on the same man, their love who was not their lover.
-------------
As they opened the door to Mulder's hotel room, his cell phone screamed, shattering the increasingly dark silence. He grabbed it gratefully, praying that it was Holly. It was.
He talked little, but his eyes pinned Scully with their sudden sparkle of optimism. He broke eye contact to hunt for a notepad, then wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder. Scully unashamedly peeked around his body as he began to write. First an address, then a set of directions. Scully was surprised and grateful that Holly had gone through the trouble. Of course, she may just have heard how often the two agents managed to get lost. The fact that most of those "accidental" detours were anything but wasn't exactly common knowledge.
Finally, Mulder hung up, after promising to give Holly's regards to Skinner when they found him. Sure, he thought, *after* I kick his ass for leading us on this little joyride. He turned to Scully, unable to shake the wide grin that he could feel plastered across his face. "We've got that sneaky son-of-a-bitch, Scully, this time we've got him!"
"He has relatives here, I assume?"
Mulder shook his head. "Nope, he's got a cabin." He paused for a moment, "Skinner in a cabin. I'd never have figured him for a back-to-nature kinda guy," Scully gave him a warning look, and he brought the conversation back to a more serious track. "It's in his ... in Sharon's maiden name. Bledsoe. They bought it way back when. We're lucky Holly even bothered to check it out, considering that I didn't think to mention it." He checked his watch. "It's about an hour and a half drive from here."
Scully was already at the door. She turned to regard him with an eager blue gaze. "C'mon, Mulder. God only knows what he's doing to himself."
As they left, Mulder mock-growled, "Trust me, Scully, it's nothing compared to what *I'm* going to do to him."
"We, Mulder, *we*."
----------
They reached the end of the line a little after full dark. Literally. The road, or at least Mulder assumed it was a road, abruptly ended, leading directly into one of the biggest pine trees Mulder had ever seen. But that wasn't what made him stare, then scramble excitedly out of the vehicle. Parked roughly beside the tree was another car ... which matched the description of the one rented by one Walter S. Skinner. He couldn't help it, he whooped, and scooped Scully into a whirl. She laughed, a sound more of relief and surprise than of humor. When he released her, they both ran for the car. No Skinner, but then they hadn't really expected to find him *in* the car.
After a failed attempt to open the doors, they began searching around it, peering uncertainly into the darkness, as in their haste no one had thought to bring flashlights.
From around the monster pine, Scully called, "Over here, Mulder!"
He crashed through the bush, and found her peering into the gloom. A faint path, more of a game track than anything else, started at her feet and wound through the trees. "Please tell me this isn't it." Mulder sighed. Bad memories of forest trips suddenly danced through his head.
Scully shrugged, "Did you find any better prospects, Mulder?"
Silence was all the answer she needed. She began moving forward, "C'mon, Mulder, it'll be a nice trip to the woods."
She heard a disgruntled chuckle, then the sound of reluctant footsteps behind her. Together, they disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
Skinner slowly placed the photo of Sharon face down on the small table, next to the revolver, and rested his hand on it. He stared again at the scatter of the glass that gleamed in the reflected light from the small fireplace. They flickered like crimson stars, a perverse beauty born from destruction. It was the kind of thing a poet would found hilarious. Skinner only found it irritating. He wouldn't even have lit the damn fire, if he hadn't needed it to allow his trembling fingers to load the gun.
He lifted his fingers from the photo, and caressed the smooth black metal of the gun. It wasn't the firearm he had carried as a member of the FBI, but a smaller weapon that he'd brought up to the cabin one trip and had always forgot to return. He'd found it in the bathroom, just as the first hint of this solution had entered his mind. Weren't coincidences interesting?
He lifted the revolver, careful to avoid the trigger. There was only one bullet, one chance at the only freedom he was likely to have. As long as he didn't screw it up, like he'd screwed up the rest of his life. It probably wasn't, he reflected, the best course of action to take. In fact, he knew it wasn't. Suicide was the coward's way out, and Skinner had never considered himself a coward. But he was. He knew that now, and when someone eventually found him, the world would know it, too.
