"Saturday in the Park" by MJ

He wakes up, rolls over slowly in the morning light, hits solid, warm flesh the size of a wall. Walter's chest. For the past week, Walter Skinner has slept in his bed every night. A luxury; Fox Mulder feels absolutely decadent. He's had Walter in bed every night; Walter's made breakfast, been there when he's come home…has met him for lunch a few times. Wearing Mulder's clothes, since he hasn't gone near his own place.

Scully tells him he's getting possessive. It must be those looks he's been giving Walter in public at lunch. But he can't help it. Walter Skinner, looking younger than he has in years with the Assistant Directorship off of his shoulders, wearing Mulder's own clothing, smiling straight into Mulder's eyes and making dinner plans with him out loud, in front of other Bureau staffers…what's not to be possessive about.

It pleases Mulder, secretly, to be the subject of the public envy and hatred of his colleagues. As if the publicity about the Files cases weren't enough for that, he's not only seduced the Bureau's hardest-assed Assistant Director, but that same AD has walked out of the Bureau, publicly, for love—an emotion that, until recently, most of the Bureau had thought Walter had never met. Over him. Fox "Spooky" Mulder. God, he never thought he'd discover himself to be a drama queen, he shouldn't be enjoying himself this much about it. And Walter has, as ever, left a wake behind him that could swamp a small island.

Of course, given the size of Walter's chest, it's surprising that the wake isn't even bigger. He's got an incredible chest; Mulder's still getting used to burrowing himself up against it. Walter's strong, and solid, and what the hell has Fox Mulder ever done to deserve having him here? What happened that Friday night, that weekend about two months back…it could have run its course right there. But it didn't, it hasn't. Walter's still here. Walter loves him, told him so that day in the hospital.

Walter Skinner loves him.

Enough to tell the FBI to go fuck itself.

It's absolutely unfathomable, especially to Mulder. But he's not going to argue with a miracle. Let the FBI go fuck itself. Jana Cassidy actually came to Mulder's office yesterday to ask him to take some files to Walter. She'd practically groveled. Served her right.

They still think Walter might actually come back. They haven't really comprehended that he's quit over Mulder, that his own AA's quit because he did. They obviously don't understand Walter at all. They need Walter. Walter's been loyal to them for years, but he doesn't need them. And he's finally told them to do what Mulder has always wanted to tell them to do.

Walter Skinner, househusband. Mulder swears Walter's enjoying himself. He could go out, could handle the shitload of papers the Bureau's trying to foist on him, could do any of a thousand things.

Mulder's come home to find him cooking dinner; cleaning—not that this place didn't need it, admittedly; fixing the sink. Cheerfully. Doing Mulder's laundry. Walter's got an unsuspected domestic streak. Funny.

This apartment's going to be too small. It's all right for the moment, but Walter's is substantially larger. And Walter owns his place. His own lease is up—when? Not a good time to broach the subject yet; wait a month at least, until Walter's settled into his unexpected retirement from the Bureau. Is the suggestion too ridiculous? He would have thought so even a week ago. But now…now everything has changed radically, and all he can do is move with the changes.

His cellular phone, on the nightstand, begins to chirp. It is Scully, asking him if they'd like to take a walk through Rock Creek Park with her today. If *they* would. It sounds…different…for Scully to address him, her partner, as half of a couple. It sounds…strange. But not wrong; no, definitely not wrong. He could get used to it, he thinks. He promises to call her back, and clicks off.

A hand reaching up to him. One drowsy, semi-awake lover, wondering what the call was. One drowsy, semi-awake Walter Skinner, eyeing him sleepily with a look of pure pleasure on his face.

Walter Skinner loves him. Yeah, him, Fox Mulder.

Yeah. He could get used to it.