MJ

I. The Inexorable Sadness of Pencils

It is raining outside. I draw the blinds in my office. Washington is beautiful during a spring rain or an early autumn thunderstorm, but this is neither. It is a sudden downpour, water splashing over curbs, tires at intersections ruining suits with water mixed with dirt and oil. There is no beauty in it, only an overpouring of ugliness. Women and men soaked to their skin through their work clothes like so many wet kittens. I saw a group of villagers once in Vietnam, caught in a downpour. They were enjoying themselves in the cold rain. They didn't have another four hours of sitting in vinyl chairs in climate-controlled offices, trying not to drip all over important papers while freezing their asses off. The blinds cut off the sights outside. I am safe, momentarily, insulated from the ugliness outside.

The buzzer on my intercom goes off. It is Kimberly, my secretary—who else could it be? Someone wants to see me. It happens every day; everyone wants a moment of my time, half of an idea, a pinch here, jab there; here, I want to tell them, here is a knife. Each of you, take your pound of flesh and leave me alone. I was told this job was a promotion. It is that, I suppose. More responsibility, more salary, closer to the throne. It is all that, and more. It is sending agents out to be shot at. It is calling their wives to tell them that their husbands have been shot. It is deciding whether some other human's tragedy is worthy of my agents' time and attention. It is thankless, and friendless. Is it what I would choose if I were to be given the chance again, knowing what I know now? I do not know. Someone wants to see me—send them in; let them take their pound and leave. I seat myself behind my desk, hoping that I am in my properly imposing attitude, the one that is not really me, and pick up a pencil. Surely I will have to make notes of this other human's distress before I offer my pound of flesh up for their consumption.

It is not a "someone" who enters; it is "Someone," in specific. It is not merely anyone, it is Fox Mulder, bane and joy of my existence. He plagues me incessantly with the most absurd demands—which I grant, more often than not; and I do so for the juvenile pleasure I take in seeing his delight. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, irritating though he can be, and often is. I cannot call him handsome. I have been told that I am handsome, though I don't believe it; but if that is a term which describes my appearance, then it cannot apply to Fox Mulder. He is tall, though not so tall as I am; he is well built, though slight in comparison to my bulk. I am a weight lifter, he a swimmer. And he is beautiful. His hair, his eyes, his lips—a thousand women would sacrifice anything for just such features. Most men, I think, would look in envy and then turn down the offer of such attributes. They are too perfect, too delicate, in their way, to be masculine. And yet I have seen this man fight, and even kill, when he has had to; the delicacy is only superficial. He is tall, and slender, and beautiful, and brilliant. His mind dazzles me. It is like a trapeze artist, climbing to places you can see, but you dare not follow for fear of falling. And then it makes leaps—absurd, impossible leaps that a human should not attempt. Like the trapeze artist, he succeeds, leaving me behind to wonder at the feats that another human has learned to accomplish, which I have discovered far too late to learn myself. I can only step back and admire respectfully.

He thinks that I am hard on him. He's right. I am hard on him, harder than I am with my other agents. I need to do this—both for him and for myself. For him, because he is an island of gems in a sea of mediocrity. I must demand that he give me his best, or his talents are wasted among the ranks of fools and court jesters here in the castle. For his work to look like anyone else's is for Picasso to draw in crayon on tablet paper, or for Hemingway to write the radio traffic report. I refuse to let him sell his soul for the sake of simplicity in this establishment. For me, because not to come down on Fox Mulder like a steamroller is to court my own disaster. If I cannot maintain a base level of annoyance to direct at him, I risk exposing my actual feelings for him, and that is something I have never believed I can risk. There is a paper clip on my desk. I shall twist it out of shape while he and I talk, even as I twist my own feelings out of shape, that I may deny my feeling them.

He comments on the weather. I agree with him that it is a miserable day -dark, gloomy, despairing. It is the sort of day, one imagines, that increases the suicide rate in the area where it occurs. We make the usual small talk of agent and assistant director. He is his usual self—pugnacious, charming, alternately all argument and all smoothing of feathers. His smile is the one bright thing I have seen on this gloomy day, in which the sun has not deigned to make an appearance. I see the white flash of his teeth, and I feel warmed, as if the sun had indeed emerged from behind its dark hiding place; but no, it is not an outer warmth that I feel. It is one I have felt near Mulder before; it is a flooding of warmth throughout my entire body, and its focal point is at my groin. It is desire making itself known. I can feel my erection growing, stiffening and pressing into the zipper of my suit trousers. I want him. It is as simple as that. And I give him what he wants in the hope that he will someday reciprocate, even though it is impossible that such a thing should happen between us.

Today he is asking me to authorize a trip to New Mexico. There are a set of talking boulders there, and a series of murders has happened near the site. Ritual murders? Who knows? The whole thing is ridiculous, of course; or else his mind, which moves so quickly that I cannot keep up with it, has lit upon some infinitesimal detail that no one else can spot. His mind is a hummingbird, difficult to see, wings fluttering so rapidly that their motion cannot be detected, drinking from a drop of nectar that the human eye cannot find. Lunacy or brilliance? There is only one way we can know this, the way that pleases him, and makes him smile, giving me the foolish thrill I derive from such things. I pick up a pen, scrawl my name across the signature line in broad strokes, and thrust the completed document into a manila folder on my desk. The interplay of hands, pen, paper, and file takes only seconds. It is this easy to make him smile, and once again he does. Once again, the sun rises in my office, momentarily blinding me. I blink. The line of poetry from college crosses my mind—"mine eyes dazzle; she died young." Not this one, oh Lord. Not this one. He's come close enough to that far too often for my liking.

What's wrong? he asks me. Nothing, only the maudlin thoughts accompanying snatches of morbid poetry taken out of context. But I can't bring myself to say that, not even to this man, the only person I know who might take that statement at face value and understand what I mean. So I hold back, and I shake my head. The irrelevant thought of his death has made me inexpressibly sad; there is no way I can explain how it came to my head other than this weather. I move my twisted paper clip; I adjust the placement of a pen, straighten out a stack of files beside them. He is speaking again.

"I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils, Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paperweight, All the misery of manilla folders and mucilage, Desolation in lonely public places, Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard, The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher, Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma, Endless duplication of lives and objects."

I look up. I can tell that he is quoting, but I have never heard it before. I do not know these words, but today, they know me. They know me far too well for comfort; they have wrenched themselves out of my gut. Is he quoting a poem, or performing some other feat of mental gymnastics and reading my depression? I nod at him; it is all that I can do. The hazel eyes look across, staring at me—no, through me, as if everything in me were laid open for examination. He is smiling slightly, but I sense that he is weighing, judging, analyzing. Divide and conquer. Why I think it, I do not know. Now that I have said them, they are fitting words for the psychic surgery I feel being performed upon my soul.

Mulder smiles at me again, only a small one, lips closed. We are not working now; we are both sitting; me with my sad pencils, he weighing, dividing, and, apparently, approving. How is it that I have let this man suddenly become the arbiter of my thoughts? It occurs to me that all the while I have sat here, every time he has been in this room, I have tried to think of ways to prevent myself from taking him; it seems that I have been so busy defending my front that the enemy has crept behind and taken me instead. In trying to prevent myself from acting, I have been reacting, and I feel my reactions placing me squarely in his hands. Not that this is inherently a problem; his hands are, like the rest of him, things of beauty. They are long, slender, tapering; larger than a woman's, they are nonetheless perfect models for a woman's hands. My cock stirs again as the vision of those hands touching me comes to mind. We appear to be lounging in our respective chairs at the moment, but we are locked in combat; the tension is mounting between us as my arousal mounts, and it is an arousal of which he must be vividly aware, reading my thoughts as he is right now. It is too late for either of us to back out of this pas de deux gracefully; we must complete this dance now that we have begun it. Which of us plans to take the next step?

I begin to rise in my seat, casually, as if there were nothing I would rather do than walk about my office. I step away from my desk towards the window, stopping to peek outside. It is still raining, although the torrent is slowing. My erection is still there, but my stomach is in knots. The air is brittle around us, as though a sudden movement would shatter it. Mulder is pretending to examine his hands, those wonderful hands, but he is shifting his gaze out of the corner of his eye. I am reminded for a second of my youth—I almost said, "the old days," but I am not that old. Seductions were always tricky then, at least for me; you took each step as if it might be your last, allowing each party to the game the opportunity to back out at all times until the inevitable moment, hoping and praying that the object of interest was indeed available, and not likely to become offended and hit you. There is that same caution between us; we are wary of each other. The tension itself is erotically charged; my cock is throbbing, aching for the touch of those fingers I saw just a moment ago. I swallow; I can feel my face flushing.

He shifts in his seat, just fractionally, as I walk across the room. I am behind him now, sorting a pile of files meaninglessly; I am acting as if I am working, when clearly I am not. He is not watching me, but he is perfectly calm, perfectly composed, or so it seems. He is waiting for me to come back over by way of his chair, which is precisely what I had intended to do. His action now is to do nothing at all, but to do it with an air of perfect expectation. I suspect he is laughing at my hesitancy; I cannot see his face yet, but I do not think I need to. I head back in his direction, closing my circuit of the office; coming up behind his chair, I lay one hand, gently and, I hope, casually, upon his shoulder. I feel as if I had just touched an electrical wire; I can feel the voltage through my hand and up my arm. Will he react, or do I continue?

He reacts. He leans further back in the seat, tilting his head backwards so that my gaze is no longer directly down on that obscenely luxurious head of hair, the one that fills me with envy when I contemplate its richness. I can see the hazel eyes, brighter than I had imagined. His pupils are dilated; it is the brightness of lust I see in them. I needed to see this, to know that I am not mistaken; he wants this as much as I do. What I do now is incredibly stupid of me, I have no doubt of that. It is, however, the only thing I want or am able, right now, to imagine wanting. I bend down to plant a kiss at his hairline, very near to where another man had once attacked it, with Mulder's permission, with a drill. I can see a faint trace of the scar it left; I kiss that, too, even more softly. His hand—that beautiful hand, with a life of its own—raises to caress my cheek. I almost back away; the sweetness of the contact is almost unbearable. My hand on his shoulder, his hand on my cheek -I can feel the energy moving between us; we have created a circuit. I am blinded again, not, this time, by light, but by the feeling of my whole body raging. My breath is ragged; the movement of my breath in my chest is almost painful to me.

He has disengaged himself from me; he rises and turns with the grace of a Siamese cat to meet me. It flashes through my mind that I should lock my door, but I am rooted here; surely Kim will keep the hounds at bay for me as she always does. This is crazy; this is wrong; I'm his direct superior…but it is already too late to turn back; I have already kissed him, and there is no undoing that. My arms are around him, over his suit jacket; I move one hand up to his neck, to pull his mouth to mine. His lips are lush, soft; I feel myself sinking into this kiss. I nip gently at his lower lip, running my tongue across it. I have wanted to do this since the day I met him. It was the first part of his body that I dreamed of claiming for myself. As I do so now, I feel his lips parting under mine. My kiss deepens against him; my tongue slides forward, meeting his. I bring my other hand to his face, anchoring him firmly for this assault on his mouth. His arms are around me, under my jacket; they are around my hips, bringing my groin into contact with his. I can feel his erection, as hard as mine, pressing into me, branding my thigh with its heat. I imagine the feeling of our bodies pressing together like this naked, in my bed. The thought, the vision of his lithe swimmer's body unclothed against mine, is intoxicating; I am dizzy with the image of it. I picture him lying on the edge of my bed, as I kneel at the side and take him in my mouth. I want to taste all of him, not just his lips; I want to taste his neck, his nipples, that cock I feel straining against me. I want him to come in my mouth. I want to taste that, too. I think I know how he will taste, salty but bitter, like the sea he swims in every summer. Like the answers he finds in his search for truth—enough salt to give life, enough bitterness to give pain.

Mulder lets go of my hips and seizes my head in both of his hands. His hands are so strong; they do not look as if they could be this strong, but they are. Their elegance is misleading, as are so many things about this man. Now he is the one keeping my head still; his kiss has become aggressive, forceful; he is beginning to take charge of this seduction, not I. But then, he has been in charge of this moment all along, knowing my thoughts, anticipating my actions. His lips move to my neck—God, what is he doing to my neck? I feel a small row of nips behind my ear before he begins to attack my earlobe itself. He is no helpless virgin, this man; such skills come with practice. He may be more experienced than I, I realize; it has been so long since I have had another man in my arms this way. I had almost forgotten the specific pleasures of another man: the firmness of the other body, so much like my own; the strength of the embrace; the fierceness of the union; the instinctive knowledge of how to give pleasure to the other. Sharon could give me none of these; no woman could. My few encounters with other men since my marriage have been quick and thankless, lacking the intensity of my prior relations with lovers. I can feel that intensity again with Mulder; he has a feeling of focus, of singleness of purpose, in his actions; no desire to rush to get home to whoever it is that has no idea what her man is out doing, no "let me get my rocks off and split" rush to his actions. It occurs to me that what I have missed from another man is not sex, it is lovemaking.

I want to lose myself in this man, to bury my face in his hair, his neck, the crack of that perfect ass I feel under my hands. My hands find his neck, loosening his tie, opening his collar. I need more of him. His hands are against my chest now, those fingers of his working their way through my shirt, finding my nipples. My nipples have never been this sensitive before; his touch on either is electric, as if he had already found his way to my cock. My body is no longer under my control, it is entirely possessed by his hands, his lips. For this moment, I am his. He knows it, too; there is a gleam in his eyes that is not entirely lust. It is the look a runner has at the end of a marathon, or that a climber has at the top of a mountain; it is a look of accomplishment, of victory. He is entitled to it; he has conquered me. I back up, half-sitting on the edge of my desk; I lower myself, acknowledging the fact of his triumph. He kisses me again, letting go of my body long enough to shrug off his jacket, and then to reach over to help me out of mine. Hie moves his hands to my shoulders; feeling a knot, he begins to massage them through my shirt. His hands amaze me. I want—no, need—to feel them on my erection, manipulating my shaft; I want him to bring me off with those hands. To do that myself is a joyless release; his touch would be an entirely different matter. I want that as surely as I want him in my mouth, as surely as I can feel my tongue running over the twin orbs beneath his own erection.

My head is against his chest; I can feel the pounding of his heart—and it is pounding—as he works his hands gently over my shoulders and back. Our legs are scissored; his thigh pressed against my erect cock, his erection pulsing against my hip as I balance on the desk. We have both become gentler, less frenzied, since his dominance here became clear to us; we are no longer battling to see who will lead in the dance.

I shift slightly—too much, it appears; I manage to knock over a pencil cup. We ignore the clatter, and the clutter on my desk, but although it has not ruined my mood, it has caused me to think. Do I really want to continue this here, among pens, pencils, paper clips, and stacks of files? Do I want to make love to this man next to the intercom that has disturbed many of my most serene moments with announcements that the Director wishes to speak to me? I am not a stranger to the office quickie, but that is not what I want from this man. We have already spent longer at the barest preliminaries than the time needed to finish a quick office fuck, or even two of them. And interruption that could ruin this mood could come at any time this miserable, wet afternoon. I seize his hands in mine, and force them away from me very gently, very regretfully. "Not here," I whisper to him softly. "Not now."

He is sensitive, this agent. I have known spent roses to hold themselves in one piece for longer than it takes Fox Mulder to wilt. He cannot be cast aside lightly. And I have no intention of doing so. However, he looks at me, chagrined. "I thought you wanted this." He hangs his head.

I am still seated on the desk, still holding his hands. I hold them more tightly now. "I do. As much as you do. But do you really want our first time to be here on the desk? Call me old-fashioned, but I'd rather we went someplace a little quieter and a lot more comfortable—like my place tonight, after dinner. Do you have a problem with that?"

He looks at me again, now thoughtful. He misses nothing. "Our first time?"

"We haven't done this before, Mulder, or else I've lost my memory. And you weren't planning to seduce your direct superior into a one-night stand, were you?"

Mulder smiles at me. No, he grins at me. It may be storming in the streets outside, but the sun blazes in here. "I didn't want to make any presumptions, Sir."

"Believe me, Agent Mulder, you have my permission to presume all you like." I draw him back to me, and, reaching up, draw his lips to mine. "Now, get back to your office, and try to convince Scully that you're thinking about work for a couple of hours. You have an appointment to meet me at four-thirty. Is that clear?"

He nods, his eyes alight with fire. "Yes, Sir. Perfectly clear." He picks up one of my sharpened pencils and aims at a ceiling tile. To my amusement and regret, it sticks. He smirks, the bastard. "See you at four-thirty." He is out of my office before I realize that he left his jacket here. I wonder what he'll tell Scully he did with his jacket.. I wonder how I'll get that pencil down from the ceiling. I wonder why I let that man drive me crazy like this. I wonder where we'll go for dinner. I wonder what kind of underwear he's got on. I intend to find out tonight. I wonder if it's love. I intend to find that out, too.

Pencils II: The Love Song of Walter S. Skinner

And indeed there will be time To wonder, 'Do I dare" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and to descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!") My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—(They will say: "But his arms and legs are thin!") Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

—T. S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

I wake with a start. It is far too bright in here, too much light streaming through the window. I have overslept. I never oversleep. But then, I am a methodical man, my habits well drilled into my brain, and I never fail to set my alarm clock each night. Except, it appears, for last night. And no wonder; the reason for my surprising negligence lies against me, his head on my chest, one arm draped over me, while my right arm is around him. Reality hits me in the stomach like one of his occasional demon-or-alien-inspired assaults on me; I am in bed with Fox Mulder.

Had I the slightest degree of sense, I would wake him, eject him from my apartment politely yet firmly, and forget that last night ever happened. Had I remotely the quantity of brains I was born with, I would make plans to reassign him somewhere I know I'd never see him again. The Reno office, or Frank Black's old desk in Seattle. Had I any reason, any sanity, I would get up, make coffee, and contemplate how to tell Fox Mulder that this could never happen again. I lack, however, all sense, sanity, or reason. I turn just slightly, very carefully, so as not to awaken the man asleep on me. He shifts incrementally but does not wake. Now I can reach my telephone. One of the perquisites of being a supervisor is that my sick days, few that I have, require no whining excuse. I have, however, not claimed a false sick day in years. I am about, I suppose, to break my record. Meanwhile, I ask Kimberly to tell Agent Scully that her partner called me last night and is tracking a lead up in Baltimore. Kimberly is an intelligent and agreeable woman. She also performs feats that my lover of last night should investigate—she reads my mind on a regular basis, as she is doing now. There is no other reason that she should tell me to congratulate Agent Mulder on having found what he was looking for. Or her advice that the endorphins generated from intimate contact, according to an article she's read, speed healing. Or that cheerful chuckle she gives me across the line. Fortunately, she is also fiercely loyal to me for no good reason. I would rather she were not so astute, but I know she'll say nothing.

The conversation has apparently wakened my sleeper, for a finger now idly traces around my nipple, still bruised and tender from his ministrations of last night. I become exquisitely aware of my own erection, and of his, now pressing into my thigh. I run my hand through the mass of tangled silk purporting to be his hair, and muse on the eternal mystery of the morning erection. Despite the regularity with which such erections appear, I am surprised that I have one. I dimly recall that last night I thought I might never be able to sustain another. It has been several years since I managed to have two orgasms in a fairly short span of time; obviously, I was inspired. The source of last night's inspiration begins to rouse himself, stretching comfortably against me and thrusting himself against my hip at a leisurely pace. How long has it been since I spent a weekday morning in bed making love? I cannot remember the last time I did this. I feel absolutely decadent. One night, Mulder, and this is what you do to me. Here I am, the stickler of the Bureau, calling in sick to spend the day in bed with you, lying to my secretary, lying to Scully on your behalf so you won't have to leave me, and most shamefully of all, refusing to feel the slightest guilt at my acts. I shall have to blame you for corrupting me; I was an innocent prior to this.

Yes, certainly, doubt my word. You may laugh, as you choose. I said only that I was formerly innocent, not that I was a virgin. The latter has been well out of the realm of possibility for over thirty years, ever since my second year on my high school's football team. I was referring, of course, to my previously incorruptible work ethic, now thrown out the window for good with the finding of this creature in my bed. I say "creature," not "man." Obviously Fox Mulder is a created being, as are we all. But just what type of being a Fox Mulder might be is a subject beyond my ken. I am not altogether convinced that my lover is an ordinary earthly human. At times, I suspect him of being a cat, and I whisper Blake's lines about the tiger under my breath. Right now, I see the cat. He stretches and moves against me with a feline grace, marking me as his possession. I cannot be his owner; a cat is incapable of being owned. Angels and demons, also, are created; God knows I have had ample opportunity to consider Fox Mulder to be both at various times. Of those two, right now I see neither. Last night was another matter entirely.

It rained yesterday. I had thought that the rain might continue forever. It has not done so; this morning is bright and sunny, enough so to make me wish that I could turn off the sun, which is too bright for my comfort. I turn away from the window, and towards Mulder. The view improves greatly with this shift in position; far preferable to obtain my sight of the light from the shine of his hair, the glow of his skin, than from my window. He is radiant, like the sun, but far safer to look upon, and, as far as that goes, much more aesthetically pleasing than a large ball of fire and heat. Mulder is fire and heat of his own, and I prefer his version of them to that provided by the star of this solar system. Here is the pole star I have found for myself; I find myself orienting towards him here, in bed, just as I did last night, just as I have done for so long at the office. I have fallen into his gravitational pull; I hope that he is satisfied with this accomplishment, though it is by no means his only one. I wonder: are you a sun, Mulder, radiating all of your passion, all of your energy, from within, or are you a moon, giving off reflected light? Do I see you for yourself, or am I seeing something else -perhaps myself, though I cannot credit it, reflected upon, and bouncing back from, you?

I was not raised in a wealthy family; I was taught to be sparing in my wants. Between my youth and the Marines, I have learned not only to make do with little, but to be satisfied with it. In this, however, I am not prepared to ignore my desires. I was offered freely yesterday the answer to the greatest longing I have had for years, and I accepted it. Too late to undo what I have already done, and am happy to have done; I accept my imbecility, and draw Mulder closer to my face. His mouth engulfs mine, those lush, beautiful lips pressing hard against me. My mind flashes back to what those lips proved themselves capable of doing to me last night, and my body responds in anticipation of an encore today. Tongue circles against tongue; hard body slides against hard body as hard cock thrusts against hard cock. It has been years since I have had the luxury of sharing my bed with another man and feeling this; my random encounters of late, quick and furtive, have not always made it to the point of disrobing completely. I have never felt any shame about my sexuality, but I take no pride in those encounters. Ever since my first whore in Vietnam I have known that sex without this close contact, sex without passion, reduces the fulfillment of orgasm to the physical relief of a sneeze. Last night, grappling on these sheets, burying myself in this man's body as he wrapped himself around me, was nothing remotely close to that sneeze I have felt all too often.

I break free from him and roll, pinning him down against the pillows. I want to drown myself in this man, and I want him in my mouth again, now. Why this need to take him this way, to feel his shaft pressing into my lips and against my tongue, to feel him spurting deep within my waiting mouth? It occurs to me that cannibal tribes consume parts of funerary victims in order to absorb the departed's virtues into themselves; am I trying, unconsciously, to absorb him in this same fashion by consuming his seed? He responds under my mouth like a violin to a bow; I can feel him demanding that I possess him this way. I can hear my former minister whisper the word "blasphemy" in my ear; there is something about the way that Mulder offers himself up to my mouth that recalls the institution, "take, eat; this is my body" to my mind, except that the offering seems to be for the remission of his sins, rather than of mine. What demons is my demon-lover of last night attempting to exorcize through me? What sins has he that he could believe me capable of absolving?

It is not as if I were free of demons myself; am I not the man who sold myself to the devil in place of this man, and is he not the one who, knowing of my blood-pact with the powers of evil, freed me of their grasp? Has he not already given me greater absolution by saving my life then than I can hope to give him here? Or has my lover, in his quest for his sister, ultimately taken on the sins of his father—whichever of the two candidates for his paternity that might be? Nonetheless, he seeks this gift from me; as with the sinning priest, I must believe that grace will allow the miracle to occur when the channel for its delivery is flawed. Very well, then, Mulder; if I can save you, let me. We are told that it is more blessed to give than to receive; whether that is true or not, the giving of this particular gift at least affords me the same degree of pleasure that its recipient is obviously enjoying. I have always been fond of performing oral sex; I enjoy the control I have over my partner's pleasure when I go down, whether on men or women. Most of my partners in recent years have performed upon me instead; my size and appearance probably tell them that I am a straight man looking for quick head. It's not as if I've even had a chance to know my partners; fast, anonymous sex doesn't encourage knowing someone well enough to know what they really want from the act.

Now, however, I know what both of us want; what, for our own reasons, we both need. I run my tongue along the underside of his erect shaft, along its ridge, while I gently manipulate him with one hand. I am delighted to feel, and to hear, his response to my touches; he is a vocal and enthusiastic bed partner. I run my free hand under the beautifully tight ass below me, and begin sliding a finger along their cleft. I run it further in, to the tight rosebud that was the source of my own pleasure last night, and am rewarded by feeling him buck sharply under me, and by his sudden near-gasp of excitement from the stimulation. I had never thought to ever see Fox Mulder let himself go completely before last night's lovemaking; to my surprise and my great joy, I discovered just how capable he is of letting himself give way to his own excitement. I have reached the age where these acts are meaningless to me if I cannot give pleasure as well as receive it; no wonder my chance encounters have left me so empty, and no wonder I find yesterday and this morning so overwhelming. I take him more deeply into my mouth and feel my own cock throbbing in response to his pleasure.

I glance at the clock. Fortunately, my neighbors all should have left for work by now. Potentially embarrassing enough that they probably heard us -particularly Mulder—last night; more of the same this morning would certainly convince them that their fellow resident is a sex maniac. It occurs to me that they may just have to become used to this sound, because I have been in Fox Mulder's apartment and I will be damned if I am going to spend the night with him there until the Department of Health vets the place. That apartment is more dangerous than the DMZ back in Nam, and I don't mean just the occasional electronic surveillance or drop-in assassins. Of course, those are annoying, too…I can appreciate the aesthetics of good erotic photography, but in Mulder's apartment one would be likely to become its subject rather than its viewer. I have no particular wish to make my passions a spectator activity. Unfortunately, we stand a good chance of that. Not from last night and today, I should think, but if we continue on this course. I have no desire to chart a different one, however.