His lips twisted. When you thought about it, that line of reasoning seemed almost laughably self-pitying. Better to say that he just didn't want to deal with it anymore. After all, even Hell itself had to be less pain than he was putting himself through. Maybe that's all that suicide was, when you got down to it: an escape from the demons inside your own head. His fingers slipped around the trigger, stained red in the firelight. From somewhere deep within him, a chill calm swam upwards through the pain, latching on to his muscles. The minute trembling along his arms steadied, he felt detached, relieved. It was almost over. *Everything* was almost over.
-------------
The shot echoed through the night-choked forest, battering its way through the silence.
"What the hell?" Mulder exclaimed from a step behind Scully. They shared a look of pure fear, and began racing through the trees, abandoning the trail for a straight path towards the still-echoing blast. It only took a moment for them to break into a large clearing. Centered in the clearing was a squat cabin, it's shuttered windows smirking silently at them. A thin line of smoke twisted upwards from the chimney, disturbing in its very normality.
They charged the wooden door together, squaring their shoulders as they hit it at full speed. The old wood cracked, then gave before the unexpected assault, the nails of the hinges screaming piteously as it flew open. They fell forward, slamming their aching shoulders again, this time into the cold stone floor. For a moment, they lay dazed and bruised on the floor. The distinctive sound of a revolver being cocked filled the stillness. Scully rolled over, hissing as her arm and shoulder protested. Above her, an impossibly tall, red-lit figure loomed, punctuated by the metallic gleam of the gun it pointed their way. She froze, even as the weapon was withdrawn and a rough, slightly slurred voice barked from the shadows,
"Agent Scully, Agent Mulder, there had better be a *damn* good reason that you just broke down that door."
"We heard a shot, sir." Mulder said, as he levered himself off the ground and helped Scully do the same. He closed the door as best he could, and peered around the interior of the cabin; it was barely brighter than outside, and what light there was, was an unpleasant crimson. "Nice place you got here. Love the atmosphere."
Skinner didn't move to help them, nor did he lay the gun back down. Instead he snarled, "Let me clarify myself, Mulder. What the fuck are you doing in Colorado? More specifically, what are you doing *here*?"
"Looking for you. Speaking of which, what are *you* doing here, Skinner?"
The gun did drop then, as Skinner slammed it into the table. Even in the darkness where he stood, the firelight caught his eyes, highlighting the angry flames that burned there. "Since when, Agent Mulder, do I have to justify myself to you?" His voice lowered, became vicious, "I've never understood this unhealthy obsession you have with other people's lives. Have you ever considered spending that energy finding one of your own?"
"With all due respect, *sir*, Mulder isn't the one spending the night with a bottle of booze and a gun." That was Scully, her voice cold. Only the turbulence in her dark blue eyes revealed her pain. She saw his fist clench as the shot hit home.
"Get out, both of you. Go home, where you belong. And don't call me 'sir'. In case they haven't told you, I've left the FBI." The anger had retreated, covered by a flatness that was even more frightening in a way.
Mulder coughed and grinned. Briefly, Scully wondered how the hell he managed to keep his wise-ass attitude under these situations. Oblivious to her half-irritated musing, Mulder said, "Actually, sir, you haven't. The resignation has apparently been ... misplaced."
Silence. Then, "I sincerely hope that you don't mean what I think you mean, Mulder."
"That would depend on what you think I mean. You know, you really shouldn't leave important documents just lying around like that, you never know who might get a hold of them..."
There was no warning. One moment Skinner was deep within the shadows across the room, the next he stood over a fallen Mulder, both fists clenched. The prominent scarring on the left side of his face gave Skinner's snarl the hint of a demonic smile. "Fuck you, Agent Mulder. You have no right to interfere in my personal life. None whatsoever." He turned abruptly away, limping heavily. Without looking back at either agent, he whispered raggedly, "Now, get out. And I suggest that my resignation *un*misplaces itself, immediately. You do not want to tempt me ... not tonight."
