Title:      Happening

Author:     Justine Glass

E-mail Address: Feedback happily read and answered at [email protected] 

Rating:     G

Category: V, Missing Scene

Spoilers: Ascension

Keywords:    M/Sk UST

Summary:   Stuff happens.  This is a sequel story to Happenstance.  It would

be easier to read if you had read that first.

Archive: Nowhere without my permission, please.

Disclaimer: No permission has been granted, no

money has been made, no infringement is intended.

Dedication: Once again, for Dawn, who lured me into the abyss.

Happening

by Justin Glass

He couldn't believe what was happening.  

He had coaxed Mulder to sleep by pulling the man across his lap like a little

boy.  He had even kissed him goodnight, for chrissake, and he had never

anticipated this at all.

Skinner shifted a little against the headboard, searching for some way to

relieve the pressure on his back without aggravating the pressure on his . . .

his front.  Sometime over the last few hours (and it must have been hours

because that was the grey silk of dawn in the sky) Skinner had fallen asleep

and Mulder had slid down until his cheek rested on Skinner's thigh.

Skinner rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand.  Looked at

Mulder.  Looked away.

The man was completely asleep, that much was clear.  His mouth gaped slightly,

his cheek pressed against the soft flannel of Skinner's dress pants, his

breath steaming the flesh beneath.  That was what had woken Skinner, that heat

flowing over his skin like the tide.  That, and what that had caused.

He couldn't stay like this.  He couldn't.  It was too much, and he was

supposed to be *helping* Mulder, not coming on to him, a line Skinner had

already crossed with just that simple kiss.  

He shifted again, experimentally.

Mulder sighed and curled into a ball in the V of Skinner's legs, wrapping one

arm securely around his boss's thigh.

"Shit," Skinner whispered.

Mulder slept on, and Skinner smiled at the irony.  For once, Fox Mulder was

doing what he was told: he had been told to get some rest and now he was

getting it.  He was out like a light, barely snoring, curled up like a baby.

What was that Chinese curse?  Be careful what you wish for . . .

Skinner looked down at his agent for a moment, seeing the phantom stubble on

the younger man's cheeks, the vulnerable mouth, the hair rumpled beyond

recognition.  This was not supposed to be happening, he thought.  In the dim

pre-dawn light, the only warmth Walter Skinner could feel was the moist breath

of another man on his leg.

And then he moved.

He lifted the leg Mulder was resting on, waking him and shaking him off gently

the way one shakes off a sleepy puppy.

"Hmm?" Mulder mumbled, rolling in the direction of the other thigh, straddling

it with his hands.  "This had better be good." He lifted his head and squinted

up at Skinner.

"Lie down, Mulder," Skinner said. gesturing to the pillow next to him.

"You're putting my leg to sleep." It was a lie; his leg was anything but

asleep.  Every nerve in his body from the waist down was awake and humming

with electricity, but he didn't have to say that.  He never had to say

anything, if he didn't want to.

Mulder squinted up at him for moment, then bowed his head, resting his

forehead on Skinner's left thigh.

"Wh--" he mumbled something Skinner didn't catch.

"Mulder, I didn't hear--"

"I said, where will you be?" He was looking up again, his eyes suddenly less

clogged with sleep than with memories.

"Lie down, Mulder," Skinner said again, and Mulder did, turning on his side so

that he faced away from the AD, wrapping himself instead around the pillow.

Skinner watched him for a minute, seeing the long lines of Mulder's back, and

slim strong curve of his leg.  His fingers unfastened the brass buckle on his

belt and slid it out of the loops, let it slither to the floor with a soft

clunk.

Then he turned on his side and scooted down until he was pressed against

Mulder, his chest to Mulder's back, his hips to Mulder's ass, thigh to thigh,

and threaded his foot between Mulder's.  He reached out and yanked one of the

blankets from the disorganized pile near the bottom of the bed and drew it

over them both, then hooked his arm around so that his fingers rested lightly

against the front of Mulder's wrinkled dress shirt.  He pressed his cheek

against the short hair at the back of Mulder's neck, inhaling the smell of

sleep and sweat.  He resisted the urge to kiss that spot.  

"Does this answer your question?" he asked, murmuring into the skin under his

lips.

Mulder might have been already asleep, because he didn't speak, but Skinner

felt his hand pressed against Mulder's chest by something that might have been

another hand.  They slept.

*****end*****