My lover's breathing becomes ragged; I can feel him tensing under me, my mouth on him, finger firmly within him. He groans loudly—thank heavens he does not scream—and I feel, I taste, his explosions into my mouth. The taste is slightly bitter, somewhat less salt, with a vague tang; I am reminded of sea water. Did I say that I wanted to down myself in this man? What a way to go, Walter. He reaches down, pulling me up to meet him; those eyes are wide open now, hazel green, staring at me like twin pools of yet more liquid in which to drown myself. I have said it before; he is beautiful. Not handsome; I still find that description woefully inadequate. Though not in the least effeminate, he is in many ways remarkably feminine. The softness of skin, the fineness of feature, the turn of his lips; all would suit a woman as well as they suit him. Those lips. I return to them, pausing to nibble and suck at that lovely, full lower lip before covering both with my own. I can still taste him in my mouth, as I know he must taste himself when his tongue glides between my lips. This is the most intimate sharing I can imagine; if it is not a bonding between us, then nothing is. I can feel a damp, sticky small pearl of his semen at the corner of my mouth; he must see it, for he moves his lips to the side and begins kissing himself off of my face.

I stare at him, fascinated. He simply has no idea that he is stunning, and I see now, in the morning light in my bedroom, that after orgasm he is not only beautiful but nearly beatific. I realize that even if I had been more rational when I woke this morning, putting him out of my apartment would have been pointless. His conquering of me may be complete now, but it did not begin yesterday. It began the day I sold myself to the smoker so that he might not have to. I should have realized it the day he deliberately misidentified my gun, the day he bought me back from the smoker, knowing damn well what I had done, and why I had done it. Just as well that the smoker thinks that it was all about Scully; speaking of not needing to make my passions a spectator sport, I wonder what he would make of this. The thought of his potentially tame Assistant Director bedding the very man the smoker most wants to deceive, if not to destroy? I'm certain to hear about it someday, probably with accompanying photographic documentation. It occurs to me that I really do not care; after all, the bastard no longer owns me.

Mulder's hands, two exquisite torture devices salvaged from the Spanish Inquisition, objects of beauty capable of causing me eternal agonies of frustration if he so desires, slide down my chest and sides. I watch his hands trail down my body; those hands, incredibly strong but extraordinarily feminine, have always been objects of fascination for me. They are possessed of a surreal grace that is, wholly in itself, erotic. The thought of what he proved capable of doing with them last night is sufficient on its own to excite me; the rhythmic stroking he is beginning now, along with that recollection, are more than enough to push me over the edge without any other activity. I really want no other activity at the moment; I am still tired from the exertions of last night, truth to tell. I must be feeling my age; he is capable of doing that to me even without sex. In bed last night, his energy was overwhelming. I am nearly fifty; I may be in excellent physical shape for my age, but I am no match for his stamina. He is a swimmer and a runner, I a weight trainer; if I intend to maintain this relationship, I can see that I will be back into aerobic workouts. I don't think the Washington Post needs to report that an FBI Assistant Director has expired of either a heart attack or sheer sexual exhaustion in bed with one of his agents.

I was deep within this man last night; it is not that I do not wish to be there again, to feel that tightness, that heat, that sense of union, but I simply am not feeling up to such exertion again. I admit that I was overworking myself on first-encounter pyrotechnic efforts; after all, when the first encounter is planned to have repeat performances following it, you want to leave a good impression on your partner. I am not the sexual athlete I once was, or at least fancied myself to be. I presume that Mulder is not disappointed in my efforts; after all, he did stay here, when he easily could have left, and he is continuing our activity, when he could have decided to get up and suggest work, breakfast, or other noncoital proceedings. Ah, performance anxiety. I cannot imagine Mulder harboring any such thoughts. Somewhere between his attentions to me and my own musings on age and performance, a sigh escapes from me…not a moan, but a sigh.

"Walter…are you all right?" whispering in my ear.

"I'm very all right…I was thinking…."

"Shhh…don't…" He silences me with a deep, lingering kiss, his hands still at work on me. He is exceptional, his ability to feel the stages of my arousal nothing short of psychic. After only one night, he knows my body as surely as he knows his own, and he makes love to me with his hands as skillfully as another man might fine-tune a Stradivarius. These hands are knowing, strong yet gentle, and positively electrical. His touch on me completes a circuit; I swear that I can feel the charge running through me. His hands, like his voice, urge me to let go, to relinquish the control I always insist on having of any situation. His mouth seeks out mine again; he fastens his lips to mine as if he hopes to feed off of me. I should have known he would be like this in bed; as tenacious as he is at all other things which receive his focus, how could I expect less here? Now that I have come within his orbit, I receive the focus normally reserved by him for major phenomena such as rains of frogs or plagues of locusts. I laugh as it occurs to me that he might consider me an X-File. His eyes dart to mine, and he grins. If he does that too often, I could go blind. Trust him not to ask why I laughed; he seems quite taken with the idea that I am enjoying myself this much. I dimly recall a quote from Dorothy Sayers that the only sin passion can commit is to be joyless. I've had far too much experience of that; she was right. Damn the man, trust Mulder to know that quote, too. Another chuckle escapes me at my sheer annoyance with his literacy. He looks at me in wonder, his eyes soft but focused, a close-lipped smile on his face. I hear a faint sound that must be a chuckle of his own in the back of his throat. The smile turns into a momentary shit-eating grin before he kisses me again.

My own orgasm comes upon me suddenly, explosively. I have never had a hand-job do this to me before; of course, this is the first time that I have encountered this pair of hands, which have already proven themselves capable of other, similar miracles, so why not this one? Something tickles. Mulder the cat is back; he has decided to clean my ejaculations off of me by the simple expedient of licking his way up my stomach. Short, precise swipes of the tongue, not broad licks; had I not just come, the thought of what his evident oral skills could do to me would require an immediate demonstration. I relax against the pillows, fascinated by this sight. But then, everything about him has fascinated me since we met.

He makes his way back up to my side; I grab him, pull him to rest on my chest. I would happily stay like this all day, but we will undoubtedly have to get out of bed at some point. He turns his head; looks over at me, inquiringly. "I wasn't tickling, was I? You were laughing back there—what was so funny?"

I smile at him. "Nothing at all. I was just…enjoying myself tremendously."

"I'm glad." Do I need to put my glasses on? I could swear that he is blushing. Fox Mulder with sexual anxiety? I can hardly credit it. "I'm pretty sure it was Dorothy Sayers who -"

There. I knew it. I absolutely knew it. "It was Sayers. I was thinking the same thing myself. Quit babbling." I kiss him. And I chuckle again, realizing that I have finally found a way to shut Fox Mulder up. I'll just have to keep kissing him for a very long time if I want peace and quiet around here now, I suppose. That's not such a bad bargain, come to think of it.

III. Suppose Yourself Advancing—MJ

Finally, we have made it out of bed. Not that this is a good thing; it simply marks the passing of the day, which at some point will end. Fox Mulder will leave; I will get ready for tomorrow, at work, a day which will be made harder for me both by my absence from the office today and the mental absence I will surely have tomorrow. My body will be at work; my mind will undoubtedly be on last night and this morning. God. Work. How the hell are we going to handle this at the office? How the hell do we keep it from Scully? The woman could find one mouse hair in an entire room; how do you keep anything from her? I shall worry about that later. First I have to survive sending Mulder home and sleeping alone tonight, the first unpleasantness I will have to deal with. At least there is no immediate rush about that.

We have showered; I am making coffee. He has a towel wrapped round his waist, knotted loosely at the corner; his hair is damp, just beginning to dry, making him look much younger, like a naughty child who has been sent to shower before dinner. He looks young enough to make me feel like a cradle robber. The hell of it is that I am only—what, ten, maybe eleven years older than he is; it's strictly an illusion, and it stems from that Dennis-the-Menace look he has with the damp hair.

The coffee is ready; I pour two mugs and carry them into the living room, turning on the television. I can see him in the next room, my study, going through my bookshelves. He stands there, back towards me, fingering the spines of my collection. Those long, supple fingers, running up and down the leather-bound spines of my H. Rider Haggard novels. Damn it, I should not be getting off on watching a hand job, as it were, being performed on my books as opposed to being done on me. Ah, he has reached my Modern Library collection, mostly acquired during college. I still go back to them. Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, my third copy. I lost one, wore out the second. Cicero's Orations. The only copy I have owned, as I do not return to it on a regular basis. Aristotle's Politics. I pick Mulder for a Platonist; I must needle him sometime. People seem not to expect literacy in Marines; we have a stereotype for jarheads, strong backs, and weak brains. I was my high school valedictorian, however, before I enlisted; the G.I. Bill paid my way after I got out, to a college my family could never have afforded when I finished high school. If I had been like the rest of my class I would have wound up studying at the state university campus twenty miles from home. The Marines did a great deal for me other than nearly getting me killed.

Judging from where he is reaching, Mulder has found my Milton and Chaucer. I fell in love with The Canterbury Tales in eleventh grade. Evil thoughts are coming to mind. Mulder spent seven years at Oxford, and he has that perfect voice, damn it. Does he read poetry aloud? Can I get him to read poetry aloud? The thought of hearing Fox Mulder declaiming Chaucer in what I am willing to bet is a near-perfect Middle English pronunciation is sending chills up my spine. Besides, I would get to watch those lips move, especially that lower lip. I could live on that lower lip for a week. I must be a complete lunatic; what kind of idiot gets sexually aroused at the idea of hearing his lover read Chaucer? Maybe I could just drag him to bed with a bottle of brandy and a copy of John Donne's works. Now I know that I am going over the edge; who besides an English professor gets a fantasy like that?

He has pulled something down from the shelf; I cannot tell which book it is yet. Mulder is reading my shelves the way a bad guest reads your medicine cabinet. This snooping, however, I do not mind. Watching the way Mulder handles my books, eyeing them carefully, fondling the better covers, caressing them lightly with his fingers as he examines them, is both fascinating and arousing. He handles my books, I notice, much the same way he maneuvers in bed. My father always told me that you could judge a man by his books. I presume Mulder is taking my measure on the shelves; as a psychologist, he is probably trying to analyze me by author.

I cough slightly; he turns, and I indicate that the coffee is ready. He reshelves the book—one of my Faulkner novels, I think, comes into the living room, and sinks into the leather couch, apologizing for rummaging through my books. I invite him to read anything he wishes; aside from being a polite thing to say, it is, I realize, a vague step towards attempting to domesticate a wild feline into remaining on my premises as long as possible. He sips at the coffee, curling up against me on the couch; I picture a large Siamese chocolate point curling up on my lap. The effect upon me is much the same as if the Siamese were there; I find myself relaxing measurably, and reaching an arm around him to draw him to me, stroking his damp hair. The towel he had wrapped about himself has come loose and slides under him; he makes no effort to retrieve it, but stays pressed firmly against my robe.

We work on the coffee, silently. This is not because there is nothing to say, or because either of us is nervous now; I certainly am not uncomfortable with the prior proceedings. I simply am not by nature a talker, and Mulder, for all of his glibness, is as comfortable with silence as I. I find the lack of conversation comforting; the women I have known would all want to discuss the meaning of the encounter, future plans, and where we would go on our first vacation by this stage of events. It is, I suppose, one of the small pleasures of being with another man; I enjoy the predictability of silence, the lack of need to fill an empty space with sound.

What conclusions, I wonder, has Mulder drawn from a collection of Latin translations, English poets, and matched sets of adventure novels? My collections are gleaned from years of scouting used book shops, a hobby which used to drive Sharon crazy. He may have noticed my prize, an original printing of Whitman's "Leaves of Grass." It was an expensive gift to myself when I graduated from law school. I have a paperback of it that I actually read; the original is too fragile to be handled regularly. I have always admired Whitman. I am awed by his depictions of war, of the veterans, of Lincoln. It took me years to realize how much I appreciated his other merits; when I was in school, it was bad form to notice that Whitman was writing homosexual love poetry. If you read carefully enough to notice it and to ask, you would be lectured on Whitman's utter greatness, as if greatness were all that it takes to insulate a subject from its context. If Whitman is a great poet, that about him which you dislike cannot be possible, therefore you misread it. And Hemingway's greatness means that he could not have swallowed his gun, by the same logic.

I have been in Mulder's apartment, and I have seen his books; he keeps few, for such an obvious reader, but his apartment is small and quite cluttered enough already. I have never looked closely, since the few times I have been there have not been for anything permitting relaxation. The Poe and Blackwood I noticed were no surprise. Nonfiction—well, alleged nonfiction—on Ufology, on psychic phenomena. A book on Satanism, a couple of books by Aleister Crowley; if I did not know that he actually consults such things on cases, I would think he was having a Sixties flashback. Hans Holzer, of course, on everything about ghosts. Freud, Jung, and Carl Rogers, an abnormal psychology text, a biographical collection on serial killers. Some twentieth-century poetry. A few novels, very few. One or two H.P. Lovecraft books. Among the few modern novels, Lord of the Flies and John Knowles' A Separate Peace.

Those last two books I had chalked up to nostalgia for his days at Philips Exeter, or for some psychological glimpses into adolescent cruelty. Now I understand the reason for the Knowles. The book describes harassment, at what we used to call a prep school, of a fellow student perceived as being homosexual. I remember high school; you need only be slight, studious, and sensitive to be ridiculed for that, fact or not. Those words are almost certainly a picture of Mulder at that age. God, he must have gone through hell; I remember what we did to Matt Brady back in school for the same reasons. Matt was gay, as it turns out; I should know, since he gave a great blowjob, but I was guilty of being part of the crowd of jocks who practically killed the poor kid. If he survived college, I am sure he became to some other man what I see Mulder becoming to me. Thirty years later, I find myself ready to fall for an older model of the guy I took advantage of and nearly helped kill. I make a mental note. I will go to my next high school reunion, and if Matt is still alive and he is there, I am apologizing to him. I feel a need for forgiveness from him—if not for his benefit, then for mine, and for Mulder's.

Mulder has set his coffee mug back down on the table. He turns around to face me, twisting so that he now straddles my thighs. I reach into his hair and pull him down to meet me in a deep kiss. How unromantic—we both have our eyes open. I am not sure that it is the best idea to look directly into Mulder's eyes at this close range; the effect is much like being sucked into a whirlpool, and it is dizzying. The kiss is deep, gentle, and surprisingly unarousing; I do not think I could manage another erection right now if my life depended upon it. It is quite enough for me right now that I have him here with me at all; it is certainly more than I would ever have expected, or deserve. The kiss ends, eventually; our lips part, and he moves his head back, examining me thoughtfully. Apparently he approves; he is smiling, at least slightly. He would make an excellent secret weapon; the United States could send him into enemy territory and have him smile at people. Some would be blinded; others would almost certainly vaporize, if not melt. "Penny for your thoughts," he prompts.

Have I been looking that pensive? I was not aware of it. I shrug. "I was wondering how you were doing."

He grins. I hate to say that I wish he would not do so, but then, he is at close range right now, and I am the impact area. "Never better."

"Really? Are you ready to handle work tomorrow?"

That throws him. I see the look darkening his face for an instant. Mercifully, it passes, and he brightens again. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Scully's going to be a challenge, but I can deal with her. I mean, I know there's no place for this at work."

I nod in agreement. We both realize that work is not an area open for negotiation. "This doesn't mean that I'm not going to chew your ass off at work if you deserve it."

"Walter. I wouldn't expect anything else from you. I'd be disappointed if you thought I was looking for a free ride out of this."

I bite back a one-liner about riding. "You do realize this isn't going to be the easiest thing in the whole world. and I'm not the easiest person to deal with, either.

"To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose; Do you suppose you will find me your ideal? Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover? Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction? Do you think I am trusty and faithful? Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me? Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man? Have you no thought O dreamer that it may all be maya, illusion?"

I almost laugh at Mulder's expression. No, Fox Mulder is not the only person alive who quotes poetry. That has always been one of my favorite pieces of Whitman, and I had one of those old-fashioned English teachers who did indeed believe in having her students memorize poetry. I learned that poem to placate her many years ago, since she loved Whitman. I failed to realize at the time what the words really said; I cannot tell, to this day, if Mrs. Ingersoll overlooked Whitman's themes or if she really failed to recognize them. Certainly in those days she would not have been able to tell us about it if she did know what she was reading. If she had, would the Matt Bradys of the world have had an easier time of it or not? Returning to the amusing sight of Fox Mulder disconcerted, I see him shaking his head for a second as he thinks, apparently trying to dislodge a cobweb in his brain. Ah, recognition dawns. I knew he would have to recognize the poet, if not the poem. "Illusion? I don't know. right now, this is the only thing in my life that actually seems real."

My feelings are much the same, but I had not really expected either of us to articulate anything to that effect this soon; I hope that we both are cognizant of what we are getting ourselves into here. That was why I had tossed the Whitman at him. We have been through much together, Mulder and I, and more than once we have been forced to work at cross purposes. I have always wanted him to trust me, but there have been several times when he could not do so, and with reason. I fear that he may place too much faith in me right now; although I dislike believing that I would ever deliberately hurt him, outside of these walls I may find myself forced to do so professionally even as I have in the past. Love does not always preclude betrayal in our line of work. He knows that I will refuse to allow this relationship to affect my professional judgment; if he really understands that, I hope that he will understand this fact of our work as well.

He still straddles my thighs, leaning over me slightly. I lean back further on the couch, feeling like the Grand Pasha. I dimly expect some slaves to enter with peacock feather fans. Surely there ought to be a bowl of grapes out on the table. Yes, reclining on the couch while being fed grapes by a naked Fox Mulder would, I think, be the high point of almost any day. I suspect that I am better off not mentioning this to him, at least not yet. If I have not yet dragged him off with the poetry and the cognac, I had certainly better not reveal this particular fantasy yet. I have the horrid feeling that not only would he oblige me cheerfully, but that he has some crazed contact who furnishes Nubians with peacock fans for just such occasions. I really am not ready to find that out.

Reaching up with one arm, I pull him down against me again, and I grab an afghan that I had folded and tucked near a side pillow on the couch. Even if he is not freezing, I could be warmer; I shake out the folds and wrap the afghan around us. I suddenly long for a fireplace. A fireplace, a wood planking floor, a pile of quilts, a bottle of brandy, a pot of hot chocolate by the fire. my grandfather's cabin, if I am not mistaken. I used to sit near the fire, drink hot chocolate with brandy in it, and read. Poetry in the winter, adventure novels in the summer. I was too young then to wonder about bringing anyone there with me, or to realize that someday I would be living in a condominium—did I even know what a condominium was, back then?—and would crave the possibility of having a fireplace. I have never made love by the fire. I wonder if Mulder has. Would he enjoy that more than peeling grapes for me? Undoubtedly. I think that I had better save the fantasy about the Grand Pasha and the grapes for a later date. Much, much later.

I can feel Mulder doing something under the afghan. He seems to be working at unknotting the belt of my robe. He has gotten it open; I feel his skin against mine as he slides his arms around my waist. We only dragged ourselves out of bed an hour ago and here we are again, completely horizontal. Of course, we were not getting the maximal amount of sleep possible while in bed. which was partly due to my discovery of talents I had never known that Mulder possessed. I am extremely pleased to have had those talents put to work on my body. I will be even more pleased to have him continue to do so. His words of a few moments ago inspire a certain amount of confidence in the imminent likelihood of just such events. His lips seem to be trying to tell my neck the same information now, or so it feels. "Hey, Mulder, have pity on me; I'm an old man. I don't think I'm keeping up here."

"Sorry, Walter; no pity," he mumbles into my ear. "I think you're doing pretty well at getting things up, myself." His hand reaches down, and I realize that I am once again partly erect. How he does this to me, I do not know. "One more round?" he asks.

"Let's not rush it, okay?" If we rush this, I certainly will not be having another bout in the next few hours; I can tell that much. Maybe not in the next few days. "I'm not equipped to keep doing this any more."

He pouts; I can tell that he is teasing, but it is a pout nonetheless, that delicious lower lip of his sticking out at me like a six-year-old's protest. "You mean I can't play with your toy any more?"

I laugh. I cannot help it; Mulder is charming, silly, and, dare I say it, utterly adorable. "You can play all you want, but I need a rest in between. You're absolutely insatiable."

"I finally got what I want; I'm trying to make up for lost time." He kisses me again, running a hand along my thigh.

"You don't have to make all of that lost time up at once, you know," I reassure him.

"Do I take it that's an invitation to come back?"

"Fox Mulder, I'd like to find a way to keep you from leaving in the first place." I pull him down to my face and kiss him.

He smirks, the asshole. "Assistant Director Skinner, I believe that's classified as kidnapping in forty-nine states and two territories. I'd have to check on the statutes to be sure about Louisiana." He slides back down against me.

"And you have a problem with this, Agent Mulder?"

"Not at all, Sir. Not at all." He curls up against me under the afghan, arms sliding around me again. He must be more tired than he looks. I can see that I am going to have real trouble getting him out of here tonight. Not that I believe he would object if I asked him to leave. but I am not quite sure how I am going to do it. This is far too comfortable. Too much like a favorite pair of sneakers, or a particularly favorite book, like my Whitman. It is definitely time for us to take a nap. I can spring the Chaucer on him later, maybe when he and Scully get back from their trip to New Mexico. It crosses my thoughts that this may indeed all be maya, illusion. I am willing, however, to take that chance.

IV—You Close Against Me I was due home at seven, and you were staying downtown. We shared a premature glass of white wine. "I'll walk you downstairs."

"Sure." Out on the dim landing, you pushed the door shut behind us, one hand on the small of my back, then pushed me back against the wall hung with winter coats. I almost slipped in the half-dark; half-gasped as you unzipped my pants and tugged them down, silencing my exclamation with your tongue, your thigh opening mine. I grabbed your ass with one hand, hair with the other. You began stroking my belly, but I pulled you close against me, covering what you'd exposed.

—from "Then," by Marilyn Hacker

Dana Scully is a forensic medical expert. She is used to studying things under her microscope. That is where I feel as if I am right now. I suppose I have nothing but my own secrets to blame for that. She sits across my desk from me, beside her partner, Fox Mulder. To the best of my knowledge and belief, she has no reason to know or to suppose that her partner and I have spent the better part of the last thirty-six hours or so forming Shakespeare's aptly phrased "beast with two backs." However, I have learned never to believe anything to be beyond the deductive abilities of this woman, and so I must presume that she will discover this fact eventually.

Beside the good doctor is her partner, who looks as if he managed to get a few hours' sleep last night. I was going to push him out the door before bed last night; instead, he wound up getting up early enough this morning to make it back to his apartment to change clothes. I will have to suggest that he bring a change of clothing with him when he comes over tonight. They are leaving for New Mexico tomorrow on assignment; we are discussing the travel arrangements now. I need to coordinate their reception by the local Bureau agents and by the local authorities; it is a good question as to which will be more hostile to their arrival. They will be gone for about five days, including the weekend. I dislike the schedule, but it cannot be helped; however, I am anxious for a weekend alone with this man.

Details; bureaucratic paperwork that cannot be avoided. Bureaucracy exists, so far as I can tell, for the sheer joy of creating paperwork. I have met some of the old Bureau veterans; they tell me that in "the old days"—an era which differs depending on the age of the veteran—none of this existed. Most of my management training here consisted of learning the paperwork navigation. I thank the Lord that I took a few business management classes in college; otherwise I would be at a loss for much of the real management work that I do here. Anywhere else, a business trip merely would require asking the secretary to call the travel agent. Here, authorizations up the ladder are required; the interoffice and interagency negotiations alone require State Department intervention to avoid bloodshed. In the government, nothing is simple.

I find it virtually impossible to keep my mind focused on the details right now. So many things are so much more interesting than the trip these two are planning. I find that the bridge of Mulder's nose possesses an extreme charm in comparison to the "which airline" debate that so often arises in these discussions. The base of his neck, well covered by his shirt, is equally fascinating; I learned that last night. Other parts of Mulder's body are of equal or greater interest, so far as that goes, and most of them are concealed under his navy suit and pale blue button-down shirt. However, I have not the opportunity to explore those areas right away, and in front of Scully I had best not look as if I might choose to do that exploring.

I can feel myself under scrutiny as we speak; not by her, but by the man beside her, my lover. Lover—a fascinating term, that. It tends to suggest middle-aged married women who are having affairs with the club tennis pro. It has a certain flavor to it of something not altogether savory, something on the furtive side of things. Almost diametrically opposed to the way I see Fox Mulder, or the way I would like to see this relationship go. I hardly expect that we would be welcome as a couple at the Director's dinners under the best of circumstances, but there is still a world of difference between needing to keep a relationship low-profile, on the one hand, and being ashamed of, or embarrassed by it, on the other.

Regarding the scrutiny, there is, unfortunately, nothing I can reasonably do. He looks, not unnaturally, as if he wants some sort of reassurance about the past two nights, some signal that the line I am drawing in the sand about their travel agenda has nothing to do with the two of us. He knows as well as I do that there is no personal motivation here, that this is strictly business, but I cannot blame him for feeling that need, any more than I blame myself for wishing that I could give that assurance to him right now. The knowledge that our personal lives do not belong in the office fails to make this sort of moment any easier, and it is the first moment involving that dichotomy that we have had. Undoubtedly, there will be many others.

Watching him makes me want to bite my lip, to jab my fingernails into my palms as I make fists, to create some kind of sharp, sudden physical pain that will distract me from wanting to give this man the response he evidently craves. Were we in an established relationship it would be another matter, but we have shared a bed for exactly two nights; no wonder the professional debate we are having is personally unsettling to him. He has as yet no proof of my honesty when I tell him that I have no intention of anything but a long-term relationship. Watching him now also makes me think of my watching him these past two nights, and yesterday morning, and yesterday afternoon.

Mulder-watching, of course, has been a hobby of mine for years. In the past few days, however, it has taken on a new, and highly pleasurable, dimension. Perhaps the most beautiful sight I have ever encountered was that of Mulder after our first bout the other night. I was in bed, working through post coital afterglow and almost wishing that I had not given up cigarettes ten years ago. I had him in my arms. Exhausted, sated, hair falling in his face, eyes glowing green in the dim light, hands drifting lazily over my arms; I could have looked at him forever. Reaching down to my groin, stroking me gently, trying to coax a second erection from me with those long, delicate, incredibly skilled fingers. It had been a few years since I had even bothered worrying about two orgasms in one night; now Mulder was trying to work a second one out of me, and succeeding, in less than an hour. Either my recuperative powers had improved tremendously, or the man has the ability to raise the dead. I would opt for the latter, and cheerfully. He had better not demonstrate that ability on anyone else…although I am not sure if it is time to tell him that yet. Demanding a commitment this early seems too risky.

"Sir?" Scully is staring at me. I only hope that I was not drilling holes into Mulder's skull with my eyes just now, although I do not believe that I was, and I am sure that he would be smirking at me if Scully had caught me doing that.

"Sorry, Scully. I'm a bit distracted. I apologize. Go ahead."

Running my hands down that swimmer's back of his, working my way into kneading and stroking that incredibly tight ass. Hearing him moaning inarticulately into the pillow as I felt gently to see if we needed more lube the second time, sliding one, then two, fingers deep within him once again, and reaching up inside for the prostate. I first learned about that in Japan, on vacation between tours in Nam. A buddy of mine introduced me to a house in Tokyo. The girl there slid a finger into me while I was plowing her, and I thought that I was going to black out for a second. Mulder responded to my fingers the way desert plants respond to a thunderstorm.