"Actually, Skinner, we *do* have the right. Call it returning a favor, or love, or whatever the hell you want to, but we do have the right. You *gave* us that right from the first time you helped me...helped us. We will not let you destroy yourself, Skinner. The sooner you get that through that thick skull, the better." Scully had planted herself directly in front of Skinner's path, and stood there, her hair a halo of flame around the defiant face of a warrior angel.
Their eyes locked, and for Skinner, time stood still. In her hot blue gaze he saw the world, with all it's pain and joy and ... love? Love for Mulder, he told himself, not for him. No woman's heart could be that big, to love two men so fiercely. And yet... "Why are you here, Scully?" He forced the words out, baring the last unbroken piece of his soul, if she only realized it.
She smiled, "For you, what else? We *need* you..." She moved aside a half-step, and Skinner found himself facing both of the partners.
Mulder, his jaw already swelling, did his best to smile and said, "It's a package deal, you know, Skinner." Skinner said nothing, just looked from one to the other with an inscrutable expression on his marked face. For the first time, Mulder felt a finger of unease wrap its way around his heart. He'd seen the way Skinner looked at Scully, the fire beneath the ice, but now that he knew Mulder's feelings, would he turn away?
Skinner finally took a deep breath, and rested his eyes on the other man. Hidden by the scar, one corner of his mouth arced upwards. "Somehow I knew you would make things complicated, Mulder," And then, Skinner smiled, slow and sweet. In that one motion, the tension between the three of them moved from uncertainty to raw heat.
How long the three stood in that loose triangle, searching each other's eyes, none of them knew. It seemed like an eternity, drowning in blue, brown, and hazel. Skinner broke the spell, taking one hesitant half-step forward, then gasping in pain. His ruined knee railed at him for the torture of the last couple of days, and the moment's revelations had almost cleared the soft cushion of alcohol from his brain. He swayed uncertainly, waiting for his leg to decide if it was going to dump him, or not.
Scully and Mulder moved forward together, and steadied him, the sexual tension for now submerged beneath concern. "Do you have somewhere where you can lay down?" Scully asked him, her tone a mild rebuke as he pointed the way to the bedroom. "I've seen your medical record, Skinner. It's a miracle you even made it up that trail."
Skinner shrugged as the agents helped him into the bedroom. "Where there's a will..." He let himself fall onto the still bare mattress with a sigh, then looked up at the worried expression on her face. "Relax, Scully. The first couple of days of physical therapy were worst than this."
"They were *supposed* to be. Take off your pants." Skinner's eyes widened slightly, and Scully could hear Mulder's soft chuckle beside her. She gave both of them an exasperated glance. "I'm not after your dubious virtue,"
"Not *yet*, anyway," Mulder murmured.
Scully ignored him, and continued, "I just want to look at your knee, and see how much swelling there is. If we need to carry you out on a stretcher, better to know now, than when we're halfway down."
Skinner turned to Mulder. "Is she like this a lot?"
"Only with people she cares about." For once, Mulder's voice held no teasing undertones, and Skinner felt a sudden shock of warmth that settled in the region of his heart. He began unbuckling his belt without another word.
When the slacks fell in a small heap on the floor, neither agent could stop their eyes from fastening on Skinner's left leg. Thick and well-muscled -- although not as much as it had been before the accident, Mulder thought -- it would have been worthy of a model of classical sculpture... if it hadn't been for the mangled and raw expanse of scarring from mid-calf up, until it disappeared beneath the line of his briefs. The knee was the worst. Even red and painfully swollen, it somehow seemed... flattened in an unnatural way. *He* hadn't read the medical report, and so only had a sketchy idea on what exactly had happened during the accident, but suddenly Mulder could almost feel how it must have been for Skinner, trapped and bleeding in the wreckage, his left side shredded in a thousand teeth of splintered metal, helpless, unaware. Mulder shook himself, and looked away from the leg, and into Skinner's eyes. The older man appeared impassive, but when their gazes met, Skinner's shifted away, staring at a place beyond him. A tight heat curled in Mulder's guts, sadness liberally mixed with a helpless rage that another of the few people in his life that he cared about, and who returned the feeling, had been hurt, and he had been helpless to stop it.
