"Come Saturday Morning" by MJ

Fox Mulder turned over in his sleep; light, coming in through the window across from him, hit his closed eyes, rousing him abruptly. Odd angle for the light—where was he? Not his couch…no, a bed. Not his…oh, yeah, right. Walter Skinner's bed, and that was Walter Skinner, FBI Assistant Director, his direct supervisor, sleeping comfortably beside him. Glasses off, eyes shut, relaxed, Skinner looked so much younger than he did at the office. He also looked incredibly gorgeous. Good enough to eat, as if there hadn't been quite enough of that the night before.

How had they ended up in Skinner's bed? Mulder stretched carefully, trying not to rouse Skinner. He'd been out with George Purvis and Harry McLaughlin having a couple of Friday night beers at Flannigan's Pub after work. They'd split quickly, Purvis to his wife and three kids, McLaughlin to a significant other named Jan, for whom Mulder didn't remember hearing a pronoun. It hadn't taken long that afternoon for them to polish off the report for the attempted warehouse robbery Skinner had asked them all to handle. Mulder had sat in Flannigan's having a couple more by himself, should have ordered a sandwich but he hadn't, the report folder staring him in the face. He had to fight the Fourteenth Street Bridge traffic into Virginia to head home; Skinner's condo wasn't all that far away while en route. Dropping it off…that would be easy, and the report wouldn't sit until Monday in Mulder's car.

So simple to get out of the traffic, pull in, buzz up to see Skinner, folder in hand. Skinner had met him at the door of his apartment, a cold bottle in his own hand, looking hot as hell in worn jeans and a much-washed denim shirt. Mulder had handed the file over, smug with the knowledge that he'd done a job on that report which Skinner couldn't criticize for once, loosened up enough by four beers not to hide his expression at the sight of Walter Skinner in weekend kit. Skinner's mistake, if it was one, had been to offer Mulder that one more beer. A game on ESPN, beer in hand, both on the couch, it hadn't taken more than a few minutes for Mulder to wind up informing Skinner, who asked if Mulder had eaten, that Skinner was, in fact, exactly what dinner looked like.

They never had made it as far as food.

Recalling the previous night's proceedings was making Mulder keenly aware of his own morning erection. A shame to waste it, when you thought about it. And he was indeed thinking about it. He rolled over, grinding himself against Skinner's thigh.

There is more than one kind of appetite, more than one kind of hunger.

And after several years of waiting, of rolling this particular hunger over in his mind, Fox Mulder was a starving man. No thought to assuaging that hunger sensibly, in small increments, he wanted all of Walter Skinner at once now that he had him.

Skinner was responding now, his upper thigh massaging back into Mulder's groin. Turning slightly, his eyes still not open, one muscular, firm globe of his ass pressing directly into that erection, backing off slightly and pressing in again.

A man whose primary experience has been with fast food is liable to go into shock at encountering Beef Wellington. Some things are, quite simply, beyond the imaginings of one's palate. For all of his mental wanderings over Skinner's body, Fox Mulder had never pushed his mind into this particular territory before.

His mother had always noted, however, that although he never seemed to care that much about what he was served, he'd never refused to try anything new. The thought that Walter Skinner was making a physical plea for Mulder to take him was surprising…but it certainly couldn't be turned down. Nice to see, too, that Skinner didn't seem to be in any hurry to evict him from bed. Which was good, because he had no plans to leave any time soon.

Skinner was reaching over to his nightstand now. Lube, condoms. Passing them back to him, silently, no talk disturbing the morning stillness. Skinner had to be the quietest man Mulder had ever wound up in bed with. Right now, he hated to disturb the moment with talk himself. Certainly none was needed. Vast expanse of muscular back facing him, muscles sculpted as neatly as if Michelangelo had carved them, and nearly as solid; could anyone really be as solid as Skinner seemed to be? No one was really that composed, were they? He doubted it. Nice to be able to find out what went on inside the body there with him—he wondered if it was possible. He'd used sex himself to avoid feeling; Skinner might just as easily do the same. This wasn't the chance to find out. But he wanted to get inside Skinner's mind, wanted to find out what made the man tick.

The thirst for knowledge is another hunger, and a dangerous one; in Mulder's case, one of his greatest appetites. His other hungers were sometimes sated, but this one was never appeased. Wanting to know more about Walter Skinner was a new addition to that hunger. An enormous one, but one that, like his appetite for food, was going by the wayside at the moment. It is difficult to satisfy all human cravings at once, and a far different hunger was more easily satisfied right now for both men.

Walter Skinner was his. For this moment, anyway; for this day. Maybe for longer, if he dared to risk it. If he was hungry enough.