Flight arrangements? Damn the flight arrangements; I want to tear up that damned 302 and burn it. Coordinating with other agencies? I could not care less about the New Mexico State Police. I want Fox Mulder exactly where the man belongs, in bed with me, for the next five days, not traipsing off to New Mexico after some damned serial murderer of some sort hiding out in a pile of boulders. Not going off on another hare-brained scheme likely to have him in the hospital for overnight observation. Not going most of the way across the country and limiting my contact with him to expensive motel telephone calls that cannot substitute for the feeling of his skin pressing against mine. Not limiting my sight of him for the next week to my own visual memories. Not leaving me at home at night, jacking myself off because I am desperate with missing him. Lord, tell me that sending him off on the job is going to get easier for me after we have been together for a while, because otherwise I will find myself either sending him to a desk job or firing him and keeping him locked in my apartment.

"Sir? Are you sure you're feeling well?" Scully looks concerned. My mind must have been drifting again, away from a discussion of the facts in the case file and on to more promising topics.

"Yes, Agent Scully; thanks. I'm afraid that I am very distracted by something else right now, and it keeps intruding while we're talking." Scully nods sagely. Heaven knows what she thinks is pressing on my mind; a meeting with the black-lunged bastard? A meeting with the Director? Surely not a reminiscence of Mulder's beautiful face, distorted by passion, as I thrust into him for the second time that night; surely not the thought of hearing him moaning my name as we made love again. Walter Skinner has never thought about anything at the office that is not work-related; Scully knows that, certainly. It is utterly impossible that I should be recalling her partner clutching me hard enough to bruise, biting my neck, when he came, or that I am picturing his collapsing against the pillows, his breathing ragged, eyes unfocused, afterwards.

I wish that I were able to tell this to Mulder now, to let him know that I am obsessed with him, that I can think of little but him, or of us, right now. Is it ridiculous for a man of my age to be giving himself up to an infatuation this way? I have been married, have had any number of women—of men, for that matter, as well. I have been in love, or thought that I was, at least three times in my life; one of those, of course, was Sharon. Yet I am not accustomed to being unable to focus on other matters; I am not accustomed to having thoughts of my lover completely take over my mind. I am not accustomed to not being absolutely in control of myself…or of my relationship. I have always demanded dominance in my relationships; I have always had a need to be the one in charge. Even at this early stage, I have ceded more power to Mulder than I have ever given to another partner. To try to control Fox Mulder is like trying to control a force of nature; it is not possible. Surely I should know that from my supervising him.

I look back at Mulder. His face is settled, but his eyes are searching my face. As I address several questions to him on his planned investigation, questions which are really all but meaningless to me, I allow our eyes to lock. Can you see me, Mulder? Can you look into my eyes while we talk and tell what I am thinking? Can you see that my poking holes into your first proposed theory on this case has nothing to do with us? You told me yesterday that you expected this, that you wanted nothing less, no favors; I am forcing you to live with the consequences of your decision. It is my job to do this. It is my job to send you into danger, as well; can you see how much it hurts me to do that now that we are together?

I break the stare. I am not able to look into those eyes for this long without feeling drawn into them; I pray silently that my last few statements were cogent. I am not altogether sure that I was thinking, although Scully is not displaying any new signs of alarm or showing fear that I am having a stroke. Mulder raises one eyebrow almost imperceptibly and gives me the very slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps my gaze has satisfied him as to my feelings at the moment; perhaps he was indeed able to see the message that I sent him mentally as we spoke. I feel as if I had just engaged in a staring contest with a cat and lost. If Mulder were one trace more feline, and probably no more feral, he would be washing his whiskers with satisfaction at having won. It is not the first time that Mulder has defeated me in my own office; two days ago he completely vanquished me while sitting in that chair, when I finally gave in and asked him to meet me for dinner. This may be the first time in my life that I can recall enjoying losing any of my battles.

We are firming up last minute minutiae, or at least I think that is what we are doing. I am signing paperwork with my right hand, listening with one ear to Scully discussing an autopsy report from one of the murders, watching Mulder out of the corner of my eye, and feeling the vaguest stirrings of an erection from another stray thought of Mulder in bed with me last night. If I were a computer, I would be multi-tasking, I suppose; welcome to the world of high technology, Walter.

What a stray thought, at that. Those hands of his pulling me over and on top of him, urging me to take him then and hang the preliminaries. Long legs with incredibly powerful thighs wrapping around me, keeping me in place. My fingers, lubed, and then my erection—amazing that I could still maintain one after all of our previous exertions of the night before and of that morning -entering him, working their way into that tight, incredibly hot ass of his. Feeling him clenching at me, as if to milk me dry. That "oh…God…Walter!" in my ear, probably loud enough to alert the neighbors, as if I could have cared at the time. His fingers clutching at me, leaving a bruise on my left forearm that is still there now; he kissed it "to make it better" this morning before he left. It may still show if I roll up my sleeve, but at least the dull pain has finally left from where his fingers had managed to enter into a muscle separation.

If I scribble out a "to do" list, Scully might think that I am making notes. I certainly have enough to remember to do today. Get a spare door key cut. Buy a second toothbrush, and pick up extra razors. He cannot believe that I use shaving soap and a brush; I suppose I had better purchase shaving cream. Condoms—what size box? A large box is optimistic…but I wonder if we will continue to need them. Talk about delicate questions; a large box may suggest a great deal of planned activity, but it should be unnecessary if neither of us is seeing anyone else. Back to the commitment discussion problem. I guess that the twelve-pack is the safest bet right now. Oh, yes. Stop at the Safeway and pick up a bag of sunflower seeds.

Am I being overambitious?

No. Being overambitious would mean clearing out closet and drawer space for him in the bedroom already. I am not nearly that far gone; I intend to wait at least two weeks before I suggest he leave a suit and running gear at my place. All right, three weeks. I would not want to create a mistaken impression that I am anxious.

Enough of this. I put the pen down, dismiss the two of them. Get Scully out before she drags me to the doctor; get Mulder out before I make a fool of myself in front of Scully, as if I have not done so already. They rise. Scully looks straight at me. "Sir. Whatever the problem is, I hope we'll find you feeling better when we get back."

"Thank you, Agent Scully."

They are at the door of my office. Mulder waits as usual for the lady to leave first. Then he turns, the door still open. "A word with you, Director Skinner?"

"Certainly, Agent Mulder." He waves to Scully, then shuts the door. I notice him twisting the knob; yes, he has locked it. I really am not surprised; I expected, I suppose, to be alone with him at some point today. "What can I do for you?"

He advances gracefully, coming around my desk and perching himself on the edge, near my chair, his leg dangling near my arm. "Hmmm…nothing we haven't done already, Walter." He smiles. I wish that the lights were dimmer; if he does this too often I will be buying tinted lenses for my glasses. "I thought I'd check, though. Scully thinks you aren't feeling well."

"You may assure Agent Scully that I have never felt better in my life."

"Taking Geritol, are we?" he laughs. I will kill him for that. Later. Maybe after dinner.

"I'm going to need Geritol if you expect me to repeat the last two days on a regular basis. I'd better make a note to buy ginseng." I grab a pen and my new "to do" list. While I am at the drugstore, buy ginseng. I will need something if we are going to continue at this pace.

Mulder grins at me broadly. "Hey, you'd better get in shape, then. I have sexual marathons on a regular basis, I'll have you know. Every time I go out with tall men named Walter who used to be Marines, I become completely uncontrollable."

"If that's what happens when we go out, maybe we should stay in."

"No. That's worse. When I'm alone with tall ex-Marines named Walter, I become fatally ill if they don't sweep me off my feet and make love to me until I scream." He reaches over, sliding a hand along the side of my face.

I catch his hand in mine, kiss the fingers quickly, and squeeze. "About tonight, though. Why don't you bring a change of clothes and your suitcase? You may as well leave for the airport from my place in the morning instead of getting up early and backtracking."

He slides his hand free from mine and nods. "I'll do that. Look, I'd better get back to my office before Scully starts thinking you've decided to ream her section chief a new asshole."

It must be my turn to grin. "Sorry to spoil the surprise, but I was planning that for tonight."

"Hmmm…could be interesting." He rises, kisses my forehead, heads for the door. "Your place, sevenish?"

I nod. He opens the door, exits. I watch the door close behind him. I can still feel the heat on my forehead where he kissed me, as surely as if he had branded me. Seven o'clock, he said. Eight hours. Better than five days, starting tomorrow…I wonder if we should just eat in. I wonder what I should pick up at the Safeway. I wonder if he likes beef Stroganoff. I wonder if I should name what I feel. I wonder when I should tell him.

A "Pencils" Interlude… (after "Pencils" IV)

There is a certain peace to having the apartment to myself this dark, wet Friday night. I pour a hefty Scotch on the rocks, and I browse gingerly through the humidor Sharon bought for my birthday several years ago. A Nat Sherman with a maduro wrapper beckons. The occasional outrageously expensive cigar, my one real claim to frivolity. Drink, cigar, armchair. What is missing? Music. I eyeball my compact disc collection. Jazz, I think; definitely jazz. The rain outside makes jazz or blues a necessity this evening—maybe the Paul Butterfield Blues Band? What remains? My book. A quiet evening at home, with my favorite accompaniments. Hmmm…a stormy Friday night, black outside, lightning flashing over the Potomac. The Universe demands a murder tonight, at least as my reading fare.

My secret weakness, the detective novel. Talk about a busman's holiday—an FBI Assistant Director reading murder mysteries. I avoid police procedurals, however, and anything involving lawyer-detectives; I cannot enjoy what I feel the urge to correct. Ever since I entered law school at Northwestern I have lost the taste for fictional lawyers; Quantico did in my taste for fictional law enforcement officers. I like private detectives. Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, their ilk. Tonight—thank God that Mulder is away in New Mexico—I hear the siren song of an old Mickey Spillane novel.

Mickey Spillane? Yeah, Mike Hammer. Thugs, guns, booze, dames. The sound of Henry Mancini playing "Peter Gunn" in the back of your head. I can imagine Mulder's sneer now. He should talk; I have a lover with a subscription to "Adult Video News." Compared to that, this should win the Nobel Prize for literature. Besides, a good thunderstorm demands corpses with improbable means of death. And to think that Mulder has never understood my fascination with his X Files division and supported it as I have. How much closer can a man get to having real-life locked-room mysteries happening around him?

I ease into the chair, set down the Scotch, trim the cigar. Finding the lighter, I fire it up. Scotch and a good cigar; small proofs given to us to remind us that God does indeed love mankind. I pick up the Mike Hammer, stroking the worn dust jacket.

Ah. Trenchcoat. Fedora. Half-cleaned revolver. A bottle of bourbon in the desk drawer, a glass of it, neat, on the desk. Feet up on the desk with the paper, chain smoking, swilling straight bourbon at ten-thirty in the morning to kill last night's hangover pain. A red dress, seamed stockings, and a mug of coffee-my devoted receptionist, Kimberly. "You don't look so good, Walt."

"I don't feel so good, either," I moan.

She plunks the coffee mug on my battered desk. "Let me get you a couple aspirin, Walt. You better pull yourself together, you got a client at eleven." I hear her chewing gum snap.

"Huh?"

Kimberly pulls the racing results out of my hands, replacing them with the front page of the paper, which I had barely noticed. A headline blares across the front page: "Russian Spy Found Dead In Society Shrink's Apartment." Some Commie bastard named Krycek found with a bullet through his head. His boyfriend, some tony shrink who does expert witness testimony for high-price defense attorneys, got back from a meeting in San Diego and found lover boy's brains smeared from his door to his fish tank. The cops bought the headshrinker's alibi, and why not? After all, seven hundred licensed psychologists were listening to his forensic psychology schtick at the time sweetiepie got blown away. Kimberly looks at me sourly. "Get your shit together, Walt. This Mulder guy, the shrink, he thinks the cops aren't doing their job either because the dearly departed is a fruit or because he's a national security problem; either way he thinks they're just happy the rat got his head blown off. So he called and he's here at eleven. And he can pay." She cracks her gum at me pointedly. Mustn't lose a paying customer.

I get up. I figure it might be time to take off the trenchcoat and the hat; I toss them on my coatrack, out of my way. After this success, I stumble for the office john. Wash the face. Straighten the tie. Eye drops; get out the traces of last night's binge with some old Marine buddies. Gargle; get the taste of bourbon out of my mouth, the smell off of my breath. More aspirin; two could hardly be enough. Gulp the coffee; beg Kimberly to bring more.

Put away the gun, the bourbon, the racing card from the Downs; yesterday's sandwich wrapper in the trash. Hide my bookie's phone number. There, that looks a little more respectable. Finally, my appointment. In comes the deceased's boyfriend, Mister?—Doctor?—Mulder. Not exactly what I pictured, I admit. The money from the depressed doctors' wives and fat cat defense attorneys shows: Armani suit, Bruno Magli loafers, pricey silk tie, might be a Ferragamo. That much I could have figured. What I didn't figure on was what kind of present came under the fancy wrapping paper. No wonder the Commie liked this side of the Atlantic so much. Tall. Slender. Hazel eyes, nearly green, looking straight through me, sizing me up. I'm distracted by the picture enough to worry if he likes what he sees. The kind of pouting lips that scream "kiss me" to a man from a block and a half away. Is it hot in this office or is it just me? Hair like huge hanks of brown silk waiting for some big, strong, macho type to brush them back into place from his forehead. I run my left hand under my collar quickly while I hold the right hand out for a handshake. Oh, God, those hands. Long, tapering, graceful fingers; incredible strength in the grip. The kind of grip you want to feel from a man who's pulling you down on top of him, moaning in your ear, begging you to take him then, on the spot.

He keeps that grip on my hand a little too long. Those pools of hazel light meet my eyes, and stay connected to mine way too long. I know what I saw in the headshrinker here, what his late Russian buddy must have seen in him, but why the grieving widower here is displaying every sign of wanting to dance the horizontal tango on my desk right now is beyond me. "How do you do, Doctor Mulder?"

"I'm…fine. A bit shaken up, naturally, but fine. I've heard good things about you. I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Please sit down." I indicated a chair across my desk from me. "Who did you talk to, if I may ask?"

He seats himself gracefully in the chair. I sink down into my chair, my feet on the floor this time. "Sergeant Pendrell mentioned your name while the police were in my apartment, and a friend of mine, a Doctor Dana Scully, recommended you, said you'd done some work for her.

I remember the Scully case. A kidnapped purebred Pomeranian, being held for ransom. The slimeball who had it threatened to eat the poor pooch's liver sauteed with onions if she didn't pay up. "Sure I remember Doc Scully. Quite a dame there. One hell of a coroner."

"She sure is. She's a pretty tough cookie." That puts it mildly. The woman could rip the balls off of a charging rhinoceros and not even chip her nail polish. "She said that if anyone could find out who killed Alex, you could."

"You think the cops are shafting you?"

"Look, I'm just lucky they haven't hauled me in for it. Seven hundred witnesses and a flight manifest and Detective Blevins still wanted to write it up as a domestic quarrel—okay? The cops don't give a crap when some queer gets murdered, Skinner, and you know it. Besides…Alex was in the type of work that makes people not like you very much. International espionage doesn't win you a lot of close friends, and the government likes you better when you're gone."

"If you don't mind my asking, Doctor Mulder, how did you wind up shacking with a Russian agent?"

"He was a patient of mine for a while. You'll understand I can't tell you what he was in therapy for. I started seeing him after his discharge from therapy."

"Any idea who'd want him dead?"

"Yes. Rather a number of people, I suppose, but definitely some government types. There's one man—I don't know his name, but he's tall, gray hair, older—late fifties, early sixties, maybe…chain smokes. I think he's a fed of some kind. A contact of Alex's. He used to tail Alex occasionally…he's followed me a few times, too. Alex seemed to know what it was about but he never told me."

"You'll pardon my saying so, but you don't seem too bent out of shape about losing your boyfriend, doc. You want to find out who did it…but you don't seem too broken up. What's your deal?"

The good doctor leans back in his chair, crosses his legs. He smirks at me, nods, as if acknowledging a score against him. "The deal, Skinner, is South African gold. Krugerrands. Alex and I didn't have a lot in common, and his charm wore off fast, but I wasn't going to ditch a man who was getting paid off in South African gold coin that he wasn't spending. Alex had a coded document with the locations of his stash. Half of it is missing; it's been torn up. I think that whoever shot him was fighting with him for that paper. If I can find that gold, Mister Skinner, I'll be a very rich man. And you'll be very, very well paid." Light but smoky voice, curling around my ears, dangling promises seductively as he smiles at me.

"My usual rate is two-fifty a day plus expenses. Are you talking doing better than that?"

"Considerably better, Mister Skinner. I wouldn't want you to divert your talents anywhere else while you're on this matter…I think that you'll discover I can be…very appreciative. To the right man, that is. You are the right man for this, aren't you, Mister Skinner?" He rises, extends an elegant hand towards me again, staring straight through me. The smile is blinding. No, I can't be mistaken, he's giving me the come-on. And is it ever working. My cock is throbbing like a damned jackhammer; to hell with the Krugerrands, I'll settle for a roll with the guy trying to claim them. He lets go, finally, reaches over, runs a finger along the side of my face. "Your girl has my number. Call me later. I can give you the details…over dinner?" He turns. I get the full rear view of that body, with an ass that won't quit, the type a man wants to bury himself in up to the hilt, and I watch it slip out of my office.

Something tells me I'm being a patsy. Something—call it a hunch, call it intuition, call it the voice of experience. But it wants me to stay away from that walking sex trap. On the other hand, my body tells me that I need to cooperate with the good doctor in every way possible. What the fuck am I doing? I slump in my chair, and pull the bourbon back from the desk drawer.

The telephone rings. I reach over, shoulder it, put the drink down. "Skinner."

"Hello, handsome. What are you wearing?"

"Armor, Mulder. Fifteenth-century battle armor."

"Oooh…I love a man in chain mail, Walter. So what are you doing?"

"Nothing much, just a little reading. So I am. And Mickey Spillane never read better in my whole life. I might even turn the first page before bed.

V. More than Kisses, Letters By MJ

I flip the light switch and ease myself behind my desk. Monday morning. Five days since I last saw him, since we last woke up together. We have run up telephone bills I do not care to think about, especially since I know that I will be expected to sign off on his motel telephone expenses when he submits his vouchers. He has also sent me letters; he took his laptop along, and seems to have spent all idle time e-mailing me everything from case updates to obscene emoticons. I should object to the flooding of my mailbox with idiotic romantic spam, I am certain. However, I do not. I boot up my office computer, preparing to discover just what Mulder has done to amuse himself in New Mexico since our last contact. He woke me up with a telephone call this morning five minutes before my alarm would have rung.

I open my e-mail box. [email protected] seems to have been busy during his bout of insomnia last night. A forward on the JFK assassination. A list of redneck computer terms, also forwarded. A real letter? Hmm. This, perhaps, might actually be worth my while to read. I wonder what he has sent me. I click on the entry.

"Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls; For, thus friends absent speak. This ease controls The tediousness of my life: but for these I could ideate nothing, which could please, But I should wither in one day, and pass To a bottle of hay, that am a lock of grass.

"I hope you like Donne, Walter; I thought I saw a copy on your shelves. New Mexico has been death by slow boredom, as you've no doubt gathered. Sand, scorpions, and saguaro do not an X-File make, not when the serial killer turns out to be teenage wannabee Satanists stoned on crack. Even Scully thought there was more to this than what we've found, as I dimly think I may have told you already. There is absolutely nothing to do in this frigging town. You wouldn't believe what time the bars lock up around here, what few bars there are. The real X-File is that a place this dull can still exist.

"I don't know what you think I do with my spare time when I travel for work. To some degree, yes, it depends where I am. Albuquerque would be a far cry from this sand trap. Mostly, however, I hole up in my room and I write, or I read, or I watch the tube. This trip, I've been finding myself living on the telephone and, as far as the writing goes, flooding you with e-mail. Sorry for all of the e-mail. It's a sanity thing. Not only do I have to deal with the usual nothing-to-do tedium now; I also have to deal with something entirely new for me—missing someone. Since I travel with Scully, I'm never out of reach of my best friend, so I've never been lonely on any of our field investigations. Now I'm travelling with the proverbial best friend, but there's still someone missing.

"I've got a fucking king-size bed in this room, Walter. It's big enough for the whole damned Sixth Army; it's certainly the right size for the two of us. I'm sleeping in it alone (hell, you didn't think I had Scully in here with me, did you? I'm sure you used to wonder about that…); I practically need sherpas to help me find my way to the edge of the bed. It would be a hell of a lot more comfortable with you in it. I'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable with you in it with me, preferably fucking my brains out. Are you reading this at work, hot stuff? I'll bet you're scared to death you'll just get to the good part when Kim walks in. Or Cancerman shows up with a job order for you. Or the Director walks in—just when you get to my play-by-play description of the blowjob I'm giving you when I get home tonight.

"I realized something last night. I always wake up with nightmares. Always. Who the hell else has had PTSD since they were twelve? Do you realize that last week when we were together, I didn't wake up once with one of my nightmares? I didn't even notice that I wasn't having them. That's your doing, you know. It's been years since anything kept the nightmares away, Walter. You do it, though. They can't get past you. Yes, I know who you do business with. And I know what you've done as part of that business. And I know it's not necessarily a closed matter even now. I'm not suggesting you're a saint by a longshot. I'm no saint either. The nightmares stay away when you're with me anyway. Don't ask me why.

"I'll be back this evening, as scheduled, unless something totally unforeseen intervenes. Should something totally unforeseen intervene I will be back this evening anyway. I'll take your word from this morning that you want me to catch a cab to your place this evening. I do have the key. In case you can't tell…I miss you.

"Mulder

"P.S.—Send me some token, that my hope may live, Or that my easeless thoughts may sleep and rest—In other words, I'll be checking my mail today, Walter."

I must confess that I would far rather have him in bed with me reading me Donne than reading Donne in an e-mail from him, but beggars and Assistant Directors cannot, as the saying ought to go, be choosers. Meanwhile, a challenge has been issued that cannot be met by a cursory description of what I did last night and the suggestion that I would have enjoyed myself more were he present. He must know that I hate writing letters. However, I have been sent a letter dripping with Donne and the promise of an evening of making up for our lost time over these five days, so I must bite the bullet and reply.

"To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Topic: Checking Your Mail

"Received your letter of this morning, hard on the heels of your telephone call of this morning, accompanied by several forwards of other correspondence of this morning. If I knew no better I would demand a cease-and-desist to your spamming my mailbox. However, I am inclined to let the matter slide this time.

"I sincerely hope that you have learned a lesson from this investigation: the mere fact that I may approve a 302 does not mean that you would not be better off remaining in the District. Allow me to point out that you have lost an entire weekend during which you could have had the pleasure of committing sexual acts that are still punishable by death in assorted third-world countries. Repeatedly, with occasional breaks for sleeping in my king-size bed, with me. Contrast that with your current state of affairs, Mulder.

"I should also point out that you neglected to provide me with the detailed blowjob description intended to send me into early retirement form the Bureau. I expect agents under my command to provide accurate, detailed reports, not this kind of halfassed partial reference. Further mail of this caliber will no doubt cause me to be forced to subject you to disciplinary action. And quit looking so enthused at the prospect—whips and chains are not my speed.

"Yes, of course I like Donne. I am very partial to Donne. However, my facility with spouting quotations at the drop of a hat fails to rival yours, and so I do not respond in kind. I do not keep the Oxford Anthology of English Verse on my desk. If you insist upon quoting Donne to me on a regular basis, however, I propose that you try it in bed, where I would be able to respond enthusiastically, though not in verse. You might care to try it this evening to see if it soothes your AD's urge to discipline you for failure to send in a full report.

"Skinner"

I glance at my watch. I have time to finish this abominable mountain of paperwork before I deal with Agents Esteban and Vincent. I am not even sure why I have to meet with Esteban and Vincent. Opening the first file folder which Kimberly has placed squarely in the middle of my desk, I begin to fight the ever-escalating paper war. I thought that computers were supposed to replace paper, but all that they seem to have done here is cause duplication of effort while the paperwork continues to mount. I finish a memo I had left from Friday. My computer chimes annoyingly. I check it, since that sound indicates a message.

"To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Disciplinary Actions et al.

"Walter, you naughty boy. No whips and chains? I'm disappointed…but the handcuffs on the bedpost will do nicely. <g> Donne in bed? I never pegged you for a romantic. However, I will be happy to oblige. I'll quote the Donne, you bring the champagne. I like Perrier-Jouet myself but buy whatever you like. I refuse to recite Donne in bed with you the first time without champagne; something about it wouldn't seem right. I can't imagine any of the courtier poets in bed without champagne.

"I hope that your claims of frustration with my travel don't cause you to force me into a desk job yet. The job description is field agent, remember? However, I'd rather be in your bed than the one I just vacated this morning. Am at the state police barracks finishing up paperwork and reports before leaving this godforsaken place, never, I hope, to return. Scully is staring at me strangely. I think she thinks I've lost my mind. I doubt that, but I have misplaced it; I think I left it with you. After all, my thoughts are with you, so my mind must be there as well. Refute that logic if you can.

"We fly out of here in an hour and a half. I hate these fucking toy-plane size charter flights. You think you're going to crash every time there's a breeze. Did I mention takeoffs and landings? I'm not sure which is harder on my ass, and if my ass is going to get pounded—well, I'd like to keep that your department, Walter.

"Anyway, home tonight, thank God. Barring the unforeseen, I plan to arrive on your doorstep at 10:30 at the latest. If I could get back sooner, I would…

"Mulder"

Ten-thirty. I look at my watch again, this time calculating. Twelve and a half hours. I suppose that I should stop at the store on the way home; takeout from the deli counter is in order. I really should anticipate starvation; airplane food is repulsive anyway, but these days they will not even give you that if they think that they can avoid feeding you at all. Starvation or poisoning—take your pick. I suppose that I will also be stopping at the liquor store. However, if memory serves me correctly from the last time I bought champagne, I would be able to feed an Ethiopian for a month on Perrier-Jouet Fleur de Champagne in the hand-painted bottles. I believe that there is a second Perrier-Jouet, probably non-vintage, that does not cost the monthly budget of a small Third World country. God only knows which one Mulder drinks. Another problem crosses my mind.

"To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Topic: Travel Arrangements

"I expect you by 10:30 then. The champagne will be chilled and the handcuffs oiled. <g> There are two Perrier-Jouet labels; tell me you do not want the painted bottles or I will either buy Moet & Chandon or murder you; I have not decided which as of yet. BTW—raspberries?