"Mulder?" He looked down. Scully regarded him steadily, then said, "Why don't you try to hunt up a cold compress, so that we can take the swelling down?"
He nodded quickly, guiltily glad to have a chance to sift through his feelings alone. "Sure. Be right back." He moved towards the door, then lowered his voice to a stage whisper, "Think you can have the shirt off by then, Dr. Scully?"
His reward was a smile that ghosted around Scully's face, and a highly suspicious cough from Skinner. Enough for any man, he thought, and left in search of the kitchen and contemplation.
When he was gone, Skinner shook his head slowly. "Scully, I... I'm not really sure how to react to all this."
"All of what?" Scully's voice was carefully bland.
Skinner gestured helplessly, "All of *this*. Him, you, us. It's not exactly a situation that I ever expected myself to be in. I don't know what the rules are."
Scully sighed, and shifted to a slightly more comfortable position on the edge of the mattress. "Do you think that we do? This is new territory for all of us, Skinner. We care for you- and for me, at least, there's definitely a sexual element to it. But... I won't, and I know that Mulder won't, ask for any more than you're willing to give," She rested her hand lightly on his good knee, feeling the subtle heat of his skin. "We just wanted you to know that you're not alone. Let us be your friends, if nothing else."
Skinner felt the air rush out of his lungs at the uncertainty in her voice, and the barely perceptible tension in the soft hand that touched his skin. He weighed her words, and the things he could hear behind them. Finally, he leaned forward, and placed his hand over her own, catching and holding her with his eyes, letting them say the words that would have stuck and fumbled in his throat. He loved her, he loved them both, as improbable as it would seem.
Scully turned her hand over and clasped his tightly. The movement sent a spark of awareness to his groin, then a twinge of pain from muscles that refused to go through any more exertion. He smiled, his first true smile in a long time, and said, "I want more, Scully. But not, I think, tonight."
"I hate to say it, Scully, but the man is right. It's been a long day, and I'm too pooped to pop. Pun intended." Skinner and Scully started, and stared at the doorway. Mulder, who'd been standing there unobserved for a few moments, sauntered casually into the room, a checkered dishcloth filled with ice in one hand. He gave it to Scully. As she carefully placed the compress on Skinner's knee, the big man hissed in reaction to the ice against his throbbing flesh. When both of them glanced back his way, Mulder said, a little too casually, "So, have you figured out the sleeping arrangements, yet?"
As Scully opened her mouth, Skinner interrupted, "This bed can hold three... if they're friendly. Otherwise, all I've got is the floor."
Mulder surveyed him for a long moment. "Are we friendly, Skinner?"
"Not as friendly as I'd like to be, Mulder."
Mulder grinned boyishly, the tension that he hadn't acknowledged leaving in a rush from his lean frame. "Well, then. The bed it is."
The middle of the night. The time when every breath seems to rattle the windowpanes, and the slightest of thoughts looms large in the mind ... and the smallest restless movement stirs the sleeper into cautious wakefulness. Mulder rose from his own dark dreams to the minute shifts of one of his bedmates. Sleepily, he thought it might have been Scully, but she always slept like a log. A beautiful log, but a log nonetheless. Besides, she and Mulder had placed themselves on either side of Skinner, in a mostly unconscious attempt to ensure that he was still there in the morning. Mulder carefully turned his head to the left. So far, so good.
Skinner slept on his back, probably because it was the only comfortable position with his still-healing injuries. Mulder studied him with concern. Even in sleep, Skinner's features were tight and worried. Some of it was the scarring, but there was a tension all across the body that Mulder was reasonably sure came from pain that had its roots in the spirit, not the body. As if to confirm his observation, the big man's face tightened, and he made a small, hurt sound. It almost sounded like a name. Three guesses who, Mulder thought sympathetically. He remembered the nights, fewer now than a few years ago, when his own dreams were haunted by vengeful ghosts. Levering himself up carefully on one elbow, he peered over at Scully. She was deeply asleep, utterly relaxed in a way that he had always envied. The only things that would wake her, he knew, were the telephone, a knock at the door, or a soft kiss at the base of her neck, in the delicate curve where it met her shoulders. He glanced back at Skinner and wondered if a kiss would have the same effect on him. Right now, probably not.
