"Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m." by JiM

Finally, Walter Skinner knows what Hell is. In the past week and a half, he'd thought he'd finally gotten a handle on it, stared it in the face. Now, lying here, Mulder sleeping on his chest, Walter Skinner knows what Hell is. And he knows that it's his for keeps.

Mulder had shifted drowsily and Skinner had stroked his back, soothing him into more restful sleep. It was somewhere around 3 am that his fingers slipped into the shallow indentation on Mulder's left shoulder, an old bullet wound, well-healed. And that's when he knew.

Hell is knowing your lover's wounds but not knowing where they came from. Knowing that he will be hurt again. And again. There is nothing anyone can do about it. Certainly nothing Skinner can do; half his life is gone and all he can offer is a mortgaged soul and a love so terrible that he can taste it, bittersweet and so real. It is the taste of Mulder's semen in his mouth, the rain that rolled down his temple, the sweat in his hair, the sips of beer he kept stealing when Skinner's attention was momentarily on the game.

It is Mulder's fault. For a single instant, Skinner feels his soul twist and knows that he could hate Mulder for bringing him to this. He remembers a headstone he saw once, in a cold cemetery somewhere he didn't want to be. He had bruised his shin tripping over a tilted slab, and when he stooped to check the damage, the carved words had bruised him more deeply than the wind-sheared granite ever could.

/It is a fearful thing to love What Death can touch/

The room is full of 3 am shadows and even the light that filters in the half-open curtains is too dim to help him now. All it does is show that he doesn't understand the true depth of anything. It was supposed to be about sex and power and rebellion and friendly fucking. Not this.

Mulder stirs again, rubbing his roughened cheek on Skinner's chest, before turning his head a little and nuzzling at the tingling skin with soothing lips. It's too late, Skinner realizes. Too late to worry about what it was supposed to be about, as his hand curves around the vulnerable nape of Mulder's neck, his thumb resting over the artery. It's about this now, about feeling the steady beat of Mulder's life beneath Skinner's hand and feeling the tearing joy, the bitter elation as Mulder's tongue laps at his skin. It is this moment's animal bliss and stark terror that will mark him forever. They will be his passport in Hell, the stamp on his soul that proves him human.

Mulder seems intent on branding that mark on his flesh; he is sucking and nibbling sleepily on Skinner's chest now. One thumb is lazily circling the nipple next to his mouth, brushing it again and again until Skinner is trembling from the effort of not writhing beneath him.

Mulder looks up at him suddenly and Skinner is struck by the fact that Mulder's eyes are unshadowed, even at this dogwatching hour. He can hear what Mulder said hours ago, can see it echoing in those clear, light eyes.

/You think too much/

He had been silent, knowing it was true.

He is silent now.

Walter Skinner now knows what Hell is. Even as his lover begins to whisper soft words among the gentle kisses he gives, Walter Skinner is in Hell. And he rejoices helplessly in his knowledge, even as he rejoices in his lover. Because he can't have one without the other.

Hell is loving someone who loves you and knowing that he will die someday.

Walter Skinner smiles, and traces his lover's mouth with his finger. Welcome to Hell, Walter.