"And do not, I repeat, do not waste your Donne quotation prowess on line or you will have nothing left for tonight. I refuse to have you recycle your quotes in bed. That is a specific order, Mulder. No arguing. Do you understand me?

"In regard to your charter flights, my sympathy on the takeoff and landing problem; I recall some jungle landings in Nam that were as close as you could get to crashing without wrecking the plane, so I know what you mean. However, I expect to see all of you in shape for this evening. By the way, I had better be the only one who is pounding your ass, Mulder. If I find out that any of those Cessna pilots—or anyone else, for that matter—is pounding it too, we are going to have to talk.

"See you tonight.

"Walter"

Kimberly buzzes me. Esteban and Vincent are outside. I have finally remembered the incident. They were responsible for some unfortunate ill will with the Pennsylvania State Police on a kidnap case. It is my job to give them the "local authorities" riot act. There are so many other things that I could do with my time. I could rest, read, play golf, be with Mulder. But no, harebrained agents have to play hotshot with the locals. These boys have been watching too many cop shows. Damn. I wonder if Mulder plays golf. Certainly his father must have played; I wonder if he does. Somehow I doubt it, but I wonder if I could interest him in it. He needs to do something to relax without using his mind besides swimming and sex…although the sex is a very tempting prospect at the moment.

I speak to Esteban and Vincent. I am distracted by thoughts of long, slim legs tangling around mine, of strong arms around me, of nibbling at the pout of Mulder's lower lip, nibbling at his earlobes, his neck, his nipples…I am distracted by the thought of that mouth, those lips, making their way along the underside of my erection, then taking its length entirely. By the thought of that ass under my hands, muscle giving way to my stroking and kneading. By the thought of burying myself deep in him, thrusting myself into him repeatedly, until he comes…I need to finish this meeting. I need coffee. What I really need is a cold shower.

A few e-mails on the computer. One is indeed from Mulder. I click to that one first.

"To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Shoes, ships, sealing wax, and other miscellany

"Walter—Perrier-Jouet, Moet, Piper…twist my arm. Whatever you want; you're buying. Strawberries. I know a few tricks with strawberries that -never mind, just worry about it until I show you. No point murdering me; you'd miss me too much and you know it.

"Speaking of which…do I detect jealousy, Walter? Because, have you taken a look at those charter pilots? I have no intention of getting it on with any of them, with or without champagne and strawberries. If you're asking…I wasn't planning on going anywhere. Even if you weren't…same answer still stands. I am not done with you yet by a longshot, Walter—do you follow me?

"Could you do me a favor for tonight? Find your Donne and leave it on the nightstand. I hate to admit this, but I have much less memorized than you think. I'm just good at rattling off what I do know; that's all. I used to impress my dates with that sort of thing—cheap collegiate trick that it is. An actual poetry reader can figure that one out in ten minutes, maybe less. True confessions time. Do you want me to disclose any more of my warts before I see you tonight, or would you like to spend the next several months discovering them slowly? I could give you a list…I figure you know the most prominent ones already. I'm a stubborn pig, I refuse to listen to people, I do what I damn well please, I'm a moody, rude, miserable bastard, I'm a smart-aleck…

"Anyway, lover, I've got to get out of this place if it's the last thing I ever do—where have I heard that line before? I'm not sure who hates it out here more, Scully or me. I only know that I've got more pressing incentives for getting back to DC than she does—like seeing you. I am having visions of you, me, and this trail of strawberry juice that's going to—I'd better stop; no chance for a cold shower before I split. Scully thinks I am becoming psychotic over here. If she only knew what I was really doing—I'm just trying to imagine Dana Scully having a fit of apoplexy.

"Miss you, miss your face, your lips, your arms, your hands, your chest…better quit while I'm ahead. Got to close up shop here and get home. Keep the light on for me.

"Mulder"

I shut down the computer. I may have to leave work early; it looks as if I have shopping to do for this evening. How did I get myself into this? And why am I enjoying it? Obviously, I am not well. I am probably slightly delusional. If this is delusional, however, I think that I would, on the whole, rather be delusional than not. It occurs to me that I have been experiencing something that I have not felt in years—anticipation. Ten-thirty, he said? Perhaps a bit earlier? It has been a long time since butterflies in my stomach were based on something not involving apprehension. The worst part is that I could get used to this sort of thing—and I am afraid that I really would like it if I did. I am beginning to wonder if this is what happy just might feel like. I wish I knew someone I could ask.

Pencils Interlude II: The Pomeranian Falcon

With apologies to Chris Carter, Mickey Spillane, and Dashiell Hammett.

Hot weather is uncomfortable anywhere, but hot weather in Washington, DC is nearly unbearable. The heat is godawful; the humidity is enough to choke you. A Washington heat wave makes my days in the jungle feel nearly comfortable. At least there we didn't have to go outside wearing neckties and buttoned-up shirts. Thank God I have never taken up the three-piece suit habit, or I would be dead from dehydration by now.

Even with the air conditioner on, it is nearly too hot to sleep. I would prefer to have Mulder here with me. All right, It is my fault that he is not here; I could have not signed his 302 for those crop circles in Montana. Nonetheless, it is lonely without him. If I must have insomnia, I would far rather have insomnia with him than without him.

I sit up and fumble for my robe. An hour in the living room with a cup of tea and something on one of the movie channels might help the matter. I stumble into the kitchen and feel for the teabags. I have Darjeeling somewhere in here—ah. Water in the cup, then into the microwave. Into the living room for the remote, and a brief channel surf until I find the cable listings. Aha—the old movies channel. Black and white—real movies, from way back when, back when the studios really knew how to put a film together. John Ford, Hitchcock directing. Bogie, Bacall, Kirk Douglas. Wardrobes by Adrian. Opening credits with the little plane flying around the Universal globe.

Into the armchair, feet up on the hassock. A slug of whiskey in the tea. My mother used to give that to me for colds. It works when you have trouble sleeping, too, I find. That and a good black and white movie which I have seen seventeen times should do the trick.

The credits fade into an office with name stenciled on the door in gold, a waiting room with long-legged secretary, and our detective in a dark suit, at his desk, smoking. A takeout cup of coffee, now cold, sits near him as he reads his mail.

The telephone rings. The secretary is on the telephone. She opens the door to look into the office. "Walt,," Kimberly says, "it's for you. That Doctor Mulder of yours."

"He's not 'my' Doctor Mulder," I sigh wearily, reaching for the phone.

"Oh yeah?" she replies, gum cracking. "Well if he ain't, he's sure as hell trying to be. Flirted with you when he was here, and now he's calling about dinner. This a client or a lay, Walt? 'Cause one pays you, and you pay the other, and I want my check. Got it?" She ducks back out. If I could replace her, I would. But you can't replace that dame. She's sassy, crass, and a pain, but she's loyal, she can type, and she can fill in when I need a girl to go hoofing on a case. And she can shoot.

I pick up the phone. "Skinner."

"Ah, hello." Yep, it's him. Voice like an old silk robe, sliding into my ears and down my body, wrapping itself around me. It's Mulder, all right. "I was hoping you'd be in. I have that paper of Alex's I told you about. I thought you would want to see it. Are you free for dinner?"

Never turn down a free meal. When it's a client, even if I pay now, it's a free meal. That's what "expenses" means when I say "two-fifty plus expenses." "Expenses" means I pay zero when clients want me. "Sure, Doctor Mulder. You name the place, I'll be there."

"I have reservations at Madigan's at seven-thirty. I'll meet you at the bar. Will that do?" Will that do? Mike Madigan, supper club owner, ex-mobster, and gossip hub of the city? Has a great cook, rude waiters, and the best bartender in town. He's also an old buddy of mine from the gym, but I keep that quiet. Mike tips me off to what goes down in this town.

"That would be fine." I think hard. Yeah, my good suit is clean. I can eat at Mike's tonight without disgracing myself. Besides, Mike gets regulars. Maybe Mulder's one of them. I should pump Mike before I go.

"Wonderful, Mister Skinner. I'm looking forward to seeing you tonight." I can feel that voice trying to work its way down my bare chest and into my pants. Not that this is a bad idea when the body attached to the voice has good shoulders, legs and more legs, and an ass that won't quit. "I'll see you at Madigan's." The receiver clicks. I stare at the phone. Shit, if that's how he talks to his patients, no wonder those doctors' wives say he makes them feel less depressed. They're probably having a thrill a minute ruining their silk undies talking to him. Maybe I should check my medical contacts. I wonder if the shrink ever makes time on that couch of his for more than just talk with his patients.

Time to dial Mike. "Madigan's. Mike Madigan speaking." "Mike? It's Walt."

"Walt Skinner! You old asshole, how the hell are you?" The voice, big, hearty, and friendly, like its owner. "What are you up to, Walt?"

"Dinner, Mike. Got a date of sorts."

"Business or pleasure? I've got a great table for you, old buddy."

"Business for sure, maybe yes, maybe no for anything else. I understand the reservations were placed already. Fox Mulder."

"The shrink? Yeah, he called in. Coming up in the world if you're dating him, boy. He's a catch."

"You know him, Mike?"

"He's pretty regular. Does lunches sometimes, usually with a lady friend. Scully—the coroner. You know her."

"Yeah, I do. Keep talking, Mike."

"Used to be in for dinner at least once a week. He used to have this hot little Russian number with him—you know, the one that got shot. I was surprised that happened at his place."

"Oh?" I asked, trying not to sound interested. "Why is that?"

"Because I thought they were through. Doc's been in with almost every pretty boy in town over the past few months, but not with that long, cool vodka martini he used to bring in with him. Too bad. That one was really decorative. So—I've got sea scallops tonight, fresh salmon, and Porterhouse steaks. Any thoughts? Tell me and I'll do you something special to impress the date. Scallop mousse en croute? Grilled salmon with fresh dill? Say the word, Walt."

"Surprise me, Mike. And stick a fresh bottle of Jack behind the bar." So Mulder and Krycek weren't a hot item any more. Mulder had suggested as much when he'd told me about the Krugerrands, but the shopping around was a new detail in the picture. I figured I'd better call in a marker with one of my pals.

Pendrell was at his desk when I rolled into the squad room. A few heads turned at my arrival, some even non-hostile. I'd done a few of the boys good turns on some investigations; they'd better be nice to me. Pendrell had given Mulder my name as a referral; he was making nice since I'd tipped him off to that heroin dealer in Adams-Morgan last year. I figured he'd be a good boy. "Hey, Pendrell," I said, sinking into a chair beside his desk. "Thanks for giving my name to the shrink with the commie corpse."

"He called?" Pendrell asked too casually. Yeah, the boy wanted to talk, all right.

"Yeah. I saw him yesterday. Meeting again tonight. I was wondering if you could fill me in."

Pendrell reached for a file. Methodical, that's Pendrell. "Okay. Deceased is Alexei Krycek. Russian male, about 35 years old. No regular job, but believed to be spying for the Russians. The Embassy denies any knowledge of his activities, but that's natural. Lived with Doctor Fox Mulder, one expensive headshrinker. The Police Commissioner's wife goes to him for her agoraphobia problem, whatever that is. He's not a suspect, wasn't in town at the time. Krycek took a bullet through the head that probably lowers the value of the painting he splattered when he got shot. Wasn't a suicide. Signs of a struggle but nothing big. We figure he knew his assailant but wasn't expecting the attack. You know anything we don't, Skinner?"

"Not yet. But I'm having dinner with Mulder tonight at Madigan's."

"Madigan's?" Pendrell raised an eyebrow. "Whose idea?"

"His. Why? Mike Madigan is a friend of mine. Should I know something?"

"I doubt it. Madigan's is a hangout for Mulder. Seems just a little social for him to be nightclubbing it less than a week after lover boy takes it between the eyes, doesn't it? Maybe he's not as far in mourning as he looks." Pendrell shrugged. "Think about it, Skinner. And let us know if anything happens, will you?"

"Sure, Sarge. Look—I've got a feeling. Can you have a couple of your boys here stake Madigan's out tonight?"

"Why, Skinner? Expecting something?"

"Call it a hunch." I shook hands with Pendrell and made out of the office like a bat out of hell. Something smelled fishy—maybe even fishier than Mike's grilled salmon. I just didn't know what the odor could be or where it came from. But I sure as hell intended to find out.

»»»

I strolled into Madigan's at quarter past seven. It pays to be early for these things. I looked over the dining room, then squeezed my way into the bar. Frankie, the veteran barkeep, waved a hand at me as I pointed to a table. A cocktail waitress in a black minidress and a white apron came over for my order. "Jack Daniels Manhattan. Double. Lemon twist. No cherry. Up." My usual when I have to look like I'm being respectable when I'm drinking. Cold and full of alcohol. No ice, no soda, no girl stuff in it.

The bartender sends over a bowl of cocktail munchies, party mix of some kind. The waitress is placing my order. I hear a familiar voice calling "hello" from across the room. I look up. There's Mulder, resplendent in dark gray Versace, a tailored striped shirt I'd once seen in a Turnbull and Asser photo spread, Bally loafers. Gold cufflinks, a gold and stainless Rolex Oyster peeking from the shirt cuff. Gold wire rimmed glasses still on his face. Eyes turn as he crosses over to my table. I'm amused. Yeah, you dodos, he's with me. I want to laugh—so this is what a trophy date feels like. He seats himself across from me, and he grins—a smile that lights up the whole damn room and ought to be illegal as a fire hazard. The eyes are another fire hazard—hazel lights that don't quit. I could lower my electrical bills if he stood in my apartment; I'd never need to turn lights on to be able to see. The man glows. He reaches a long, elegant, immaculately manicured hand over to shake mine. "I'm so sorry I'm late," he apologizes. Yeah, right; he's still seven minutes early; he just didn't beat me here. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting."

Hell, he can keep me waiting any time, any place. "No problem, Doc."

"Please, Mister Skinner. Call me Mulder." The waitress comes over with my drink, makes calf eyes at Mulder. "Vodka martini. Stoli if you've got it back there, otherwise Finlandia. Dubonnet instead of vermouth." She nods, writes. "All of my friends call me Mulder. And we will be friends, won't we?" His look is all over me like a cheap suit. He looks more like he wants me for dinner than Mike Madigan's scallop mousse. And Mike's scallop mousse is a force to be reckoned with.

"Well—Mulder—I would hope so. Preferably after I've done the work for you."

He smiles, reaches across the table, traces a finger along the side of my cocktail glass. "Oh? No mixing business and pleasure? Too bad. I've always found it—interesting."

"That's how you wound up with Alex Krycek. Right?" A grimace across from me.

The waitress is back over with his martini. Good thing, too—he wasn't any too pleased with my observation on lover boy. The interruption breaks the tension. "Alex is dead, Walter. I just want to find his money and get on with my life." We nurse our drinks silently. I munch on Mike's snack mix. "And you look…as if you could be…an interesting addition to that life."

"You've barely even met me," I point out.

"Why do you think I invited you out?" he replies. "I have the note with me. I could show it to you anywhere. At my apartment, or your office. But I thought I'd like to get to know you better. I've heard…a lot about you. I want to know what makes you tick, Walter."

The maitre d' calls Mulder's name. The table is ready. We carry our drinks into the restaurant. Damn Mike—one of the best tables in the place. Up front, near the stage. Conspicuous as all hell. I look around; yeah, there are a couple of Pendrell's buddies near the waiter's station and at a table in the back. That's a good thing. Because at a table across the way, I see trouble with a capital T. The Smoking Man. He's at a banquette with a few of his goons, one of whom does nothing but light his damn cancer sticks for him. I'm not happy to see that bastard here tonight. He's bad news, and he travels fast. Why is he here tonight of all nights? I wish I had some way to flag down Mike and talk to him, but no dice.

The waiter brings over the menus, recites the specials. A note falls out of my menu—a card from the Smoker. He wants me to meet up with him tomorrow. Why the black-lunged bastard wants to give me information about anything beats the hell out of me. I slide the card in my pocket while Mulder isn't looking; I don't want to explain this one. Now, I ask myself; what was Kimberly telling me? Clients pay the bills; dates don't. I normally don't have any difficulty telling the difference between the two. This time's different -but then, Kimberly noticed that already. Do I, or don't I, sacrifice my investigative principles for a lay—and just maybe a cut in that South African gold? I've got just about exactly till I'm through with dessert to decide.

Mulder slides an envelope out of his breast pocket, a move that only succeeds in drawing my attention back to his body. He looks good in that suit, and probably a hell of a lot better out of it. Somehow, I don't think he's on Mike's dessert list, but I'd sure as hell like to figure out how to get him there. He's been pretty clear that he thinks I'm appetizers, salad, and entr‚e. Oh, sure, I've had clients put the make on me before. They're just not usually ones I'd like to take home to meet Mother. Well, neither is this one, come to think of it—I just want to drag him back and check out the merchandise up close and real personal. Repeatedly, for a couple of weeks or so, until I drop in my tracks.

He slides the envelope across the table. I can't help noticing the manicure. I also can't help noticing that a couple of the Smoker's goons are craning around to try to get a look at what's happening. Pendrell's buddies are probably keeping them from making a snatch at the goods. I slide a torn piece of legal pad out of the envelope. A few scribbles, mostly numbers. A combination? Addresses? I can't quite tell. This is going to take some work. "Off the cuff, I can't tell you. Any problem if I take it back with me? I'm going to need to do some research."

He grins at me. Bad move; I'm not wearing sunglasses. "I thought you might want it. I have a copy in my safe at the office, and another one at my apartment. I also sent a copy to a friend. Given some of Alex's friends, I figured I can't be too careful."

"Let's just hope his pals don't figure you littered the neighborhood with spare copies. There's a few of them here tonight." Mulder looks around as the kitchen sends over a dish I didn't order, and I don't mean our waiter. I told Mike to surprise me. Thanks, Mike. A molded salmon mousse and scallop mousse terrine, decorated with dilled cucumber shavings and a trickle of balsamic vinegar dressing. It's the prettiest thing here besides my client. "It's okay," I tell Mulder. "The owner's an old friend of mine. He said he'd send out something on the specials list as a surprise." I fold the paper and place the envelope in my own jacket pocket. The Smoker's thugs are watching us.

Dinner continues. I'm starting to see this boy's charm, not that I didn't already. I've had a lot worse company at dinner in my life, especially from his social level. The bums on the street are more fun to talk to at a meal than the DC snobs. No wonder he's gotten a rep as a hot date around town, even for the society dames who need "safe" opera escorts or a few spare males at their dinner parties. I wonder what keeps the old broads off of him besides the local rape statutes, unless he flirts with their sons as hard as he's been coming on to me. Which, from what Mike said, is a distinct possibility. Dessert, coffee-brandy ice cream molded inside chocolate cake, with brandied raspberry coulis. I love Mike. Now, there's a guy my mother would love. Except for the wife and three kids.

The floor show's starting. A number of tables empty; a number of tables fill up with parties here for dessert, drinks, and the show. Mulder asks me for my preference—staying or leaving. I notice that, once again, we're getting noticed. It's amusing to have a front-row table and a trophy date, but it's getting late, and in my line of work you don't always want everyone in town recognizing you. The good doctor has office hours tomorrow, anyway. We decide to split. The valet's bringing his car around; he asks if he can drop me off anywhere, or if I'd like to come by his place to talk some more. I tell him I'd love to stop by the crime scene, but not tonight, or else my secretary's going to have a headache. The Smoker's boys are out here, waiting for the big man's wheels to arrive. The valet pulls up with Mulder's Lexus, hands him the keys. He turns, stands about one inch from me, and plants a kiss on me like I haven't felt in a couple of years. Either my manly physique's knocking him flat, or else he's really trying to worm his way out of my bill. He runs a hand along the side of my face and down my neck, and my dick's doing the tango about as hard as the floor show orchestra is. "Sorry you can't come over for coffee," he purrs at me. "Give me a call, hmmm?"

Mike pops out from the kitchen and strolls outside to say goodbye. "You struck out with lover boy?"

"Nah. I said 'no.'"

Madigan looks at me like I'm crazy. "You turned that down? Your head going soft, Walt?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think it is." We shake hands, make plans to do lunch after the next bout at the gym. I start walking down the street. It looks like the head wasn't soft for long. I feel something goddamned hard up against the back of my skull, and I hear one of the Smoker's boys as I start seeing stars.

I come to, slowly, light streaming in my face and a fucking aerobic exerciser telemarketing pitch on screen. Five-thirty in the goddamn morning? Well, at least I've gotten a couple of hours' sleep. I have got to quit watching old Bogie detective movies, haven't I? I turn off the set and crawl back to bed.

VI. Therefore to be Assailed—MJ

These pretty wrongs that liberty commits When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty and thy years full well befits, For still temptation follows where thou art. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won; Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed; And when a woman woos, what woman's son Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed? Ay me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear, And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, Who lead thee in their riot even there Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth—Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee, Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. —Sonnet XLI

"'Her name is Bambi?'" Mulder chuckles. "I'm not kidding, Walter. You should have heard Scully. She was dying. Lord only knows what she was thinking." Mulder, you are definitely nuts. Do you need a translator? Entomologists are not named Bambi. And any female who IS named Bambi is, by federal regulation, a doe-eyed, big-haired, short-skirted, silicone-injected -should I go on? What will you find on your next case—a witness named Lola? Whatever you do for the rest of your life, Mulder, do not get me started on the evils of women named Lola.

Bambi. I heard about Bambi. I even got to hear Agent Scully bitch about Bambi to herself down in the cafeteria back after they had their close encounter. Do you really want to know what Scully was thinking, Mulder? She was merely thinking just about exactly the same thing I think when I hear you joking about it. Or what I thought when I heard about the vampire bimbo. Or when you got jumped by Detective White. I will not even recall to myself what I think about having to pry Diana Fowley off of you with a crowbar.

I lean back in my chair, sighing. I've just gotten you back from New Mexico, and today you hand me a damned 302 for an inquiry in Montana. Crop circles. Good Lord, crop circles. In a week, I will be sitting here in my office reading e-mailed mash notes from you, while you go gallivanting with Scully in a rental Ford that I can only pray you will not demolish this time. Chasing little green men, secret government conspirators, and alien bounty hunters. And meeting people. Particularly women, who seem to think it their duty to attach themselves to you at the hip, if not simply attack you in Detective White's inimitable fashion. And I could not care less how often you assure me that you have nothing going with Scully. Why do you think she is still rabid about Bambi the bugmeister? Why do you think she foams at the mouth like a rabid werewolf any time Diana Fowley enters this building? I am not particularly thrilled about making nice with your ex myself, Mulder. My urge to have her reassigned to Walla Walla may just get the better of me one day. Or I could arrange to have her working with Interpol in Belgium for a few years.

Life ought to be simple. Things should be so easy. Take last night, for example. Yes, last night is a perfect example. Out to dinner at the JW Marriott, knock back a few drinks. Fortunately, no one questions my going out for meals or having a few drinks with my division heads—well, Scully may be wondering, but I swear that she is getting wise to us. We come back to my place, check out the video you brought, and spend the better part of the video—no, "Matango, The Fungus of Terror" is not a cinematic classic—making out in the living room like a couple of teenage kids before we move to the bedroom. I mean, really, Mulder—you, me, a great dinner, good Scotch, some incredibly hot sex—what the hell is a guy supposed to want out of life? So why does everything have to get complicated by your being a fucking babe magnet?

However, I can hardly pride myself on making off with you; now that Fowley is back here, I find it all too easy to wonder if I am simply the most recent conquest on your list. Diana Fowley; Alex Krycek—you had better never think that I have no idea about that one, Mulder; assorted Bambis, Lolas, and Detective Whites; and now me. Hell, I remember the trail of broken hearts you were leaving around the building until you got yourself tied down temporarily, first with Fowley and then with Krycek. By the time you and Fowley were through I thought you might have given up completely on screwing your way through the FBI. That of course was before that misbegotten pairing of you and Krycek. I have to wonder—am I the last name on your scorecard or just the latest one?

We have a few minutes before I head for my meeting. Just enough time for me to obsess about being balding, glasses-wearing, and well over forty—in other words, easily replaceable by a more attractive edition. Just enough time to wonder why you really choose to spend your nights in my bed. Scully, whether she knows it or not, wants you. Diana Fowley wants you back. The Bambis of the world all want a piece of you; Lord knows that Krycek got a damn big piece of you. And I've seen you work, Mulder. All you do is stand there, doing the lower-lip pout and making the patented Mulder lost-puppy look, and they line up around the corner. You sulk, they follow. Yet just before you left for New Mexico you told me that you plan to stay; while in New Mexico, you were e-mailing me the sort of passionate declarations that scorch monitors and bake video cards. You can do better in any office down the hall than you can do taking pity on a balding, aging AD. You have certainly done far better in the past. What can I hope to give you that would convince you to stay? If Fowley and Krycek could not keep you in one place, what hope have I against the Bambis and Lolas of the world? Why should you resist them?

You rise, sliding out of my office chair like a wave and unfolding yourself. Charcoal gray worsted, a blue shirt, and blue and canary tie covering the exquisite length of body that I was covering myself until around five thirty this morning. Those hips, that swimmer's ass of yours, covered by layers of Armani, created to disguise you as an ordinary mortal rather than to reveal your secret identity as the incredible lover I have found you to be. I know that Alex Krycek cannot be the only other man that has been in your life, or in your bed. I know, however, your real or reputed Bureau history, and that Krycek is the only man on that list. I also know that there is no way I can ask. If you ever want me to know, you will tell me in your own time, just as you choose when to reveal your work to me here at the office, and as you choose just what of it you will actually let me know. I watch you make your way around my desk, here to where I sit. I thank God silently that Kimberly is outside at her desk as you allow yourself to lean against the edge of the desk, hips pressed to the edge of it, your body leaning forward towards me from your hips.

I have never fancied myself to be psychic. If another person and I have the same thought at the same time, then great minds must think alike. It has occurred to me before this, however, that you just may be psychic, though I know you claim otherwise, though I have seen the wonder in your eyes, your face, when presented with the faintest possibility that another person may have such gifts. You display the probability I have considered about you to me once again as you reach over and turn my head in direct line with yours. "Walter, I know this Montana business sucks. I know I'll only have been back for a week when Scully and I leave. But I'm a field agent, right? Don't you dare turn me into a desk jockey division head just so I can't go out of town on you. It wouldn't be fair to either of us and you know it."

Of course. That is absolutely true. I agree with you entirely. If I did not agree already, I would surely agree after the oxygen deprivation being induced right now by that kiss. In the office? A horrible idea…we should not be doing this. Unfortunately, you make my head swim every time you kiss me; how to say no now? If any other agent ever saw this—the very idea that AD Walter Skinner, anal-retentive regulation enforcer, paperwork Nazi, denier of 302's, causer of special agent ulcers and cardiac arrests, and professional prick, has a weakness capable of turning him into a limp, breathless rag, and that Fox Mulder can trigger it without even trying…

You break lip contact. Barely in time for my composure. I am already flushed, nearly ready to start sweating. I have a meeting, and I have a reputation for fear-inducement to protect. You look down at me, still seated, and grin. "See you later, gorgeous. I'll be over tonight." Thank the Lord you are leaving the office; I may have enough time for my color, and my erection, to subside before heading upstairs. Shit. I may be the boss here in the office, but I am not at all sure that you are not the one controlling this relationship. I find myself moving in response to you all of the time. I should object to this manipulation. Instead, I seem to enjoy it far too much. You win, Mulder. Uncle. Oh—and thank you for it.