Which brought him to the deep sense of unease he had been feeling since they had arrived at the cabin. Was it fair, he wondered, to have sprung themselves on Skinner, under the circumstances? Was Skinner's own acceptance of the situation genuine, or merely an instinctive reaction to the events following the accident? Was it fair to any of the three to allow the relationship to progress unless they could be sure? There were time when Mulder devoutly wished that he'd done more than the mandatory minimum in clinical psychology. The only thing that serial killers had in common with love was that they both could kill you.
"Mulder? Is something wrong?" Startled, he brought himself back to reality, and realized that Skinner was staring back at him. The other man's dark eyes had blended easily into the veil of shadows that enfolded them both.
Mulder shrugged with one shoulder, and whispered, "I was about to ask you the same thing."
Skinner grimaced. "Did I wake you?" he asked softly, careful not to disturb the still sleeping Scully. "I had a... a pain. In my knee."
"Yeah. I used to get those a lot. Except that I woke up screaming. You've got a little more restraint than me, I guess." Mulder lowered himself back down to the mattress, a slight smile hovering on his lips. "Would you like to talk about it? I've found that the dark is a great place for baring your soul."
"No, Mulder... actually, I might as well. Since it concerns you, in a roundabout way, I suppose you deserve to know." Skinner fell silent, and Mulder's eyebrow rose, an unconscious imitation of one of Scully's favorite mannerisms. After a moment, Skinner continued, "But... I have a condition."
Mulder waited. He had a feeling he knew what the "condition" was, and he also had a feeling that Skinner wasn't going to like his response, if he was right. "What condition?"
"Don't tell Scully." Skinner's voice dropped on the request, until it was barely above a whisper.
Mulder felt his head shaking in slow, decisive movements, then whispered, "I won't tell her. But you should, whatever it is. I've discovered that Scully is not a woman who takes secrets well. Besides, I'm no expert, but I don't think that we can afford to keep secrets, not in this kind of situation. So, I hate to say it, but Skinner... if you can't tell her, then don't tell me."
All was silent, but for the sound of breathing. From Mulder's position, Skinner's face was shrouded in night, unreadable. It made him feel sick to deny a loved one the outlet that he so obviously needed, but he could *feel* the rightness of it. Secrets would tear them apart, turn them into each other's worst enemies. It had almost happened to Scully and him. He *would not* let it happen to the three of them. And yet, he couldn't help but wonder if by his refusal he set them along the same path, only more slowly? He hoped, no, he prayed, prayed to a god that he barely understood that Skinner would be able to tell them both what happened to cause the haunted, strained look in his eyes. And the stains on his pants that both Mulder and Scully had seen, but silently and separately agreed not to ask about.
Just when Mulder had become convinced that Skinner had found the risk too high, a husky voice came from the shadows. As Mulder listened silently, Skinner recounted the last conversation with his wife, the pain and self-hate of the hospital, the flight across the country, the prostitute- and here Skinner's voice grew dark and harsh with some unnamed emotion- and finally, the decision to take his own life and the recanting of that decision.
Somewhere during the story, Mulder's hand had crept across the bed, and now clasped Skinner's tightly. Slowly, he moved closer, not out of sexual desire, though that lurked close under the surface should he allow it, but out of a simple human need to comfort. Skinner accepted the closeness with an equanimity that surprised both of them. Eventually, Mulder lay with his body just barely touching the lines of Skinner's own, and their heat mingled, finding it's way past the thin barrier of skin and into blood and flesh and bone. It was a new sensation, vaguely sexual, but so supportive and relaxing that neither dared to break it by attempting more. And so, still gently holding hands, then men fell into a deep, healing sleep.