The meeting is a waste, in more ways than one. A waste of time, for certain. A group decision is being made that should have been sent down unilaterally from above. Why our input is being solicited I cannot imagine. A waste of supervisory manpower. A waste on my part, as the boredom keeps me from focusing. I see that Ben Menendez is daydreaming; more power to him. He can daydream; I am playing my mental videotape of last night to keep from falling asleep. You straddling me on the couch, undoing my tie and my shirt. Me pulling you down, my fingers running through that shock of cornsilk you call hair. Your lips on mine, our tongues exploring each other's mouth as we kiss ourselves into near delirium. I have not kissed my way into nearly coming in my pants since I was dating as a teenager, and my date insisted on quitting at second base. Fingers, then lips, working on my nipples; something completely unknown on those teenage dates, known but mostly ignored later, until these past few weeks. Making love with you reminds me of things half-known, long forgotten. The feeling of solid muscle under soft skin. The feel of another man's erection pressing against me. The pure pleasure of being able to let go, of being handled by someone else as strong as myself. The soft, faint scrape of stubble against my skin. How long since I have really acknowledged my need for another man, rather than burying that need and calling it the urge for a fast, down-and-dirty pick-up?

Your mouth on me in the bedroom, teasing me into an erection I should be proud of at my age. The feeling of entering you, feeling that heat, that tightness, closing around me. Those Bambis and vampire wannabes of yours cannot give this to you, Mulder. The Lolas of the world that you keep bumping into on your investigations are not equipped to fuck you through the floor and into the ground, will never hear you begging them to fuck you longer, harder, faster. The next time you get into a tight space with some horny female detective, you had better remember the way you moan my name when I make you come. You had better remember that the names "God" and "Walter" belong in the same breath, the way they did last night. I have no idea why you have decided that I am, at least currently, the man of your dreams, but you had better remember that you have indeed decided it. You had better remember the way you moan when I make you come, buried deep in you, my hand working on your shaft. The way you collapse, breathless, slick with your sweat, my sweat, and semen. Curling up against my chest, falling asleep exhausted. The next time some bimbo witness throws herself on you, that had better be the first thing on your mind, not what she looks like without a shirt.

I am not even going to think about the men. The only one I know of for sure is named Alex Krycek. If tall, dark, and Russian is your type, I might as well pack it up and go home now. About the best I can do there is let you call me by my damned middle name when we're in a clinch, but I cannot see any further way to fill any "Doctor Zhivago" fantasies you may be hiding. And if Krycek is not the ideal Mulderboy, who is? I suppose he has hair. He would be extremely intelligent in some totally obscure area—like entomology. Or computer hacking. Or alien retroviruses. Maybe the history of the circus, or of carnival sideshows. I wondered about you and that Fiji Mermaid business, now that I think of it. No doubt your type all have no gag reflex and nine inch dicks. They wear black leather, bad attitude, and eighty-dollar haircuts. You take them to art films, Andy Warhol retrospectives, and cappuccino bars. They each own ten pairs of button-fly 501's that they can never get completely buttoned, but they can all quote French existentialist writers and filmmakers. And you know what, Mulder? I bet you anything that every single one of them will be dull, badly dressed, and rather nondescript-looking by the time they hit forty. Their cute bad attitudes will be plain old rudeness. They will all be waiting tables. Competing with them before they hit thirty-five or so, however, is probably hopeless.

I worked my way up through the ranks here. I have done the field agent routine; I did it for years. I have been away from home for three weeks at a time with no contact. I know the nights on the road, and I know the "nothing to do" routine. I know the motel bars, the cheap bars, the strip clubs. I know the agents who call the call girls advertising in the back of the local paper to kill a night on a case. I have interviewed the same pretty witness who wants you to come over to her place for dinner because there is no decent place to eat in town. I have lived through the same boredom, the same temptations, the same curiosity as everyone else. Hell, where do I think I met most of my tricks, except out on the road? So convenient, because you will never be back in that neck of the woods. No names to remember, no flowers or phone calls expected. You meet another guy at a bar that your partner has no idea you went to, or you hit a truck stop, or you drive down a street full of pretty boys with bad attitude and tight jeans, with cash in your hand. Going after the women is the same thing, only even easier. How many agents have done just that? I am not the only one who has ever said, "what my wife doesn't know won't hurt her." How could I possibly expect that other agents would be any different? What right have I to expect it?

Thank God this meeting is over. Ben Menendez asks if my mind is as numb as his. I assure him that we were probably both on the same Pacific island at the same time; he laughs. What the hell am I going to do with you, Mulder? I have no idea what it takes to keep you. You tell me the sex is fantastic. You laugh at my stories. You borrow my books. You claim to enjoy my cooking. You have not yet complained about my cigars, my liquor, or my record collection. You e-mail me lewd suggestions from your office, John Donne from the road. You have actually tried a few of your own lewd suggestions when we have been in bed. You have not made one joke about my snoring, and you have sworn twice that my snoring has not hurt your sleep. You have told me at least twice that you want to work on long-term, though we have barely been a short-term item. There must be a catch. What is wrong with this picture? Absolutely nothing; that is the problem. The picture is too pretty. And with you continuing in the field, how am I to believe that this pretty picture is anything more than two-dimensional rather than real? Should I resign myself to the same field agent fidelity from you that I gave Sharon—never running around when you are home, because you got enough on the road? Shall I resign myself to the fact that women throw themselves on you, and that the path of least resistance is not only the easiest but the most amusing?

I return to my desk, to a pile of paperwork that has accumulated in my very brief absence, and to a flood of e-mails. I ease myself back into my chair, my upper back and shoulders screaming from a combination of meeting stress and my own musings and recriminations. Somewhere in my desk I have painkillers; I scrounge my desk drawer looking for them, and shake a few tablets from the bottle. I should only take two, according to the directions. Three sounds more like it today. I shuffle paperwork, sign several letters that Kimberly has left on my desk. I look through the e-mails, deleting most of them. One, however—only one?—is from you. Whatever it is, I know that it is worth reading, at the very least as signs of a hyperactive imagination; after all, it could be on crop circles. I open it.

"To: AD Walter S. Skinner From: Special Agent Fox Mulder Subject: None whatsoever

"Scully is amazed at how hard I'm working at prepping for Montana as she sees me chugging away at my computer. Little does she know I'm looking up things now to send you next week. I don't mind saying that it's hard work. Poetry was wasted on me when I was younger, and what little I've picked up since, don't ask why, is primarily assorted bits of Pushkin. I was seeing someone for a while who was fluent in Russian. Which reminds me, hot stuff—if I set up my laptop properly, we can talk on-line all night while I'm out of town. Think about it. How's six-thirty tonight?"

And I was worried about what you were going to do while you were away? Now I have a new worry. All-night cybersex with you for a week? Oh, Jesus, Mulder. Once again, I admit defeat. I shut down the computer and grab the phone book, flipping to the yellow pages to check for the adult bookstores. I have no idea what to say to anyone during cybersex; I think I need to go shopping someplace where I can pick up some bad ideas. The evidence boys will notice if I borrow too much of the porn raid stash, I fear. Now, where was I? If you can learn poetry, Mulder, I can try this. I think. Maybe. Possibly. Sort of. Six-thirty, eh? Boy, are we going to talk.

VII. Till I Once Look'd On You —MJ

Montana. Fucking Montana. Home of cattle, cults, and BATF violations. There is more wilderness here, more fucking great outdoors, than I'd ever imagined. This crop circle thing is a fake. It's storming outside. I always thought I liked thunderstorms…well, maybe not. Scully's barely speaking to me. I miss Walter like hell. And it looks like I've stumbled across an actual fucking X-File here in this stupid one-horse town…which means we can't pack up and go home yet. Oh, I asked for this, didn't I? I just asked for this. Handed that damn 302 over to Walter with a look that could melt glass, got him to sign it…yeah, I asked for it.

Normally there's at least something to do in the evening wherever we're stuck on a case. Some cop lets us in on a decent diner, somebody lets slip about a passable bar, or at least there are pay-per-view movies. This backwater doesn't even boast a doughnut shop to give the cops something to do at their shift breaks. The diner sucks. The bar here is fine if you don't mind the stabbings. Hell, the motel doesn't even have HBO. Scully's in her room with a soda enjoying the latest Journal of the American Medical Association. I can read the latest "Lone Gunman" or challenge myself to solitaire on my laptop until I hook up to dial Walter on my modem.

You know what I've discovered? Cybersex is frustrating. I sit here at the keyboard busily telling Walter about all the things I'd like to be doing to him…but can I really do any of it? Not for another week at this rate. Not with an actual case to work on that just had to crop up as I was closing the damned crop circle matter. All you can do with cybersex is get yourself worked up and go jerk off. I didn't mind that too much once upon a time -like maybe just over a month ago. But cybersex you get into with someone you met in a chat room and will almost certainly never meet isn't the same thing as scratching open the wounds from missing your lover.

Lover. What a word. Used indiscriminately to refer to guys you've fucked once as well as to the guys you wish you could drag home to meet your mother. My mother knows Walter already. I don't think that means she'd like this any better. Too bad for her, I guess. I'm not in this to make my mother happy. Why am I in this? Easy to say that it's because Walter Skinner is the king of the Three H Club—hot, hunky, and hung. I've known about the first two attributes since the day I first met him. The third I discovered in the Hoover Building gym's locker room, as I tried to avoid staring at him. Walter's better endowed than Harvard University. How come the guys in the videos never look like Walter? Well-built, well-hung, and gorgeous? And he's mine now. Wow. Easy to say that it's all about Walter being hot and great in the sack. Harder—much harder—to admit what's really going on here. Guys aren't supposed to schmoop all over each other professing undying love. Not cool. Girl stuff. Even gay men aren't supposed to be sissies—just ask the Village People.

Lover. There's a word I haven't used about another guy in a few years. Sure, I messed around a lot in college. But once I started working for the Bureau, I figured I needed to do the straight arrow bit. A few guys here and there out in the field, an occasional trick at one of the bars. Not too often; I didn't want to run into anybody I knew. People gossip; I didn't want it to get back to anyone at work. Then I got partnered with Alex goddamn Krycek. He kept giving me that wide-eyed puppydog stare with those big green eyes, looking like he hadn't eaten in a month every time he saw me. I have no idea if the bastard figured it out on his own or if his handlers prepped him, but that son of a bitch came charging at me full tilt. And I went for it. You wouldn't have thought it in those godawful suits he was wearing, but Alex has a body that won't quit. Neither will his mouth, damn it. The ratbastard set me up but good. I was in love with him, or I thought I was. After that disaster, I really kept a low profile around the pretty boys. I was tired of getting burned. Phoebe burned me, Diana burned me, Alex burned me. I'd pretty much concluded that the safest course of action for me was living with my video collection and skipping the human interaction dimension of sex. At least your hand can't argue with you, move out on you, or ruin your life.

So what happens? I only have to work for Walter Skinner, the AD of doom. Shoulders like a mountain, an upper body like a wall, and the tightest ass I ever saw, plus I know from the gym how he's hung. I get to sit in meetings with him staring at him across the desk while he hides the chest of the century under those white shirts. I'm starting to get a fetish for starched white shirts. And the only way I can keep myself from drooling on the carpet in his office is to act like a dork. Why do I argue with him? Why do I throw tantrums? Why do I act like a fucking lunatic? Hell, I know I'm doing it. I know I'm making him crazy. The alternative, on the other hand, is to get on my knees and ask him if he wants a blow job. Discretion presumably being the better part of valor, I keep acting like an asshole in front of him, drive Scully crazy as well, and go home, pop in a video, and jerk off. For how long—two, two and a half years? Meanwhile, every time that man and I actually make eye contact, we both wind up staring too long and then running like hell to stick our heads behind a set of files so we can both play ostrich.

Finally—what, a little over a month ago?—he gets brave, fortunately for both of us. Lousy day, we're sitting around bullshitting about the rotten weather, and we wind up in a clinch all over Walter's desk. Thank God. It took us long enough. So here I am, in fucking Montana. I've spent half my new relationship on the road in backwater, U.S.A. There is something wrong with this picture. Unfortunately, it may be me. I've asked for these two 302's, haven't I? I'm going to have to search for X-Files closer to home now, that's all. Closer to Walter. There. Said it. I'm a goddamn field agent and I'm starting to hate my assignments because I keep having to leave my guy behind at the airport.

This is ridiculous, I keep telling myself. I've been involved before, certainly more seriously some times than others. But I've certainly never felt like this about anyone before, except maybe Phoebe, back before—no, I really don't want to think about that. I've certainly never felt this way about any of the guys, even the ratbastard. Walter Skinner doesn't merely make me uncontrollably horny. He doesn't just put me in the mood for romantic encounters. Maybe it's my age? Maybe my biological clock—do guys have one?—is telling me it's time to settle down? Since we started seeing each other, I have been having these uncontrollable fantasies involving me, Walter, a split-level house in a development, a big dog, and a minivan. I see a garage full of Walter's power tools. I see swimming pool maintenance. I see debating the neighbors about Weber kettle grills versus Sunbeam gas grills. I'm afraid that if I look much further I'll see carpooling downtown to work with three other guys on the block. I'll see us grocery shopping at the Safeway together on Sunday afternoon after brunch. My God, thinking about Walter makes me look at furniture ads in the newspaper. Fuck it, I want to get married and move to Fairfax. This is not right.

I have no idea what to do here. I guess I'm not sure what to say. I've told him I have no intention of going anywhere, and that's perfectly true. I think he's been hinting at wanting me to make some kind of commitment here…I've tried to tell him I'm game, but not in so many words. I'd love to tell him outright, but I don't want to scare him. Walter's a pretty macho kind of guy; I wonder if he can handle it. If I say, "Walter, I love you as I have never loved anyone, so let's buy a house and mow the lawn together for the rest of our lives," he'll probably run screaming. Besides, three of those words are dangerous; I've learned that before. You don't use them if you don't mean them, and if you do use them, you have to be prepared for serious rejection. I wish I knew for sure how he really feels. I think I know, but I really hate guesswork. Honest to God, I don't want to fuck this one up. I could just let things keep going as they have been, and wait to see what Walter does; that's always an option, I guess. Of course, it's also a remarkably unsatisfying one. Maybe—just maybe—I need to take a little initiative here? Maybe I shouldn't tell him about the minivan, the flower beds, and the Sunday Ikea browsing yet?

It strikes me that I haven't even thought about the work problem yet. I really couldn't care less what anybody thinks of me—hell, they all think I'm crazy anyway. I'll be damned, however, if I'm going to let Walter take any shit about it. If things do get far enough for us to think about what type of grill to buy, I'll come up with something. Better that than having Walter take crap about fraternizing, or having the Director get a nice set of color photos of us in bed, courtesy of the black-lunged bastard. I mean, I don't know what I'll come up with, but there's always something to do to cover your ass in this world. I'll ask the Gunmen to work on it. Once Frohike recovers from the shock, that is.

Ah, well, a field agent's work is never done. Time for a report to my boss. I open the laptop, boot up, watch Bill Gates' adorable little loading screen bore me witless, and log in my extremely, totally secret password that everybody seems to be able to hack. Frohike promised me that it was hackproof…but, oh, well.

"To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Life, the Universe, and everything

"Walter, I hope you check your email before you log into the chatroom because I won't be there. This probably sounds like a copout but I can't handle it. I don't know about you, but all I'm winding up doing is frustrating myself because the more we talk about it the more I miss you. I feel like a complete and total idiot telling you that, but it's a big discovery for me. I hope you get what I'm saying here—this isn't because I don't want you; it's because I do. The on-line crap doesn't cut it; it just makes me feel worse that I'm not with you. Especially because if I thought New Mexico sucked, I had no idea what this part of Montana was like. Fuck this case; I miss you too much to think straight. Miss you, miss your neck, your chest, your back, your legs, your arms, your hands…did I mention your fingers? Hmmm…where was I? I got distracted by your fingers, that's right. Something to do with that bottle of Astroglide in the bedside drawer and your fingers, I think…Your mouth. Maybe I hadn't better get started on your mouth, Walter. I was promising no cybersex, but if I start mentioning your mouth, I'm going to have to remember all kinds of things…like whatever it is you do to me behind my ear that makes me practically come on the spot…

"Whoa. Enough about that right now. BRB; I think I need a cold shower. Okay, back. Bet you didn't even notice I was gone. Where was I? Oh, yeah. The point is, Walter, yeah, you're hot. Yeah, we've been having the kind of sex that usually only happens in movies that cost more than the ones I buy. Yeah, I think you're a great guy and you do make me laugh—even those cheesy old George Burns routines you've got down cold. (Your cigars are better than his were, by the way. Langly tells me he smoked El Productos, just like Langly does. It hasn't helped Langly any, I gotta say.) So—deep breath -here we go, Walter…if you insist on being George, then yeah, I can learn to do Gracie, if you want me to. Let me know. FWM"

Well, I guess that was about as subtle as dropping a ten-ton weight on a lab mouse. I leave the computer on, still logged on to my server. He'll be reading it some time soon, I should think. I look for the television remote. There must be something exciting on C-SPAN; Australian Rules Congressional debating teams or something. Do I want to see the reaction or don't I? Of course, if that scares him off, don't even worry about spending Sunday afternoons hand in hand at Hechinger's looking at garden supplies.

A chime on my computer as I channel surf the television aimlessly. I'd better check the mail, huh?

"To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Say Goodnight, Gracie

"Just read your email of about 20 minutes ago. I confess to being torn between relief and annoyance. I am relieved at not having to make a fool of myself on an active modem by describing my feelings on certain topics in real time. On the other hand, Mulder, if you weren't so bloody selfish you would realize that there is the actual possibility that someone else might miss you and want to talk to you. I suppose I may have to resort to calling your cell phone, if you have it turned on, if you recharged it, and if you haven't dropped it. The likelihood of all three of those is slim but I may risk the hurdles in order to achieve actual contact with you.

"Your letter however suffers from the usual lack of clarity which affects your writing. I detect several allusions that you appear to be making but they are not altogether precise. I am fairly certain that I follow the intended message but I cannot be absolutely positive. Request further clarification prior to you logging off tonight to avoid misunderstanding of intended message. Say goodnight, Mulder. Yours, Walter"

Okay, challenge received and understood. You're being a prick, Walter, you know it? I thought I was being pretty damn obvious there. You want more obvious? You want less subtle? Okay, I've got more obvious, less subtle, in-your-face for you, hot stuff. You want to hear it? Boy, are you gonna hear it.

"To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Goodnight, Gracie

"Re your immediately preceding communication, am sending further clarification as requested. Investigation prior to arriving Montana suggested clarification best provided by direct quote Walt Whitman as found on on-line library source. Please review for clarification of detail and for further analysis. Will expect comment on revision this evening:

"'Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me, Whispering I love you, before long I die, I have travel'd a long way merely to look upon you to touch you, For I could not die till I once look'd on you, For I fear'd I might afterwards lose you.

"'Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe, Return in peace to the ocean my love, I too am part of that ocean my love, we are not so much separated, Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect! But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us, As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse forever; Be not impatient—a little space—know you I salute the air, the ocean, and the land Every day at sundown for your dear sake my love.'

"Look forward to response on revision; awaiting further instructions. Goodnight, Mulder"

I hit "send," crossing my fingers. That, I'm afraid, may constitute putting the fear of God into Walter Skinner. Back to the remote, the channel surfing scheme of earlier. I hear a television in Scully's room; she appears to be listening to, if not watching, some kind of sitcom rerun with canned laugh track. I'm looking for more intellectual fare, like pro wrestling. Or else heading back to C-SPAN for Sumo Wrestling with the Ways and Means Committee. I wonder if I will get an answer, or if I've just triggered a "fight or flight" response. I guess I'd better know now.

A chime on the computer. At least he's speaking to me, huh?

"To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Your letter

"I didn't expect to hear from you so quickly. I guess you've been saving that up for me. Thank you, I guess. Don't take that wrong, Fox; I don't mean it the way it sounds. The problem is that I know I'm expected to respond, and I don't know how to respond. I know what I feel, but I'm not sure what the words are. Funny that someone who reads as much as I do, who writes as many reports as I must, is so bad with words. I ought to be able to write intelligibly; I ought to be able to write a love letter. I'd like to write the sort of text that makes my video card melt down and causes your monitor to start crackling, but I have no idea how to do it. I don't know what the words are. If I knew, I'd have used them already; if I knew, I'd be telling you in bed, when you're falling asleep beside me and you start to get that priceless unfocused stare you give me when I pull you over against me. I wish I knew what they are, so I could think of them when we're sitting in meetings and I'm trying not to look at you as if you're the only thing that ever mattered in my entire life. It embarrasses me not that you have such a facility to express yourself that way—at least, to me you do—but that I am so unable to reply in kind, as I wish I could. It's difficult to be a balding, aging mid-level civil servant who harbors secret desires of being wildly romantic but has no idea what to do or say to cause beautiful creatures to fall at his feet and to stay with him forever. If I had any idea what it is I should be doing or saying, I'd have said or done it by now, Fox. Maybe someday you can help me with it. I love you, too. Walter"

Yep, I knew it. I knew it would be too much for him. That's what you get for showing your hand, Mulder—you get sent the letter you wish you'd written him, except it's easier to quote someone else than to say what you feel in your own words. Still…he does seem to have liked it…almost as much as I like licking little snail trails down Walter's chest and tracing around him until I'm in a good position to go down on him. Almost as much as I like it when he grabs me and starts working me over on the way to screwing me blind. Almost as much as I like thinking about having my computer equipment set up in a panelled den right beside his study, which really needs floor-to-ceiling shelves, in a brick two-story out in Fairfax County…

"To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: love letters in the cybersand

"Walter—don't worry about what to say to me. I think you've already said it. Maybe better, and more, than you've realized. If Montana's not the death of me, we'll talk when I get back. And you can whisper anything in my ear you like, falling asleep or otherwise. Anytime, any place—get it? Will email you tomorrow, lover. Love, Mulder

"Pencils Interlude" III—"The Muldessa File"

Walter Skinner cast his eyes around the dingy East Berlin hotel room. The hotel had been in the height of fashion back when Unter-der-Linden had been the social center of the once-undivided city. Now it was a bedraggled near-ruin, a lady of means turned lady of the evening through no will of her own. He threw his leather suitcase on the bed, opened it, and checked the contents. Necessities. Clean shirts and clean underwear. A razor and shaving cream. Toothbrush and toothpaste. Smith and Wesson. Spare magazines, loaded, packed inside a false can of shaving cream, along with a miniature camera and extra film. Duplicate passport made out to "Wladimir Sergei Stolinski," matching his initials. The crash course in Russian the OSS had provided was near-worthless; however, his language lessons from his grandparents would likely be valuable. The German he'd learned back in Military Intelligence when he'd worked under the Allied Command in Britain had been useful many times over on these missions.

There had been no difficulty passing through the East German checkpoints. His command of German and the handing over of hefty piles of Deutschemarks had seen to that, as had several unopened packs of American cigarettes. He checked further into the suitcase—two more cartons of Camels, two more envelopes of spare currency. All systems go, as usual. He reached down, extracted another necessity—a bottle of J&B—and began to medicate himself with part of its contents poured in a hotel water glass.

He pushed aside the blinds and peered down into the street. No one to be seen, no Black Maria full of men in black coats waiting to see what he did. So far, so good. He took the tumbler and eased himself into the armchair in the corner of the room, waiting for the telephone to ring. Looking at his watch, he realized there could still be some time to go before his contact called. He took a hefty gulp of the Scotch, letting the burn trickle down his throat as he allowed his mind to wander.

Leaving Washington had been a rush. His wife, Sharon, understood that his job for the State Department required sudden travel. His official job description told anyone concerned that he was involved in assisting international commercial development for the government. His government credentials said something similar. The passport he traveled with, however, made him an ordinary business traveler. His wife really knew as little about him as she did about his job. The girl-next-door that he'd married thought he was the same guy she'd known in high school, with the addition of some time in the Marines and a GI Bill education. He felt sorry for Sharon. There was too much she didn't know about him—couldn't know, either for the government's sake or for his own.

Sharon had no idea of the microfilm exchanges. The meetings in back alleys in countries whose language he didn't speak, but where Russian was as good a commodity as cash. The negotiations that ended with his pocketing his silencer and hoping he had a rag to clean his gun. The nights in dingy rooms like this, sometimes alone and drunk, sometimes not alone at all. God forbid she should learn about that part of his trips. Usually it was pleasure; a few times it had been work. Occasionally luck was on his side; then it was both. The German boy who'd been courier last time—beautifully muscled, firm-jawed, crew-cut blond hair, and a gorgeous ass. He'd passed up his payment in return for a night in Skinner's room. Skinner had paid him anyway, the next morning. Dieter had come back the following night on his own.

This time, when Blevins had asked him to take the microfilm, he'd smelled something wrong. He'd had some thoughts about Blevins, just a few speculations. He was reasonably certain that he had nothing to fear personally from Blevins, that Blevins hadn't set him up, but there had been something in Blevins' attitude that had made him wonder if Blevins hadn't been the mole that their superiors so feared. He had no evidence; it woudn't do to complain now. When he got back, however, he'd keep an eye on Blevins. There was something wrong about that man. And Skinner preferred caution as a rule of life; it had kept him alive this far.

A knock at his door. He sat upright, set the drink down, reached for his gun. Who the hell was it? He hadn't expected a personal contact for this. He fitted the silencer as quickly as he could. "Yes?"

"Wladimir Stolinski?" In a Russian accent.

"Da," Skinner replied gruffly, his back now to the wall beside the door.

"My grandfather knew yours in Minsk." Again in Russian. Skinner shook his head to clear the fog. Shit, that was one of the Russians' code phrases. Not an American, but he obviously figured Skinner would know their code.

"I have not been to Minsk in years, comrade." He hoped that was the right reply; he wasn't sure. Was he being set up, or was this some bizarre contact arrangement?

"It's not greatly changed, but many have died." Fuck. Skinner wasn't sure of all the Russian passcodes, but he remembered that the death reference meant there was an emergency.

He bit his lip, held the gun aimed towards the ceiling, reached for the doorknob. "Come in, comrade." He slammed the door behind the visitor and turned to pin the man against the door with his gun. "Now, comrade, explain the meaning of this visit."

Now he could see who he'd pinned to the door. Quite a catch if it wasn't deadly, he decided. About his height, slim but good shoulders. Dark, waved hair, emerald-green eyes, what looked like beautiful hands under black leather gloves. Black pants, black leather coat. Face like a choirboy. This one had better not be deadly; he was far too interesting to want to have to kill him. If this was how they wanted to get him, they'd sent the right agent. "Mr. Stolinski, Marasoff has sent me. Greuning was arrested this afternoon by the KGB. He will not…be calling."

Skinner waved his visitor to the chair, sat on the edge of the bed across from him. "And you are, comrade?"

"Comrade Arntzen. Valery Arntzen." Skinner nodded at the name, didn't believe it for a second. None of them used their real name, it wasn't safe. This wasn't the type of job that called for full disclosure. "Marasoff thought it best that I see you directly. Who knows what telephone line is safe now?"

"True," Skinner agreed. Greuning arrested? That was bad news. Gulag or execution? Of the two, from what Skinner understood, execution was preferable. There might be some way to help Greuning, he supposed, but he couldn't do it himself, and not at the risk of the information exchange. "Would you care for a drink, Comrade Arntzen?" He indicated the bottle of J&B. There was another glass in the room. The housekeeping wasn't quite that negligent.

"Thank you, comrade," Arntzen replied. He had switched to English, not much accented.

Skinner retrieved the other glass and poured for both of them. "Prosit."

"Ah, Scotch," Arntzen sighed happily. "Vodka becomes…a little tiresome? God bless America, as you say. I haven't seen Scotch since they sent me back here from Moscow."

"Your English surprises me," Skinner told him.

Arntzen grinned. "I was raised in the States. My father is a physicist—he defected years ago. I'm only here now because I…was asked. A long and dull story." He sipped at his Scotch, reached into a pocket. "This is from Marasoff. His contingency plans for the exchange." The paper, twice folded, changed hands.

"Thanks." Skinner opened the paper, recognized the code used, tucked it away.

"Dieter says hello."

That was a blow to Skinner's stomach. He'd missed the boy. "How is Dieter?"

"Very well. He's done well for himself, by the way. Marasoff's keeping him." Arntzen gave a tight-lipped smile. "It seems a bit much of a sacrifice to me, but he made the choice himself. He speaks quite fondly of you, however. You made…quite an impression on Dieter."

Skinner looked down at his drink. "The sentiment is mutual," he sighed. "Marasoff, hmm?"

"Marasoff. An unpleasant thought, as I say." Arntzen cast an eye over Skinner. "Dieter was right about you, I see. If there's anything I can do for you before you leave, Comrade Stolinski, it would be my pleasure." He smiled rather more genuinely. "All you have to do is let me know." Eye contact, emerald eyes with deep brown, gold-flecked tigereye. Faint smiles on both sets of lips. Arntzen set the glass down. Slid out of the chair, sank to his knees in front of Skinner. Reached across to him.

Skinner turned in his sleep. Light was coming in through the curtain; it must be morning. He felt the body asleep against him, warm and solid. Arntzen, or whatever his name was, had been remarkably obliging. Dieter had been a pretty German boy, but the Russian was much more than that, not just pretty, but a quite talented lover. Bad news about Gruening, but the mission was having its compensation. Arntzen awoke, began strerching. "Morning, Valery."

Arntzen grinned at Skinner. "You can call me Alexei."

Skinner grinned back. "Walter."

"I know. Walter Skinner. Officially State Department. I checked your papers when you fell asleep."

"Bastard." He kissed Arntzen gently. "Do I see you again before I leave?"

"If you like. I would like that myself."

"Tonight?"

"If I can. You know how hard it is to keep a promise like that. If I'm in Berlin and breathing, and not in jail, I'll be here." He kissed Skinner, slid quickly out of the too-small bed, looked for his clothing. "You have Marasoff's instructions. Good luck, Walter."

Skinner spent the day making visits—a cold call to a business that might expect travelling businessmen to call. A business that fronted for what were termed "certain government interests" back at his office. Then a brief visit to the Consul, and back to his "business meeting" after a long lunch in a cafe off of Unter der Linden. A Soviet agent following him would have noticed little or nothing terribly unusual for an American businessman whose papers were in meticulous order. The only encounter he'd had with anyone outside of the offices or with waiters had been a brief conversation with a young American businessman, the only other American at the cafe at lunch. The young man had been sent to West Berlin on business from the Munich branch of his company, and he'd decided to see what the other side of the wall was about. Skinner had provided him with some friendly advice about the city, bought him a drink, and made sure not to give away his name or hotel. Even so, the young man was plainly innocuous, although extremely attractive. Despite Greuning's arrest, everything seemed to be going well. He'd merely have to renegotiate his contact arrangements, and he could do that comfortably enough in bed with Alex.

Following the directions in the letter from Marasoff, he headed to dinner at a small restaurant and club across the city. It was in the basement of an older building, down a short flight of steps. The food smelled promising, a matter of no small importance to Skinner. Apparently the exchange was to be made here. Skinner felt inside his suit jacket's breast pocket for the envelope with the cash and the maps he'd been requested to provide. Everything was there. The host, a short man with bad teeth in a rusty suit, placed him at a small table near the center of the room.

Skinner glanced around the dining room. Faded burgundy wallpaper, slightly yellowed white trim. It had obviously seen better days, and a better clientele, many years before. However, the few patrons there that evening appeared satisfied with the offerings of the house. Apparently the average East Berlin resident did not eat here; he noticed that the clientele was almost entirely foreign. A few West Germans, a table of French businessmen, and a British diplomat , whom Skinner recognized from a photograph, with his wife. A slight, redhaired woman engrossed in what appeared to be a personal letter sat two tables away. British or American? Skinner wasn't quite sure.

He had little else to do. "Excuse me, ma'am. I was just wondering if you were another American."

She looked up, blue eyes luminous in creamy skin. She might just be a natural redhead, though she tinted it. "Yes, I am. Dana Scully. I'm from Washington, DC."

"What a coincidence. Walter Skinner. I'm from DC, too." They began conversing about general local matters in Washington, and after a few minutes, Skinner invited her to join him at his table. She picked up her pocketbook and moved over with her glass of wine. "Have you eaten here before?"

"No, I haven't," she told him. "Neither have you, I take it." She rummaged in her bag for a second, then slid a small leather case under a napkin on the table unobtrusively, but plainly in Skinner's view, then excused herself for a moment, inclining a finger towards the napkin. He looked around, then slid the napkin towards himself. Feeling for the case and opening it, he stared. Dana K. Scully, USIA. The USIA? If any organization had more activity in it than his, it was USIA. He waited for her to return from powdering her nose.

"I see our employers are friends."

She nodded. "You work with Blevins."

Skinner gave a confirmatory nod. "Yeah. Greuning's been arrested, I hear. I got a note from Marasoff to meet my contact here," he whispered across the table.

"It's not me," she whispered back. "My contact told me the same thing. I don't know what's going on."

They both quieted as the host seated another single patron across the room from them. Skinner did a double-take. It was Marty, the businessman visiting from Munich that he'd met at lunch. He was in a darker suit than earlier, and now wore glasses. "What the hell is HE doing here?" Skinner hissed to Scully. "He was at my restaurant at lunch. What's the chance he'd be here for dinner?"

"Damn," she cursed. "We're being followed."

A waiter stopped at the other American's table to take his drink order. Within a moment, he had left. When he returned, he had a bottle of wine and two glasses. "The gentleman at the other table presents his compliments." The waiter served the wine and slid a note to Skinner along with the other items. He unfolded the note.

After reading it, he crooked a finger at Scully. "Listen up." He began reading. "'Skinner—you've been set up. Not Marasoff's fault, but they're in his organization. Arntzen told me this afternoon. The contact's been picked up—the man who's coming is a police informant. Leave now, head back to your hotel. Let no one in but me or Arntzen. M.' What do you think?"

Scully looked over Skinner's shoulder towards Marty, the American. "I think he's got a gun on his lap under his napkin. He's facing the door—so it looks like he's covering. You know this Arntzen?"

"Yes."

"Do you trust him?"

"I may be crazy—but, yes."

She tapped Skinner's hand. "Then we head for your hotel. I'd guess Marasoff's men are covering it." Picking up her purse, she rose from her seat, Skinner following suit. Skinner pulled out his billfold, threw a handful of currency on the table. He was about to leave the table when he turned back around. He reached over, grabbed the nearly-full bottle of wine. Scully stared at him.

"You think I'm going to let it go to waste?" he shrugged. As they turned to leave, his eye caught Marty's. Marty looked at the wine bottle, back at Skinner, and nodded. He mouthed something that might have been "see you later." Skinner took Scully's arm and walked her to the exit.

As they approached the exit, several men in long black coats pushed their way through. Skinner grabbed Scully, pulling her against the wall with him as the men strode past. "Damn," he whispered, "busted. And me with no gun." "I wouldn't worry," Scully hissed. "Come on." She pulled him further towards the exit. Skinner turned in the direction she'd been facing. The American was crouched on the floor, behind a chair, his gun out. As Scully dragged Skinner to the door, he caught the sound of gunfire coming from the American's direction towards the counterespionage team.

Scully got Skinner outside the door of the building. "We need to go back in there," Skinner pleaded. "He's trapped in there."

"I don't think so," Scully told him. "He seems like he's got a few tricks up his sleeve." They headed towards a side street and headed for cover. A small black car pulled away from a curb.

"Stolinski!" Skinner turned towards the voice calling from the driver's seat.

"Valery."

"You know him?" Scully asked.

"Yeah, it's Arntzen."

"Get in!" Arntzen hissed at them. "Hurry!" Skinner and Scully wasted no time in complying with Arntzen's demand. "I'm taking you back to the hotel. It's safe there. The desk clerk is one of our men. So is the night porter. A couple of Marasoff's men should be outside." He swung the car out into the middle of the street with a lurch and accelerated as quickly as possible. Ignoring as much traffic direction as possible, he headed in the direction of the hotel. "So, Walter, who's your new date?"

"Dana Scully, Alexei," Skinner told him. "She's one of ours. They set her up too. Apparently figured they'd take both of us out. She was at my table when I got the message."

"Check," Arntzen replied. "We think we've got a line on our leak, but unfortunately all of this happened first."

"Who was the man who sent the note?" Scully asked. "He was still in there when we left, and he was shooting."

"He'll be all right," Arntzen replied quietly. "He's one of your best men. He was in Moscow. We thought it advisable to call him in yesterday. With Greuning being taken, we couldn't be too careful. As you see," Arntzen continued, "we still were not careful enough. My apologies, on behalf of Marasoff."

They pulled up in front of the hotel. Arntzen spoke a few words to the doorman, then escorted Scully and Skinner out of the car. The doorman took the wheel. "He's Marasoff's," Arntzen assured them as he led them in. A nod to the desk clerk, then a whispered exchange. The desk clerk reached behind the counter and handed over another key. Arntzen handed it to Scully. "It's next to his room," Arntzen said, indicating Skinner. "I'm sure you'd appreciate some privacy at some point?"

"Thank you," Scully replied as she followed him, Skinner following, up to Skinner's room. Skinner unlocked the door; Arntzen entered first, gun drawn.

"Clear," he called. "Come on in." They followed him inside. Skinner shed his jacket, setting the wine on the bureau. Scully placed her purse and room key on the bureau. Skinner ushered her to the chair.

"Glass of wine?" Skinner asked Arntzen. "Your friend sent it over for dinner. Seemed a shame to waste it."

Arntzen shook his head. "I'd love to, Walter, but I've got to go back out. Save me a glass; I'll have it later."

Skinner eyed him. "You'll be back later, then?"

"As I said this morning, if I can, I will be." Arntzen's gaze softened. "And I will do anything I can to make that possible. You know that." He touched Skinner's shoulder lightly, then slipped out the door. Skinner locked it behind Arntzen.

Scully looked at Skinner as he poured their wine into two hotel tumblers. "You seem to know Comrade Arntzen quite well," she observed.

"I met him yesterday." Skinner sipped at the wine. "Marty" had chosen well.

She scrutinized him again. "Really."

"Really," Skinner responded, loosening his tie and opening his shirt collar. "Why? Is there a problem?"

Scully shook her head. "No. I'm just…surprised. You don't seem that type."

"What type?" Skinner inquired cautiously.

"You know," Scully stated flatly, turning her attention to her wine. "I really don't care, but I confess I'm a little disappointed. I was hoping for a more…interesting…time while we waited."

"I'm flattered," Skinner replied easily, "but, as you say. I trust that won't make its way back to Washington?"

Scully smiled over the top of her glass. "Despite Senator McCarthy's pronouncements, Mr. Skinner, I've yet to see proof of a security risk on our side in this operation. You've been in this game long enough; if you say he's trustworthy, I won't argue it. Anything else is none of my business if it doesn't include me. I'm just a bit sorry that it won't."

Skinner raised his glass to her. "The feeling is mutual, Miss Scully. I hate to disappoint a lady."

Scully grinned at him. "I'm stretching out on this side of the bed. I'm not sure it's a good idea to split up yet. I am taking off my stockings first. I figure you're more likely to be disturbed than interested, so don't peek."

Skinner clapped a hand over his eyes. "I guarantee your safety."

"Unfortunately," Scully laughed. She shed her stockings quickly and laid them on the bureau. "There. It's just been the damndest day, and we didn't need this leak on top of the Greuning business." She sat on the opposite edge of the bed, then laid down. "My head is pounding. Don't mind me if I nap, please."

Rolling up his sleeves, Skinner looked out the window. "No problem."

About an hour and a half later, Skinner having killed the better part of the wine as he sat in the windowside chair, a knock came at his door. He set his near-empty glass down, reached for his pistol, and approached the door. "Who's there?"

"Marty. From the restaurant."

Skinner opened the door a crack, peered through the tiny opening. Tall, slender, Roman nose, hazel eyes—no mistaking anyone else for this man. How it was possible that he managed to do his job unnoticed with his looks was beyond Skinner's imagining. "Come on in."

"Is Alexei here?" were the first words out of his mouth as he entered the room; then he noticed Scully stretched across Skinner's bed. "Oh…I'm sorry…I…"

"No." Skinner shook his head. "Nothing like that." Scully woke at the noise, opened her eyes slowly, looked up. "We thought we'd better stick together until we heard from someone. Alexei left about two hours ago."

Marty looked worried. "Two hours, you say? May I borrow your phone?" He called down to the front desk, muttered something unintelligible in what Skinner took to be gutter German. A telephone call out from the hotel, flawless and more polite Russian from Marty's mouth. "Damn. Where is he? He should have been here by now."

Scully pulled herself up, combed her fingers through her hair, and excused herself, stepping into the bathroom. The running water could be heard in the hotel room itself even with the bathroom door closed. Marty turned, looked Skinner over. "Alex was here with you last night?"

Skinner looked at Marty, surprised. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm just trying to track what's been going on, trying to figure where he is. He told me he was here with you overnight." Skinner winced. "Alexei's a very old friend, Mr. Skinner. There aren't many secrets between us. A good bit of water under the dam, at this point, you understand…but no secrets."

"You and he…?"

Marty nodded. "Two years. We're still…close." The water stopped running; the conversation ceased. Dana Scully emerged from the bathroom looking comparatively fresh. Another knock at the hotel room door, at nearly the same time. "Let me answer that. Who is it?" he called out in German.

"Brian." Marty opened the door, admitting a young, red-haired man who could have passed for a college student. "Any word on Arntzen?"

"Yeah, Marty, that's why I'm here. We need to get over to Greuning's office. They lured him over there, and they've got him surrounded. It's Brezinzki's men. Brezinzki's the mole."

"Shit." Marty hit his forehead with his hand, then checked to see that he'd reloaded his weapon. "Skinner—are you up to a field trip?"

Skinner nodded, jammed his Smith and Wesson in his waistband. "I'm in."

Scully scrambled for her purse, removed a .32 Walther. "I'm going with you."

"Miss Scully," Skinner protested.

"Brezinzki set me up, too, damn it. I'm not sitting around and doing nothing about it. I want a piece of whoever did this." She grabbed her stockings and headed to the bathroom again. "One minute."

"My car's outside," Brian told Marty and Skinner. "I already called Arntzen's men; they should be over there by now." Scully returned a moment later, stockings on, and slipped into her shoes. "All of us?" Brian asked. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."

The four exited the hotel and clambered into the young agent's Mercedes sedan. About ten minutes of hazardous driving, which Skinner thought should have alerted the police but didn't, resulted in their pulling up jerkily in front of a gray concrete building looking much like almost every other one in its block. Skinner could see the cars stationed across the street, grim-faced young men, mostly German nationals by looks, waiting for…something. "Ours or theirs?" Skinner asked.

"I recognize those two cars," Marty told him. "They're ours. Schmidt, across the corner, is a good man. Brian—are any of these guys theirs?"

Brian wound down the driver's window and stuck his head out cautiously. "For sure…that one in the short jacket, under the light, is one of theirs."

"I'm going to go over there and start a fight with him," Marty warned him. "Brian, Skinner, Miss Scully—you're all armed…head up to Greuning's office. Skinner, I'm trusting you to find Alex up there. I'll come up with Schmidt once we've taken out a few of their boys out here. Brian, you lead them on up."

"Check." The short redheaded man drew a .38 revolver from under his jacket and waved for Skinner and Scully to follow him. He yanked open a heavy metal door, waving for them to follow him up a dark flight of wooden stairs. Skinner could feel the treads bend under his feet. The odor was…less than pleasant. He looked up at Dana Scully, who was between Brian and him on the stairs, and saw her cover her nose with a handkerchief. It seemed wise; he followed suit. They turned at the landing and headed up another steep flight. Skinner drew his own gun, holding it close to his side. Brian stopped at the next landing and reached for the knob of a glass-and-wood door leading down a shabbily carpeted, dark hallway. "Three doors down on the left," he hissed.

Gunshots, several, overlapping; Skinner couldn't count the exact number.

From outside the building, evidently. Brian turned around to Skinner and to Scully. "Marty and the guys. No way to tell what's happening—we've just got to go on in and get Arntzen." Skinner nodded, not quite numbly. He stepped ahead of Brian, gun in hand. Scully followed, her own gun now exposed. The Walther glinted in the dim light, a deadly jewel. Skinner was glad of her presence. She was level-headed and tough enough for this work—many men he'd known couldn't do it. The three hugged the wall, heading down to the door to Greuning's office. Before Skinner could reach it, gunshots again, this time from inside the office; footsteps coming up the stairs behind them, running, apparently in response to the shots. Skinner didn't wait; he kicked in the office door. Two of Brezinski's men were on the floor, dead if Skinner had ever seen a dead man. A third, older man, lit cigarette dangling between his lips, clutched his left arm, still holding a gun, leaning against a wall..

Valery Arntzen, Alexei, lay on the floor. His eyes were open, he was still moving, but a bloodstain was growing across the shirt under his black jacket. Skinner pushed ahead of the other two who were with him. Alexei's gun was by his side; he looked up as Skinner knelt down. "I…got the other two…before he got me…" came out with effort. "I…I…won't be over tonight, Walter…"

Skinner pressed a finger to Alexei's lips. "He shot you?" he asked, inclining his head towards the standing man. His friend, his lover of last night, nodded with some difficulty. Skinner took a breath, turned, and shot. "That's for you. And Marty." Alexei nodded weakly, lowered his head again.

"Skinner!" Scully swallowed, alarmed. "What are you doing?"

"Just what it looked like." He put his own gun down, opened Alexei's shirt. Ugly. Very. If nothing else, the now-dead man by the wall had shot all too well before Alexei had winged him.

Marty burst in, saw Brian and Scully in shock, then Skinner on the floor with Alexei. He knelt down himself, cradled the dark-haired head, ignoring the blood. "Alexei." Strangled, half-swallowed.

Alexei looked up again as best he could. "Fox…"

"Shhh. Don't try to talk." He looked over at Skinner. "I guess we were late."

Skinner stared back. He spoke slowly, precisely, flatly. "I killed the one who got him. The one over there."

"Thanks." Marty, real name possibly Fox, ran a hand through the dying man's hair. "I owe you one, Skinner."

"Walter. And you don't owe me. I did it too late."

Scully and Brian came over to the two men, watched them lay out their comrade on the floor. Brian helped Marty up; Marty dropped a hand on his shoulder. "At least Schmidt and I took care of everyone out there. He and the boys have one fool left who's going to give them Brezinski's location. Look, Pendrell, can you call for some of the boys to come in and clean up? I…need some air…"

Brian, Pendrell, nodded. "Sure, Marty. I understand. You go on; I'll get this place taken care of."

"I'll help." That from Dana Scully. "I've done cleanup ops before. Never like this. But I know the work."

"Thanks," he told her, heading to a gray metal desk. "Let's start with the files."

Marty reached out awkwardly, laid a hand on Skinner's shoulder. "Look…maybe you'd better come with me."

Skinner read the grief on the younger man's face, wanted to give him his privacy. "No, no…go ahead, Fox. You need it."

"So do you; I can tell. It's all right, Walter. You…loved him, too." He squeezed the other man's shoulder. "Come on, we both need to drink."

Skinner nodded, reached for Marty's hand, and, blindly, followed the younger agent out of the office, back towards the light outside. Marty, Fox, was right. He really didn't want to be alone now.

Later, Walter Skinner rolled over in his bed, still sleeping. Bumping against a warm, comfortable form next to him, he woke slightly. "Uhh…"

"Bad dream?" Fox Mulder, his companion in the bed, was immediately awake.

"No…well, sort of, more like a spy movie…" He rubbed his face. Had he really just dreamed something involving fucking Alex Krycek? He'd better not pass that part along, he figured.

"You have to quit eating pizza with everything before bed, Walt. Let's get back to sleep if you're okay. You are okay?" Mulder blocked an immediate response to the question with his lips.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Night, Fox." He pulled his lover closer to him, his arms around Mulder, Mulder's head pillowed against his shoulder. It couldn't have been that bad a dream, come to think of it…after all, he'd wound up with Mulder.

VIII. "Less a Stranger Then" by MJ

"But Dagobert and Peregrine and I Were children then; we walked like shy gazelles Among the music of the flower bells. And life still held some promise—never ask Of what—but life seemed less a stranger then, Then ever after in this cold existence. I always was a little outside life…" —Edith Sitwell, "Colonel Fantock"

I'm not a fool, and I refuse to be taken lightly. That's the story of my life as a woman, especially as a short woman. You have to fight for respect from others no matter how much you have for yourself. Ahab always told me to stand my ground, to stick up for myself, and I did. Even when it disappointed him more than anything else I've ever done in my life. I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but I am a trained investigator, and a good one. Took honors in Physics in college, graduated third in my class in med school, fourth in my class at Quantico. I am presumably intelligent and know something about my work.

Therefore, I saw the signs and interpreted them correctly immediately. Well, somewhat correctly; I take that back. Fox Mulder, my beautiful, brilliant idiot savant of a partner had the 302 for New Mexico in his hand. Even I agreed that the investigation was worth it. Not an X-File by my way of thinking, but certainly a string of killings that deserved FBI attention -and who better than we to cut through the phony occult crap and prove that this wasn't a series of Satanic rituals? These local police with their "cult crime" workshops do more harm than good, as far as I can tell. But that's another story. Anyway, there he was, off to Skinner's office to get it signed so we could take our dog and pony show on the road. I looked forward to the trip. Much of New Mexico is beautiful. And I love turquoise jewelry; I could look for some if we had time.

Now, getting Skinner to sign a 302 should be a matter of fifteen minutes if he likes it, thirty if he needs convincing. Longer than that, and Mulder's back in the office cooking up another scheme; God, they remind me of Bugs and Elmer. Anyway, Mulder shows up nearly an hour later. His jacket's off—hey, he doesn't even have it with him—and his tie is crooked; it's loose, too, for that matter, and so is his collar. The face is flushed; the hair is—whoa, his hair's a wreck. I don't see lipstick, but what the hell, the signs are all there. We've been hiding in a broom closet making out with one of the receptionists, haven't we, sailor? Yeah, I figure I've got Mulder's number but good.

Now, don't get me wrong. Jealousy is not part of the game plan here. Mulder's my partner, and I love him to pieces. He's closer to me than some -well, maybe all—of the men I've actually dated, actually slept with. He's closer to me than my brother Bill is. He's the very best friend I've had in my life, the only one I've had to trust with it, and Lord knows he's always come through for me. Therefore, it is my solemn duty to razz him with all my might and be sure that he is properly harassed at all times. "So, did you have a good time?"

"Huh?" He looks startled. Two points for me.

"C'mon, Mulder, it doesn't take that long to get a 302 signed, even for you…who's the cutiepie that got your hair mussed?"

"Scully!" Alarm? Hey, this is good. Two more points…maybe three, if she's married…boy, Mulder's putting on the indignant act.

"Mulder, your hair is a mess, your face is flushed, you're breathing like there's an oxygen shortage, your collar's open, your tie's crooked, and I think you left your jacket in whatever broom closet you and the steno pool were making out in. And you're grinning like you just won the football pool. Don't lie. I'm a doctor. I know the signs of making out in the office. Who's the lucky blonde?"

"Scully…" His "warning" voice, the one that drops an octave on the second syllable. Hit a nerve, did I? We'll see. I'll wait for tomorrow. If he shows up in the same suit…oh, yeah, we got him good.

»»»

Damn. He called Skinner, claims he's tailing a suspect in Baltimore and won't be in…hell, I know better than that. He's chasing tail in Baltimore is more like it…hmmm, we've got a couple of secretaries from up that way; I really ought to go find out who's called in sick…Blast, Skinner called in sick himself. Too bad; I wanted to go over this New Mexico business with him. Tomorrow. After I'm done having grilled Mulder on a stick for my morning snack. Ooh, is he gonna suffer. Trying to pull one over on Dana Scully, are we, Mulder? Forgetting that your partner's the woman who can solve all mysteries? Ooh, am I gonna get you good. Just remember, I wouldn't harass you and make your life miserable if I didn't love you. That's what teasing's about.

»»»

I arrive at the office early…very early, just in case he thinks that he'll beat me in so I won't be able to ask him any questions as he walks in the door. Yep, the first one in. Lights on, make coffee, meditate on this sack of cheese danish I bought on the way in. I should wait for Mulder to eat. Sex burns up calories, and he might not have had enough food to sustain his activity level yesterday…well, I can hope, right? I should get that lucky. I'd love to have an excuse to call in sick because I'm getting laid myself. I don't begrudge him pulling that on me—I got a lot done without his being in, or maybe because he wasn't—but I wish he'd be a good little boy and spill the beans to his gossip-deprived partner here.

Aha. Here he comes. He must have gone home last night—he's wearing a different suit and tie. However…observe, if you will, the shit-eating grin. Notice the glassy stare. Detect, if you look closely, the signs of a hickey showing over the collar. Note the air of slight exhaustion surrounding the victim. He's walking normally, though…well, pretty much. Yes indeed, we're all fucked out. Good for you, boy; I'm proud of you. If anybody deserved it—or needed it—it's you. Just quit pretending you're not getting any, huh? "So, Mulder, how was Baltimore?"