They woke together, still in the sweet blanket of night, and reached for each other, as if drawn by the same dreams. It wasn't hard, for sometime in their slumber, all three had huddled close together, and the two agents were tucked close beneath Skinner's well-muscled arms. Clothing was shed silently, and pushed to the cold wood floor by arms and feet. The bed, of course, still had no sheets, but somehow the harsh rub of the mattress was simply sensation, and as exciting as the satiny caress of skin against skin.
Skinner found himself held firmly down on the mattress, and a smoke soft voice in his ear, "Tonight...let us please you," before he could reply, a mouth brushed against his own, teasing with its silken exploration. He tried to capture it with his own, and heard a throaty chuckle above him. And then, his attention shifted, as smooth masculine hands found the curly thatch of hair at the base of his erection. Skinner gasped, and the lips took the opportunity to claim him, even as a bold finger traced the length of his cock. He groaned, and sent his hands and tongue to do wandering of their own.
One hand slid along the supple, feminine curves of a hip, upward to the gentle swelling of a breast. As one finger skimmed over an erect nipple, he felt a sudden intake of air from his mouth, and breaking contact, chuckled huskily. He teased the erect nipples with his thumb, and began to lead his mouth downward with a slow line of kisses along the tender skin.
Skinner's other hand, however, had found a very different surface in its travels. Unfamiliar territory, sleek and hard planes of a male stomach, lightly dusted with sparse and curly hair. He explored it with a will, charting the ridges and valleys with curious fingers. Even in the thick haze of desire and need Skinner was rapidly descending into, he almost laughed when another hand came from the shadows, and began to mirror his explorations on his own body. Abandoning subtlety for a moment, he sent both hand and mouth spiraling downward, and was rewarded by twin gasps they both found their goals.
He heard a moan from somewhere above him as his seeking mouth found the ripe bud of a nipple and enclosed it in warmth. He suckled gently, while sliding a hand down the sweet curve of Scully's back, to cup her buttocks in one large hand. Meanwhile, Mulder still mirrored his other hands movements, even as they dipped to cock. Skinner didn't tease, here, but rather grasped the shaft firmly, but carefully, and touched the sensitive tip with his thumb. As Mulder did the same, Skinner's suckling became less gentle, and he began to urge Scully forward. She complied, and his lips left her breast to slide along the almost flat slant of her stomach. He felt her move above him, straddling him with the utmost care for his injuries. Not that it was really necessary by this time, he thought. His body was on fire, but not from pain.
His mouth reached the apex of Scully's thighs, and the soft mound of hair even as he began to move his hand along Mulder's erection with firm, long strokes. He dimly heard the echo of their harsh breathing, as he parted the delicate folds before him, and tasted the flesh there. Scully made tiny sounds of pleasure as his tongue danced along the slit, then found her clitoris. He worked the tiny knob, first with gentle touches, then more firmly as her hips began to rock. Skinner brought the sliding of his hand against Mulder's cock into sync with the movements of his tongue, and relished the combined music of their cries, even as his own were torn from his throat by Mulder's skillful hands.
Scully's body began to move in earnest above him now, and his hand slid across her ass, urging her along, even as he and Mulder quickened their own movements. Her exaltations blended together into a long, fervent sound like none other. Her hands came down and skated along his head, as if confused by the lack of hair to clutch.
Mulder suddenly jerked beneath his hand, finding release with a sharp cry of pleasure, and Scully followed her partner over the edge, her moan spiraling up into a hoarse scream and ragged gasping. As Mulder panted and softened, his hand falling from it's ministrations, she slid down Skinner's body to his still erect member and mounted him in one quick movement. Skinner growled as his cock was sheathed within her still spasming body. She rode him with agonizing, tantalizing slowness, their movements together blending into a dance as ancient as the wind, as irresistible as the tide. He felt the tide build within him, a wave that crashed and broke, taking him beyond pain and pleasure and back again.
Afterwards, all three curled together again, suddenly glad that they had never gotten the sheets on the bed. They touched each other constantly, hands roaming over bodies that had suddenly become new again. They talked, as well; whispers in the dark of nothing and everything, of lust and love. And they fell asleep, as the first gray light of dawn touched the sky, together at last.
The End. Feed back is happily recieved at [email protected]!
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