"Didn't pan out, Scully; I lost the guy."

"Too bad, Mulder; I was hoping you got some tail—I mean, you got the guy you were tailing."

"Really, Scully…"

"Mulder, you're getting laid; just admit it, huh? This is me, Scully, you're talking to, buddy. I'm happy for you. Just give your partner here the dope, huh?"

"Scully…" He's looking wounded. I back off. Next thing you know, he'll be invoking something about gentlemen. Yeah, right; you've spilled it before, Mulder old buddy—this one must be married. "All right. I'm seeing somebody. Let it ride, okay?"

"Only if you buy me lunch at Monteverdi's." Plenty of time to work this out later; not so much time to eat gnocchi with pesto and sun-dried tomatoes. You only live once; you need to work out your timing on these things.

»»»

Oh, Jesus. No wonder Mulder didn't want to talk about it…I don't believe this. Skinner? SKINNER? I'm not wrong about this, though. It's pretty damn obvious.

Skinner's reaming Mulder out about this Mew Mexico investigation. Mulder ought to be bitching, or protesting, or pacing the office floor at getting told his investigation plan is full of holes. What's he doing? He's sitting there nodding, biting his lip, and telling Skinner he could be right. And Walter Skinner? The king of creating new bodily orifices on agents' bodies? He's fidgeting with a pencil and staring at his desk while he's reading Mulder the riot act.

If that's not enough, then he actually makes eye contact with Mulder. And he swallows. Like he's vaguely embarrassed at complaining about anything. And then he looks straight at Mulder like a starving man looking at a fully cooked—dare I say it?—rump roast. I know that look—God, it's been a while since I got looked at like that, hasn't it? I wish somebody'd look at me like that…Skinner's practically drooling over his desk at him. And Mulder—that is the worst job I have ever seen of pretending that you're not staring at somebody. Give up, Mulder. If you were any more obvious about pretending you're not staring at Skinner you'd be throwing yourself around his ankles ignoring him.

And it dawns on me. Who was out of this building all day yesterday while Mulder was pretending he was tailing someone in Baltimore? My boss who called in sick. Walter Skinner. Who's never out sick, even when he's got a bug and he's dying. Oh. Yeah. And it was coming back from Skinner's office that Mulder came into our office looking like he'd just gotten pawed by a horde of sex-starved elderly virgins…duh. My brilliant deductive faculties have done it. I've solved another one. Okay, guys, if you want to pretend this business with you two isn't going on, I guess I can play along for a while.

»»»

There's a town here in New Mexico that's actually called Truth Or Consequences. I don't know, but this damn "three houses, two bars, and a truck stop" town we're in feels a lot like "consequences" to me. This case is nothing, it turns out—just as I figured—but no, it has to lead us into a real case that's going to keep us here extra days. I finish showering, fix my hair, and try to decide what to wear. Mulder is taking me "out on the town," as he put it, for dinner tonight. Normally, I'd be pleased at the thought. Mulder and I do go out occasionally on cases, and sometimes we call each other up to go out on the weekend, because he's one of the few men I've ever known who really likes to dance. I love to dance. I always have. I took ballet lessons—I had an aqua tutu—and tap lessons. I took jazz dance in college as a physical education class. I love moving to music, whether there's anyone around or not; I dance by myself sometimes when I get home, just to work off stress from the day. No, we've never been on a date -and I guess we're not likely to go out on one now…but we've always gone out dancing together.

I can hardly believe that Mulder's found anyplace around here where you can dance, but then, Mulder always finds the most surprising things. He swears this place is supposed to have the best ribs in the area, too. Not that there are any decent restaurants around here that we've found yet. I guess machine washable clothing is called for if ribs are on the agenda. Jeans and a shirt. That'll do. I pour myself intro my clothes and grab the boots I bought when we passed through Albuquerque. Time to knock on Mulder's door.

He lets me into the room, still in his bathrobe. God, he packed a bathrobe. I wonder if Skinner did his packing for him, or at least supervised. I plunk myself down on the unused bed, picking the files up from the table in passing. While he finishes up—why do men take so long to get ready to go anywhere?—I look over the photographs again. I don't want to do a second autopsy on the one victim, but it looks like I'll have to, doesn't it? I should just pack a complete surgical kit everywhere I go. One of the hazards of working with Mulder.

The telephone rings; I reach over, but Mulder jumps for it. Guess he doesn't want me to hear the voice on the other end, huh? So I stare at the files like I'm actually looking at them and instead, I listen. Ha. "Hi…yeah, I'm fine…I—um—look, I've got someone else in here…yes, of course…come on, she's my PARTNER, not…yeah, I know you're teasing me…mmm hmm…yeah, me too…" That last bit in a voice I've never heard him use before. Whoa. Our boy's in love, Dana—or at least some pretty heavy duty lust. Never would have thought Walter Skinner had it in him, but hey, you never know. "Yeah, same here…mmm…you, too…" A really deep chuckle. Never heard one like that from Mulder before, either. Skinner must be getting pretty darn racy on the other end—yeah, he must be; Mulder's flushing like a plate of Harvard beets. Hoo, boy. So Walter Skinner gets like that on the phone? God, I'd love to be able to hear what he's saying; either Mulder's one really lucky bastard, or he embarrasses way too easy. I vote for the former, given that fucking grin he's got plastered all over his face. "Same here…You, too…I'll call you later, okay?"

He hangs up the phone. I can't help it, I have to do this. I need to let him know I'm not totally stupid. "That your new friend, Mulder?"

"Yeah." He blushes again. "Pretty obvious, huh?"

"Only slightly. How is he?"

"What?" He looks startled. Sussed you out, boy, didn't I? You're not startled I suggested it, you're alarmed that I'm right. Come on, Mulder, I know you.

"I asked you how he's doing. Come on, Mulder, he is a he, isn't he? I'm not stupid."

He starts buttoning his shirt. "Damn, you're good, Scully."

"Damn straight, Mulder." I toss the files aside. "Um, maybe I should make that 'Damn right.' I'm going to have to watch that 'straight' bit now, huh?" I make sure he can see that I'm smiling.

He raises an eyebrow. "Uh…are we gonna have a problem with this?"

Now it's my turn to do the shocked and indignant bit. "Mulder, you're talking to me. Dana Scully. I've been your partner how long? Look, you think I care? I'm just glad one of us is getting somewhere with having a real life. I'm happy you're happy, all right?"

He looks me over like I might be one of his aliens. "You're sure?"

"Look, Mulder, just because we've never talked about it doesn't mean I'm weird about it. Come on, half the men in DC are gay, aren't they? Maybe two-thirds, from what I can figure. Relax."

He finishes arranging his clothing. Yeah, Mulder, you really look Western. Of course, I don't exactly look like Dale Evans myself. "So, Scully…still want to go dancing?"

I just stare. "Of course, you idiot. Hurry up or we won't get to eat first." You know, I really should have known all along. Not about Skinner, but…I mean, look at that build, likes to dance, he's good at it…hell, I've gone to the gay dance clubs in DC with friends before. Duh. Good Lord, he's taken me to a couple of them to go dancing. I always figured it was just because they had the best dance floors. I can solve anything, but sometimes I'm just a tiny bit slow at it, okay?

»»»

This place is a dump. Or, should I say, dive. It's a good thing we both have guns packed—at least, I think he put that ankle holster on; he's not wearing boots—because this looks like the sort of place that features a nightly brawl as part of the festivities. I'd heard that this was the decent place in town—if this is the decent place, I don't feel up to imagining the real dive. I hope I can hold out for the evening because I don't want to investigate the ladies' room here. It's crowded, it's noisy, the parking lot is full of rusting pickup trucks, the beer is cheap, and the ribs really are great. I don't want to know what the cook puts in her secret barbecue sauce, so I just pig out and try not to imagine it. The band comes in to set up while we're halfway through dinner.

"God, Mulder, it's country music. I hate country music."

"Yeah," he observes, "but you can dance to it."

"Okay, whatever." The waitress clears our plates, brings over another pitcher of beer. If I work up a really good sweat, maybe I won't have to use the ladies' room anyway, maybe I'll make it back to the motel.

It's a slow number. Mulder's good with slow dancing. Most men I know seem to hate it. He must have had lessons when he was a kid; he doesn't even flinch. Nice to know he doesn't feel awkward about getting arms around me to dance now that I've told him I pretty much know…

I'm having a bit of trouble finding my rhythm to this song, even though Mulder leads really well. A stray thought flashes through my mind—I wonder which one of them leads?—and then I try to fix on the bass player. "I thought you said country was easy to dance to."

"It is," he grins. "You just toss back a few brews, and you catch the words, and you think about being in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time with exactly the wrong person, which is usually what they're singing about anyway…"

My eyes widen. I don't think he was pulling a cheap shot, but, "I apologize for being the wrong person, Mulder."

He shakes his head. "I didn't mean you, Scully…" He maneuvers us to a different spot on the floor; it's getting crowded here. "But let's just say that if Krycek walked in…" Oh. That's interesting…of course, I wasn't around when that was going on, was I. I file that for future reference.

The next song's a little faster; the beat's a little easier for me to move to, a little less what I think of as country. And I've had a few beers, I'm just a little what my mother calls tipsy…and the ribs were great…and I'm gonna solve this damn case…and I'm out with my best friend, and I'm dancing…and someday I'm gonna meet someone who'll make me look exactly the way Skinner makes him look…

Yeah. Life's pretty good.

IX. "Bold Oxlips and the Crown Imperial" By MJ

Reverend Sirs, For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep Seeming and savour all the winter long. …Here's flow'rs for you: Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the Sun And with him rises weeping. These are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. …Now, my fair'st friend, I would I had some flowers o' th' spring that might Become your time of day.……Daffodils That come before the swallow dares and take The winds of March with beauty; violets—dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primeroses, That die unmarried ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength (a malady Most incident to maids); bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flow'r-de-luce being one! From "The Winter's Tale"

I throw my garment bag on the bed, unzip it, and pull out two suits and four shirts. I have no desire to be seen in the suit I am wearing unless I can have it sent to the cleaner before wearing it again; there is something about airline travel that is most assuredly detrimental to any suit forced to undergo its tribulations. I kick off my shoes, throw my suit jacket and tie on the chair beside the alleged table near the hotel room drapes, and roll up my sleeves.

Somewhere in my carry-on—there, I knew I had that bottle of Scotch packed. Two fingers' worth poured, neat, and I hurl myself on top of the hotel bed. Yes, it stands to reason; I have been given the usual hotel combination—the mattress firmer and more unyielding than a layer of sheet metal combined with the fluffy pillows that flatten into nothingness and wilt the second your head reaches their vicinity. I look at the electronic key card to reassure myself that the Bureau has checked me into an allegedly luxury business hotel. It occurs to me that Mulder probably gets better sleep on his bizarre travels at the Motel 666's that he always seems to be able to locate than I am going to get this week at a presumably premier establishment.

Mulder. I have invoked the name; I suppose I should give up now at any pretense of getting work done this evening; no real point in reviewing my remarks for tomorrow's meeting, which I have all but memorized, or in doing any of the other work I would presumably engage myself in doing after unwinding. A week apart from him is uncomfortable enough anyway; this week, however, not only are we apart but I am the one forced out on the road and authorized to be homesick.

There is nothing I would prefer right now to crawling naked under the sheets with my lover, an assuredly hopeless longing. I would give almost anything at the moment to feel that firm, hard body pressing against me, those long, elegant fingers reaching over to unbutton my shirt and peel it off of my aching shoulders. Those lips of his pressing against the back of my neck, parting slightly for him to nibble his way along the cords of the muscles on either side. Strong fingers pressing into the knots at the base of my neck. "Walter, hold still for a minute and let me work these out for you." Mmmm. Humans were not meant to fly in airplanes. We were meant to stay home and have beautiful men rub our necks, our backs, and anything else they can reach. I have worked too long and too hard for too many years to be sent off to conferences like this. It is time, instead, for me to be allowed to have a gorgeous, adoring man fawning all over me. I am, after all, a trained professional. I can handle it.

I take another sip of my Scotch and let out a sigh. It vaguely occurs to me that men my age are rewarded for seducing women half our age or less, and going for younger blood seems to be all but ingrained in the male psyche. Maybe it is a biological drive to keep spreading seed into childbearing females. We have plenty to offer younger women that they tend to want—the job status, the cars, the disposable income, the sexual prowess all lacking in men their own age.

But—younger men? That draws not admiration but astonishment, even annoyance, and not only, I think, because of society's opinion of gay men generally. The older/younger male relationship often draws remarks like "trick," "rent boy," and any number of other comments indicating that, rather than your drawing the envy of other men your age, there is something not quite kosher about the relationship. A younger man would not be there if it were not for your money; it could not be for you. Being in a relationship with a younger man certainly causes more angst. When you look at a younger woman in bed with you, you marvel that you lucked out. With a younger man, however, you see the man you used to be that many years before and you get to determine your level of physical deterioration. In the case of Fox Mulder -well, I don't need to look at him twice to know that I was never him. I was never that beautiful; could not have been, even had I tried. Should I even mention what looking at him does to my reminisences of once actually having had hair?

At least I know he is not in this relationship for my money. After my divorce I hardly qualify as well-heeled, and Mulder, for all of his nonchalance about it, is the sole heir of his father's estate. It hardly qualifies as a fortune, by my understanding of his comments, but he is by no means hurting for money. As quiet as the two of us are, he is plainly not social climbing, and given my actual status at the Bureau, he can hardly be accused of sleeping his way up. I have the luxury of knowing that he may well be insane, but that his interest in me is, at least, for me and not for what I could allegedly give him out of this relationship. Where did I put that bottle of Scotch? I need to drink myself into a better frame of mind.

I force myself off of the bed, opting to duck into the infernally undersized bathroom here and relieve myself quickly before returning to my drinking session. I think again, grab my key card and the ice bucket, and pad down the hallway to the ice bin. A younger man is shoveling ice into a bucket from his own room. His jeans are tight enough to be painted on his body; I can hardly help noticing that the ass bending over in front of me is more than worthy of a second look. He knows I'm looking, damn it. It may be a cute ass, but I can do without it tonight.

The only thing I really want, besides another drink, on the rocks this time, is Mulder, and this boy is no substitute for either. Close-cropped black hair, moustache, pierced ear, could be better-built; not what I want by a longshot. He raises an eyebrow at me, nods his head down he hall to where I suppose his room is; I shake my head "No." He nods, shrugs. No, his unspoken message is right. I don't know what I'm missing. Nor am I inclined to find out. He's not old enough yet to know that the simple physical fact of getting your rocks off does not always make things better.

Back to the room, feeling rather more alone than before. Where is that Scotch? Oh, right, on the desk, beside my laptop. Two fingers again, and then I fill the glass with ice. I could boot up the laptop and check my e-mail, maybe see if anyone I know is in a chat room. No, too much like work. And the depressing likelihood of bumping into some anonymous jerk anxious for cybersex is too great. Even cybering with Mulder depresses me; it makes me far too desperate for actual contact with him. And cybering with some unknown clown—well, I got tired of anonymous pickups and fast tricks a long time ago. I have reached the point where sex needs to mean something or I may as well not have bothered.

Which puts me in mind of last night—there; a significantly more cheering thought. And how could it not be? Mulder in my arms, squirming in pleasure as I tongued at the dusky rose of his nipples, babbling something incoherent about being my love slave…my mouth on him, taking him as far as I could, then pulling back, teasing him with the tip of my tongue, watching him pound feebly at the side of the bed as I worked, then back down on his erection. Then, inside him, my own erection surrounded by tight, hot, slick muscle clenching against me, losing myself inside him, faintly aware of his moaning in my ear, and my own groans of pleasure as I let myself go. Collapsing on top of him, hearing a quiet "I love you" whispered in my ear afterwards. My own, sleepy "I love you, too," into his hair.

I work on my drink, watching the melting ice trail water streams into the surrounding alcohol. Several thoughts present themselves—the television, a pay-per-view porn flick and a quick jerk-off, looking at the work I brought with me, finishing this drink and turning in for the night, maybe working on killing this bottle and getting seriously drunk. The latter is hardly my normal routine, but it seems to fit the mood—however, I am speaking fairly early on tomorrow's agenda. No more than one more, Walter. This is the part I always hated about field work—killing an evening in a motel room when you're out of sorts and there is nothing to do. I hope Mulder never thinks that I don't know what it's like. I have spent more years at this than I hope he ever will. I hope that I can scratch travel duty off of my job description one of these days—attending these trainings and presenting is not one of the great thrills of my career, no more than the nights on the road were when I worked the field. One difference now, however…when I was married to Sharon, I would never have said "No" to that invitation earlier. I never ached for Sharon when I was away.

Have I gotten that much older? Have I gone that soft? Am I that seriously besotted with Fox Mulder? Yes, probably to all three. I am older; it may be time I came close to growing up. I can afford not to flay myself or those around me any more, regardless of what my agents may think at work. And yes…definitely…I am that wrapped up in Mulder. Love is not what I expected it to be. In many ways it is the very opposite of what Sharon, and everyone in my generation, for that matter, seems to have been looking for.

Decision-making time. That third Scotch? Go to the bathroom, set up the coffeemaker for morning? Make coffee now, and pay actual attention to the cable news talking heads? Sleep. or attempt to, in a hotel bed? I flip a coin mentally; sleep, or a facsimile, wins out of sheer boredom. The news is the same as it was an hour ago; the cable channels are showing what they showed yesterday; I read the work I brought on the flight in.

Off come the remains of my suit. I decide to look for a cleaner in the morning. I hate unknown cleaners. I am quite sure that the suit will be fine, but my shirts and I have an image to uphold. Mulder accuses me of owning more white cotton shirts than any other man on earth, and he may be right. I own them, and I care about how I look in them. Yes, I do dress this way for the effect. Until Mulder told me, however, I had no idea that an unplanned effect of my shirts was pronounced sexual arousal on the part of certain subordinates. Particularly him.

Damn, this bed is going to be lonely. I imagine Mulder curled up at his apartment, the television on, some idiotic book by Charles Berlitz or Charles Fort open for review, him in a t-shirt and sweats, curled on that sofa of his where he'll fall asleep while he's reading. He invariably does that when alone, he seems to hate being in a bed by himself. I am dimly starting to understand it myself.

I crawl in bed, turn out the light near the headboard. Maybe if I think about Mulder drifting off on his sofa, with his tank of tropical fish there with him, I might fall asleep.

Damn. You get in bed early, someone always winds up pounding at your door. Did I call housekeeping for extra towels? No. Someone else here for the conference trying to bother me in advance. I wish they would quit that routine. I get up, pad to the door. "Who is it?"

"Room service."

I must be tired; I am quite certain I did not call room service. The waiter has to be confused. I open the door.

There he stands…carying an overnight bag. Mulder?

He smiles at me, enters and pushes the door shut, leans over and kisses me while I stand in shock. "Sorry if I woke you up…I just had this funny feeling I wasn't going to sleep well tonight by myself…so I thought I'd surprise you. You don't mind?"

Right now, I sincerely doubt that I will ever mind anything again.

X. "The Rain is Full of Ghosts Tonight" by MJ

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning: but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass, and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

The rain pounds at the balcony window like a boxer at his opponent. I listen to it, sipping at a glass of single malt: The MacAllan, neat. I should go to bed. Instead, I find myself looking through my cigars. A small one, a Macanudo Claybourne; it will smoke quickly enough, and then I will try to sleep again.

By all rights, I should not have insomnia. By all rights, I should be in the bed upstairs, wrapped around the warm, hard body sleeping there with me. But I cannot sleep, so, rather than toss and turn and wake Fox up, I slid out of bed and came down for a drink. So here I am, me and my Scotch and my cigar and the rain. The wind blew through the rain a few minutes ago—the wail of the banshee, Fox told me earlier this evening. Banshees, ghosts, what have you; only they would be out on a night like this.

The rain pours steadily now, no longer coming in waves, its percussion a counterpoint to my breath, a counterpoint to the faint electric hum from the kitchen—the refrigerator, I suppose. I listen more closely; surely I should hear the air conditioning as well, I think, but I cannot separate its sound from the silence around me. Too long an exposure to its white noise has numbed me to its sound.

Too long an exposure to anything is numbing, is it not? I numbed myself to Sharon in my seventeen years with her. God help me if I become numbed again. Never let me take Fox Mulder for granted, ever. I would be a fool, and I doubt that he could really take it. He has been betrayed too many times already, including by me. That he loves me is a gift. That he trusts me now is a miracle of no small order. I have done nothing to deserve either. Rain, more rain. Rain brings back memories for me, most of them unwanted as well as unbidden. Long, steady, driving rains like this one remind me of that one monsoon back in Nam. I would gratefully forget it, but the rain deprives me of that luxury. First the banshee, now my dead service buddies. The rain is full of ghosts tonight.

A new noise breaks through the other sounds outside—the sound of an attempted entry from my balcony. Breaking in from outside at this height —and in this weather? Absurd, of course. Too absurd to be true. I look at the balcony wonderingly; what else could make such a sound? Another banshee, I suppose; another ghost come from the rain.

The history of that balcony comes to mind as I look up. I can almost picture Alex Krycek chained there as I had him once before, the first time Fox Mulder ever came here. He left me that night. Now that we are lovers, he stays. In my bed, where we both belong—where I most certainly belong if I think that someone is actually on my balcony right now. Only….

Sometimes history does repeat itself. I see it repeating itself before my eyes right now. It is late at night. Fox Mulder is in my condominium. And Alex Krycek is on my balcony. No cuffs, however, this time; he is opening the door into my living room, stepping into this room dripping with the rain that has nearly soaked him. I would offer him a towel if I did not prefer that he die of pneumonia. I do not need, I do not want, Alex Krycek under my roof. Or draining onto my carpet. Another ghost of my past brought in by the rain, one more unwelcome than any of the others who have visited tonight by sound or by memory.

"His car's in your garage downstairs, Skinner. Where is he?" He is an annoyingly live ghost at that. An annoyingly live ghost who is shedding water from his hair and his leathers onto my carpet and into the hardwood floor underneath.

"What do you want, Krycek?"

"Is Mulder here or not?"

"What do you want with him?"

"I have information. I need to talk to him."

"Take the gun out of your pocket first, Krycek. Put it on the table. Slowly. The other one, too. And the knife." He follows my directions. Amazingly well, actually; I am surprised. For once, he may be telling me the truth. "He's asleep. You're coming with me—you don't think I'm leaving you alone out here, do you?"

The Scotch and the cigar down; myself up, out of my chair. I feel very old for some reason. I motion to Krycek; he follows, quietly. I dislike bringing him into my bedroom, Fox asleep in my bed, but the choices I have are somewhat limited at the moment. I sit on the edge of the bed, a hand to the shoulder peeking out from beneath the covers. "Fox?"

"Mmmph." He sleeps soundly in my bed. I know about his nightmares, but he tells me that he does not have them when we are together. Now I am waking him up for a live nightmare, I fear.

I shake him gently. "Fox, wake up. You have a visitor."

He shakes his head, blinks, looks up at the leather jacket, the green eyes, the eyelashes that would make a man sell his soul to the devil to be with the bastard who has them. "Alex? What the fuck…"

"Mulder." Softly, crouching down by the bed. "We have to talk. I have something I need to show you." He pats his pocket.

A frown on that sleepy, beautiful face, a nod, and a sudden decision. "Walter…give us a couple of minutes, okay?" Sleepily, but he is aware. Then, more sharply, "Alex, you have five minutes, and then I want your ass out of here. Walter, if he's not out of here in five, come in and shoot him, you got me?" I nod. He means it. I am not going to argue; he knows the rat bastard better than I do. I pick up my Smith and Wesson from the dresser, slip it in the pocket of my robe, and step outside the bedroom. It would give me the greatest pleasure to put one bullet right between those emerald eyes. Just one, right to the brain. I check my watch. Mulder gave him five minutes? He gets five minutes.

Two minutes, three minutes. They must be speaking very softly; I hear no sound at all from the other side of the door. I wonder if Mulder will ever tell me what he is saying. If he does, it will no doubt be in the form of a 302 for some sort of investigation that will eventually be bound to provoke a Congressional or military inquiry into why Mulder has broken into yet another top-secret research facility in the middle of nowhere. Information from Alex Krycek seems destined to provoke just those sorts of results, every time. And yet I invariably give in to his requests and cover his ass all the way from the Pentagon down. It must be love, because my authorizing these jaunts into absurdity and covering my lover afterwards defies all common sense.

Four minutes. Krycek exits the bedroom, pulls the door shut behind him. "Thanks, Skinner."

"Get out of here, Krycek."

"Just let me get my stuff." We return to the living room, and he picks up his weapons. He breaks the silence again. "You being good to him, Skinner?"

"I try. Not that it's any of your business."

"You love him?" His voice cuts the darkness in the room. I look up sharply. The end table lamp casts a faint glow, giving me enough light to see his face. The lashes are up, the eyes are wide, the brow furrowed. The answer really seems to matter to him.

"Yeah, I do."

Krycek steps back towards the balcony door, towards the still driving rain. "You take care of him, Skinner. Because if you don't, I know how to find you. And what to do with you when I do find you."

"What's it to you, Krycek?"

"I like Mulder happy. I like him alive. And I can't do those things for him. Not any more. But you can. So do them." He steps onto the balcony, reaches for a rope ladder and a harness dangling from above. I always knew he was crazy. Rope climbing, in this weather, by a one-armed man, proves it. The words, however, do not. They are all too clear, too sane. They are the words of someone who loves Fox as much as I do. "Just remember what I told you, Skinner."

I slide the balcony door closed behind him, draw the curtain over it, and slide back into my chair. I need to finish my drink, to clear my head, to listen to the rain until I can sleep again. If I sleep at all now. I wish that sleep would come more easily. But the rain is full of ghosts tonight.

XI. "Like the Calm Sphinxes" by MJ

The same old baffling questions! O my friend, I cannot answer them. In vain I send My soul into the dark, where never burn The lamps of science, nor the natural light Of Reason's sun and stars! I cannot learn Their great and solemn meanings, nor discern The awful secrets of the eyes which turn Evermore on us through the day and night With silent challenge and a dumb demand, Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown, Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone, Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand!

—from "Trust," JG Whittier

He's asleep. He looks five years younger with his glasses off, another five years younger when he loosens up, and when he's asleep—hell, I may have all the hair here, but I feel like a cradle robber. Especially when he sleeps like that—he's so peaceful when he's sleeping—and I'm sitting up with my three a.m. insomnia contemplating life, the Universe, and everything.

He asked me once, when did I wind up taking the weight of the whole world on my shoulders? I don't know when it was. It may have been when I was twelve. The night they came for Sam. And I decided to find out why. Only thing is, somewhere along the line my search for why turned into the search for the Why to everything. Scully believes she knows Why. God as First Cause of all things. Basic Aquinas—hell, I read him too, Scully. Had a don at Oxford who was a theologian of the first order, and all of his proofs still don't make me believe in a God.

You can't prove God by direct observation. You also can't prove Him on paper, or with unbroken streams of flawless logic—hell, I can use logic to prove that a tree is a bird. The only proof I have for God is purely indirect and circumstantial. And very, very human. And its name is Walter Sergei Skinner, and he's sleeping like a log six inches away from me.

You want honest? I'll be honest. I majored in psychology—do you really think I don't know I'm not the most stable personality in world history? I've been in a psych ward how many times now? Twice? Three times? Okay, let's forget the time I saw the invisible monster. Walter still won't admit I was right about that one. I had a dysfunctional family. I'm an adult child of an alcoholic. I have intimacy issues. I have anger issues. If I weren't an FBI agent, I'd be in jail for assault—yes, I know I'm dealing with explosive rage. I'd really be crazy if I didn't know all of that. The man sleeping next to me—he knows it as well as I do. Maybe better—he's been on the receiving end a couple of times.

He's still there. Or maybe I should say I'm still here, he hasn't thrown me out—we're in his bed. And you know, it beats the hell out of me why he hasn't given up on me. I don't think I could stand me for this long. Things started the week before the New Mexico case, and he still wanted me around when I got back, after he'd had time to think about the sheer lunacy of sweeping old Spooky Mulder off his feet and into bed. Hey, he was even happy to see me the night I flew in to surprise him at that conference.

The truth is out there. How many times have I said that to Scully, or to Walter, or to that goddamn blacklunged bastard. How many times have I gone full tilt for the truth and come up with a pile of crap. How many times have I gotten my hands on something resembling the truth, and then been left with a pile of ashes when it was time to unveil my discovery. "What is truth?" said jesting Pilate. Pilate had children, and CBG Spender is his direct fucking descendant—I've figured THAT much out. Beyond that, I'm not certain any more that there is much in the way of truth out there.

Scully tells me that God is truth. It must be nice to have that kind of faith. She also tells me that the periodic table is truth, but that's something I really don't believe, not after meeting silica based life forms, nanoviruses, and alien green goo. I'm not too convinced about Newton and gravity, either, even if I'm not floating in midair.

But I've got Walter Skinner.

Presented for your approval—geez, I feel like Rod Serling—Walter Skinner. Marine. Nam vet. Law school grad. FBI Assistant Director. Incidentally, my boss, which is going to turn into a problem one of these days if anyone besides Scully really notices us. Six-foot-whatever of solid muscle, big brown eyes, arms that could snap me in half when he hugs me —hey, it beats those headlocks he's given me a couple of times—and a chest that's seriously big enough to burrow into at night. Even more incidentally, he's been blackmailed by someone—I'd guess it was Spender—into selling me out a good half a dozen times. I know it; he knows I know it. But every time push has ever come to shove, he's come through for me, even when he hasn't had to. Even when he could have gotten old Spooky off of his back permanently just by doing nothing. Something tells me that might be love. I'm not sure, but it might be.

He surprises me constantly. Just these things you wouldn't expect. I guess it's easy to peg him for a big jock and ignore his brain, or to look at the kind of shape he's in and not realize that he likes to ruin his health as much as the next guy. I never pictured him as someone who sat around with small-batch bourbon, or twenty year old Scotch, and boxes of Havanas that friends smuggle in from Canada for him, or playing Chuck Mangione and Miles Davis albums, or reading Milton and Chaucer. I went to Oxford, and he can make me feel culturally illiterate.

I've been so single-minded for so much of my life, so focused, and he's been so curious about the rest of the world. I used to spend Sundays reading the Sunday paper, watching sports on the tube, and eating delivery Chinese by myself. His idea of a good Sunday is having coffee and reading the paper in bed, going out for brunch—the more ethnic, the better, especially if it's Asian food—and spending the afternoon browsing at the mega-bookstore and drinking cappuccino. Sometimes he grabs me by the neck and drags me to an afternoon concert instead, especially if there's a jazz performance somewhere around town. Then we eat takeout and watch "Sixty Minutes" or we go to the movies. It's an awful lot like having a life. I'm not quite sure what to make of it.

The truth is out there? Maybe it's not out there. As long as I've been digging for it, I haven't found more than a glimmer of it out there. Truth may exist, don't get me wrong. I think that truth does exist. I just think I'm starting to realize that I may have been looking for truth in all the wrong places. I've kept saying that I wanted to believe, but I never said what it was that I wanted to believe. I don't think I knew what it was that I wanted to believe. And that's because you can't believe in something that you don't know about. The truth, I think, isn't out there at all. It's inside of you. It's waking up at three in the morning and knowing that there's someone there with you who worries when you wake up at three. It's the feeling you get when someone who's easily twice your size wraps himself around you in a bear hug, kisses you, and whispers "I love you" right in your ear. You know—when you're trying to figure out how to get your molecules to squeeze themselves in between his molecules so you're actually completely inseparable.

Truth is when you've been out of town for a week on a shit case, staying in a crappy motel, having bullets whiz past you and narrowly miss your head, and listening to the local grunts who are pissed at you because the Feds are butting into their case that they couldn't handle. And you get home after a lousy flight that was three hours late, and you drop your bag and fall over into a chair, and this big, gorgeous hunk of man comes over with a mug of coffee for you, and he sits down across from you and asks, "You want to talk about it now or just shower and crash?" And when you say, "I need to sleep; I don't wanna talk about it, but you'll read it in the report on Monday" all he does is nod and carry your bag into the bedroom for you.

Truth is when you were sitting in your motel room while working on that shit case, playing Solitaire and Doom on your laptop because you were bored out of your wits and there was zilch to do in the town where you were stuck, which is almost always in the middle of Montana or out in Prairie Flats, Kansas, and the phone rang, and it was him calling to tell you that he was bored witless and playing Solitaire on his PC because he missed you.

Scully talked to me about God another time. She told me something about God being love. Hell, I've got that. It took me long enough to realize it, longer still to accept it. My mother loved me in her own way—which is to say, not much. She did love me, I know now, but she didn't know how to show it. She never did. That fine New England prep school upbringing. Stiff upper lip. No unnecessary display of emotion. Don't raise weak sons. Don't smother your sons, or they'll turn out to be—gee, Mom, guess what? You didn't, and right here I am. My father? I don't think my father ever loved anything besides Johnnie Walker Red Label. Sam loved me, and I loved her, but at our ages we didn't know how to tell that to each other. But enough about what I didn't have then. I've got it now. He doesn't tell me often —it's that unwritten guy thing—but I know it.

I get a sniffle, he sticks me in bed, grabs my keys, drives to my place and picks up clothes for me because I shouldn't go home and be alone. He makes me goddamned chicken soup. Chicken and stars, even. Not just anybody picks up chicken and stars for you, you know. He goes out shopping, sees a tabloid with aliens all over it, and this respectable law school grad type picks it up in front of a dozen people and tosses it in the grocery cart, doesn't even care if they think he's an idiot, because he thinks I might want to read about the secret meeting between the aliens and Elvis in Walt Disney's hidden cryogenic lab. That's love. Even I can tell that's love.

I mean, anybody can say they love you, especially in bed, especially right after sex. Hell, at a time like that you can even say it by accident because you're not even thinking and it just sort of comes out of your mouth. Not that I've ever done that myself. Real love? That's when I sit across from Walter in his office, and there's no one else there, and I admit that my latest brilliant idea about a werewolf hiding in the subway tunnels was a screwup, and he doesn't even smirk at me and say "I told you so."

Real love? Come on. Real love is when I'm nearly suffocating to death in some kind of mucky organic quicksand-type mud in North Carolina, and I'm hallucinating like anything, and there's Walter, who commandeered a plane on his own, digging me out of that shit with his bare hands, and he's still in his suit, for Christ's sakes. Never even ditched his jacket. He ruined a good Brooks Brothers suit, and a pair of Florsheims, and probably his watch—I know mine all got ruined being bogged in that crap—and he's never even mentioned it to me. The only time I even tried mentioning it, he gave me this really funny look and just said, "Well, someone had to get you out of there."

So I hate to tell Scully that I'm pretty certain that if there is a God, it's either Walter Skinner or somebody a whole damn lot like him, but there you are. I mean, she knows we're together, and she survived that, but I don't think I'd better shake up her world that much more with my new theological musing.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm right.

The truth really isn't out there at all. There's a lot of facts out there, and a lot of things that aren't anywhere near what they look like, and a whole lot of total garbage. I spent nearly thirty years of my life looking out there, wherever "out there" is, for truth, and where did it get me? In the hospital. In the loony bin. On a spaceship, which was pretty interesting, but it didn't tell me anything about truth or about reality, it just told me that I'd been on a fucking spaceship lodged in a pile of ice.

The truth's right with you all the time. Maybe it's inside you, I don't know; that's Scully's thing about God there. I have the feeling that truth's more or less right beside you—in my case, about six inches away from me and snoring. Uh—no, he's not snoring any more; in fact, I think he's awake too. Well, if he is, I guess I've got something better to do with my time than stare at the ceiling and worry about the nature of truth and the nature of reality, haven't I?

The truth is, Walter Skinner makes me incredibly horny. And I'm going to do something about that right now.

A "Pencils" Intrusion—"Westward? Ha!"

"What's yer name, stranger?" Horse and rider met another horse and rider along the rocky trail. The old man on the roan looked over the unfamiliar rider in black.

The tall, sturdy man looked down from his horse, reaching up to adjust his black Stetson. "Name's Skinner, friend. New to these parts."

"Figgered ye were, I've never seen ye before. Skinner, ye say? What's yer first name?" The old man examined him once again.

"I go by Skinner," the rider said quietly. "There any ranches over yonder where a man could get a drink of water?"

The old man paused, thinking. "About a mile down, bear left at the fork. Cattle ranch down there, the Mulders own it. Tina Mulder's good for a drink of water or a hot meal for passers-by. Tell her old Pendrell said to stop by; she'll fix ye right up."

The rider nodded. "Thanks, friend." He rode on past the old man, who watched him for a few moments before starting off again on his own trek towards town.

The trail to the left descended into grassy flatland. A large ranch house stood in the middle of much of it, several outbuildings and a bunkhouse surrounding it. There were gates as the rider approached, with a weather-beaten sign for the Flying M Ranch at their front. This, undoubtedly, was the ranch of which Pendrell had spoken. An attractive mature woman stood outside in a gingham dress with smocking, ordering a laundress and an Asian cook about their business. Skinner rode down to the yard.

"Morning, ma'am." He tipped the edge of his Stetson to her.

"Morning to you, sir." She nodded at him politely as she handed a man's shirt to the laundress.

"Would you be Tina Mulder?"

The woman nodded. "That's right. How can I help you?

"I'm travelling through these parts. Man named Pendrell told me you might oblige with some water."

"Why yes, of course." She pointed to a fence with a watering trough nearby. Two horses stood near. "You can tie your horse there. He probably needs some water, too. The trough's near full. Come on in. If you're hungry, we still have some of the men's breakfast left." She led him into the ranch kitchen. "Lo Sang, we've a traveller here who needs some breakfast. Some biscuits and gravy, please, and some eggs if there are any left."

"Yes, ma'am." The cook reached for a heavy plate and began filling it.

"Sit." She indicated a long table, and sat at a corner of a bench. Skinner sat across from her.

"I'm mighty obliged, ma'am." A plate of biscuits and gravy and a mug of hot coffee were set in front of him along with a tin cup of water, which he took up immediately.

"Don't worry. It's a pleasure to put people up. We don't get a lot of company out here, and it keeps us in touch with the rest of the world. And there's not too many people around here who can do it, so it's only Christian duty, after all, if we can. Now, you know who I am. Who might you be?"

"Name's Skinner."

"Skinner? Just Skinner?"

"That's right, ma'am."

"You don't use any other name?" She began to look worried.

"No, ma'am." Her jaw fell as he spoke the words.

"Do you wander across the West, stopping at ranches, working at them for a while, getting involved with the family and saving them when all hell breaks loose in the town?" she demanded.

"Happened once or twice, ma'am," Skinner acknowledged.

"You know anyone called Shane, same line of work?" she asked sharply.

"Only by reputation, ma'am. I've heard tell of him. Why?"

"Because he's the last one of you drifter hero types that stopped by here, and now all my son Fox does is make moon faces at the horizon, calling 'Come back, Shane!' It's been months. I'm not sure I want any more of you drifter hero bastards on my property any more after that."

"Sorry to hear about your problems, ma'am," Skinner said as he tucked into Lo Sang's cooking. "But I don't rightly hold with that kind of love 'em and leave 'em business myself."

A young man in a work shirt and boots strode into the kitchen from outside. "Hi, ma; I was just out riding the fences and looking for Shane." He saw Skinner. "Oh, sorry. My manners. Morning, sir."

"This is Skinner," his mother replied. He just drifted in from out of town."

The young man stared. "Skinner?" He looked Skinner over. "Skinner, huh?" He paused for a moment. "Ma, you know, I been thinkin'. I don't rightly think that Shane feller's gonna be comin' back around anyway. I think I can quit lookin' for him." He looked again at Skinner with hazel eyes that could have bored holes in rock at that moment.

Tina Mulder looked back and forth between the two. "So, son, " she said slowly and deliberately, "no more Shane?"

"Nope, ma, I reckon he's gone for good." His eyes were still on Skinner.

She looked at Skinner with an expression of overwhelming relief. "You know, Skinner, a couple of Bill's men just left, and we could sure use a hand around here. If you're not heading anywhere in particular, care to stay the season and work for us?"

Skinner mused for a moment, turning to take a good look at the son of the household. "Well, ma'am, I reckon I could use a little money."

"That's wonderful. Fox, why don't you just take Mr. Skinner out to the bunkhouse right now and get him settled in? And don't rush. You just take all the time you like." She rose, heading into the parlor. Her voice could be heard faintly, sighing "No more Shane, thank God!"

Skinner rose to shake hands with Fox. "Looks like that worked pretty good."

"Yep," Fox chuckled. "Been driving her crazy with mooning out loud after that Shane feller the past few months. Figured she'd be so happy to see me get over that she'd be happy to welcome in anybody who shut my mouth up about it."

"Dunno. I kind of like your mouth open."

"Wait 'til we get to the bunkhouse, lover. We got the whole damn day at this rate." Fox led his companion outside towards the bunkhouse.

"So," Skinner asked, "what was going on with you and that Shane fella?"

"Nothin' much. Once out in the hayfields, that was it. He weren't anything t' speak of. But I figured if I made a big enough stink about wantin' him to come back, ma 'd be happy to have someone move in and make me drop the subject. Seems to be workin'."

"Think she'll figure out we know each other already?"

"Nah. She's too busy tryin' to keep our neighbor Spender from makin' off with sis to notice details about anything."

"Looks like we got it made, then."

"Yep."

Walter Skinner woke up to the sound of the television in a dark room. A glance at the clock showed him that it was three in the morning. He stared at the screen. "Nodded off during 'Shane' again. Damn." He nudged his lover, who was drowsing with the bowl of popcorn on his lap. "Hey, Fox. Wake up."

Mulder opened one eye. "Mmph. You know, Walt, you're better looking than Van Hefflin."

"Thank you," Skinner acknowledged. "What brings that observation on?"

"I think I was dreaming for a minute, that's all." Mulder set the bowl of popcorn on the table. The movie was drawing to a close. "Hey, Walt, here it comes!"

"Come back, Shane!" they chorused with the boy on screen.

"What a great movie," Skinner sighed as the credits rolled. "They don't make 'em like that any more."

Mulder eyed his lover sleepily. "Oh, I don't know about that, hot stuff."

"Hot stuff?"

"Yeah, hot stuff. Let's mosey on over to the bunkhouse and I'll show you what Van Hefflin was missing out on in that flick…"

XII. "Take Heed of Loving Me" by MJ

Take heed of loving me, At least remember, I forbade it thee; Not that I shall repair my unthrifty waste Of breath and blood, upon thy sighs and tears, By being to thee then what to me thou wast; But, so great joy, our life at once outwears, Then, lest thy love, by my death, frustrate be, If thou love me, take heed of loving me.

—from "The Prohibition," John Donne

I have not the slightest idea of how I may possibly have appeared to any of the other passengers on either plane. I admit that I do not normally care about such things, and I really do not care at this moment. The thought comes to mind only because Dana Scully informs me that when I had finished slamming down the telephone receiver in my office and had finished yelling—for she still insists that I slammed the receiver, and that I was yelling—for my assistant, Kimberly, to book both Scully and myself on the next available flight to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, I resembled nothing so much as the proverbial Irish banshee. Scully, being Irish, lays claim to knowledge of such obscure things. Having never seen a banshee myself, and having approximately as much Irish blood in me, to my own knowledge, as pigs have wings, I am unable to render an adequate assessment of the comparison. If I ask Mulder, I presume he will tell me about a first-hand encounter with a banshee which he somehow left out of one of his case reports. I believe, upon due reflection, that I will not ask Mulder.

I am given to understand that on our way to Jackson Hole I consumed three doses of Alka-Seltzer, threatened the life of a flight attendant who was slow to deliver a whiskey and soda, and apparently growled to one pilot that I was, damn it, a federal agent, and that he'd better fly that crate as fast as he could. I do not recall this myself, and I would normally be inclined to dispute any such report as a total fabrication, but Dana Scully is a remarkably observant woman. As for recalling the exact number of doses of Alka-Seltzer, she is, as I well know, a trained physician who could normally be expected to note such things. Incidentally, should you ever need to know this, Scully advises that dissolving an Alka-Seltzer in a whiskey and water does not turn it into a whiskey and soda.

What, one might be inclined to ask, could so disturb the equanimity of a normally sane FBI Assistant Director, namely myself? Nothing at all, if one considers it. I denied Special Agent Fox Mulder's 302 pending more information and he took off anyway, a perfectly normal action on my part and an equally typical, if unjustified, reaction on Mulder's part. In the process, he succeeded in abandoning his partner, the aforementioned Dana Scully, an equally standard pattern of behavior for said agent. Of course, he had been sick with something rather flu-like for three days and was supposed to be in bed. But just as neither rain nor snow nor gloom of night once stopped the United States mail, not illness nor supervisory prohibition nor the sense he was born with has ever stopped Fox Mulder from gallivanting off into trouble.

Admittedly, his so-called sick bed happened to be his side of my bed, and he took off after I had left for work, without so much as leaving me a note, and neither Scully nor I had heard from him for three days. This was, obviously, a routine Mulderism; I should have known that by now.

Therefore, the only conceivable reason for me to have been on anything even remotely resembling the verge of a nervous breakdown was that Scully and I were heading to Jackson Hole, Wyoming because of an equally routine anonymous call from a military hospital informing us that one FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder had been admitted there. No mention of condition, or symptoms, or being under arrest for destroying or confiscating military property, just an anonymous call telling me that my lover happened to be hospitalized on a military base out in the middle of nowhere.

I love him. It is a cliche to say that I cannot live without him, but in my case that cliche might well be true. However, the man is still, beyond doubt, the bane of my existence. I understand every word ever written about the evils of becoming involved with one of your subordinates. I have done just that, and, as occasionally happens with such things, I have been living to regret my decision. Not that I would change my mind at this point; I simply have to learn how to live with the consequences. With Mulder, of course, there are always consequences.

I had to admit that I had never heard of the Jabez Wilson Military Reservation before. And I suspected that Mulder had never heard of it either, until the night Alex Krycek had caught up with us to tell him something a few weeks before. In fact, Scully was tapping away ferociously at the keyboard on her laptop on the flight—I hate to think what that modem hookup cost the Bureau—and could not come up with anything on a Jabez Wilson Military Reservation, whether in Jackson Hole or anywhere else. Nonetheless, they appeared to have a hospital and medical staff, one of whom, apparently, had spoken to me.

Scully dared to speculate. It could, of course, have been some exotic trap with Mulderbait dangling all over it—but if it were, why were we being dragged into it as well? Of course, we might just be picking up the pieces, as usual, and in one of Mulder's favorite places—the secret government facility that exists nowhere on maps or in print. Mulder can smell a secret government facility the way French pigs can root out truffles under oak trees. It must be some kind of special talent, or else a curse—more likely the latter.

We were met at the airport, if one could call it an airport; I would have termed it an airfield myself, but I am not consulted on such things. A military jeep; it was real enough, whether the lieutenant driving it was real or not. A long drive, made longer by the tedium of the view, acre upon unending acre of cattle ranch. One rarely contemplates the number of cattle that exist upon the face of the earth. There are many of them. More than you can count. More than you would want to count. There are mind-numbing numbers of cattle in Wyoming, and I was driving past every single goddamned one of them, waiting to see Mulder.

Finally, chain-link fencing, triple strands of razor wire strung primly over the top. Official warning signs. Military police. Signs that invariably make Fox Mulder's heart quicken as he prepares to search for Whatever It Is hidden at this particular location. He has found experimental aircraft, bodies, alleged aliens, even a house where Spender, the Smoker, lived for a brief time with his son Jeffrey and with Mulder's kidnapped sister, at these places. What could have been at this one?

The MP's waved us in, and the jeep's uncommunicative driver took us to a two-story white building, a small military clinic of some kind. I did my best to restrain a combination of fear and need to commit violence upon someone; Scully looked little better. I blinked; where on earth did Scully get that little black doctor's satchel? She must have pulled it out of a suitcase…I have never seen her with one before.

We entered the facility. Who bottles that smell? Every hospital has it, a sort of antiseptic-and-floorwax kind of smell that no other place can have. Whether anything else on this base was real or not, I believed that this building was a medical facility. Nothing else could smell like that. I hate the smell, I have smelled it far too many times, but it is preferable to the smells of a thousand cattle ranches in the hot sun, the smells I had just escaped. A nurse, a strong woman in a white pantsuit, led us down a corridor. Room 1121, the door shut. She pointed, retreated silently. I looked at Scully, reached for the doorknob.

An odd noise, a rustle, from within the room as I turned the knob; I reached for the weapon that the local military police had for some reason not removed from me, and I heard Scully doing the same. I threw the door open, weapon drawn—and met the muzzle of another in my gut.

"About time you got here, Skinner."

"Krycek, what the fuck are you doing here?" We lowered our guns simultaneously; Scully, behind me, was doing so more slowly, dubiously. I, however, surprised though I was to see him, knew that Krycek would not hurt us. Unless I did the one thing I hope never to do, and then he will undoubtedly make good on his threat to kill me. He has, after all, made me swear on pain of death never to hurt the man who was in the bed across the room. And if anyone enjoys death—at least, enjoys inflicting it—it would be Alex Krycek. I have more than sufficient reason to know.

"Bodyguarding your package. Who do you think put that call through? These guys would be just as happy if Mulder died." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at my lover, a rather heavily bandaged package.

Scully was at Mulder's bedside, examining him herself. "What happened?" Mulder groaned.

"I got word of some cargo Mulder might be interested in being stored on base," Krycek sighed. "I told him to wait until I got here to break us in, but no, he had to try it himself. So Bubba the MP and his buddies tried using him for a punching bag. At first I thought he'd been exposed to the cargo, but none of the crates were damaged. I think. Anyway, the doctor isn't military, he's one of ours, so I almost trust him when he says there wasn't any exposure."

"Exposure to what? And who is 'ours'?" Scully questioned Krycek.

"Ours. Never mind. Anyway, Skinner, I'd have called you sooner but I had to make sure he was clean first. You wouldn't have enough resources to handle the epidemic if that stuff spreads, and you know which side FEMA's on. The fucking Army bastards moved the cargo on us, but I told them I was staying behind to watch your boy here. They didn't like it but they had to let me stay. I figure Mulder saw enough in the warehouse, if I didn't stick around, he might disappear to wherever they moved the cargo. Or worse."

I nodded. We have all seen the disappearances, all heard the seemingly innocuous explanations. Mulder has come too close to being one of those disappearances himself, too many times.

"Look," Krycek shrugged. "You're here now, Skinner, you got your man back, more or less in one piece. I'm behind time; I've gotta find those fucking crates. I have people waiting for them. Get Mulder back to DC and take care of him." He slipped out, jamming his gun into a pocket of his leather coat.

Scully looked up from the bed. "He's bruised, sir, and he's pretty doped up; there may be a cracked rib or two. I think that's about all." She paused. "Except I think he still has that flu he had before he left. Anyway," she sighed, "I'll go find what I can of a chart. You'd better get over here; I think he needs you more than he needs me right now."

For some reason—probably early senility—it had never occurred to me that Scully would have to know about us by now. A woman who called her partner every night to check on him, on his cell phone, not his home phone. A woman who had been his partner, and therefore constant companion, for five years before he and I had gotten involved. A woman who, of course, just happens to be a trained investigator. I had to be flushing; I was certain I could feel the heat rising over my ears. And when I flush, there is a great deal of visible area; it cannot be missed. "Um, Agent Scully…" I was stammering. A grown man with a graduate degree, an FBI assistant director, reduced to near idiocy in front of an agent. How perfectly charming. But Emily Post and Miss Manners had both neglected the chapter on coming out to your employees, leaving me with no guidance whatsoever for this occasion. Bureau regulations absolutely do not cover the situation, I can assure you.

"Yes, sir?" She was completely calm. But then, most of the Bureau thinks she has ice water for blood.

"How long…um…have you…"

"How long have I known about you and Agent Mulder, sir?" She was grinning now. "Since that last case in New Mexico. It was pretty obvious he'd just met someone, and I'm afraid I pried it out of him. But if I hadn't…"

"Yes, Agent Scully?"

"I'm afraid that the trail of bodies you left getting from the office to here would have been a dead giveaway anyhow, sir. Threatening to commandeer a regularly scheduled flight because the pilot isn't flying fast enough isn't subtle."

My eyes widened. "I certainly did not."

"It was after your third drink, sir. That was pretty obvious, too."

I sank into the chair. "Oh, God."

"I really can't blame you, sir. He's exasperating to deal with at the best of times. You were quite upset. You might want to sit over here with him; I'm going to get that chart."

Have I mentioned that unlike her partner, whom for some inexplicable reason I love anyway, Dana Scully can be moderately tactful?

I hauled the chair over to the side of Mulder's bed as she left. He looked like something the cat had dragged in, but I had seen him in worse shape. He looked better than he had the time I had dug both him and Scully out from under that giant hallucinogenic fungus in North Carolina, actually. I reached over to take his hand.

One eye opened sleepily, examining me. "Hi, Walt. Knew you'd get here. Alex said so," he mumbled.

I bit back my impulse to murder Krycek. I can only guess at their history. Whatever history they had, however, had prompted Krycek to get me to Mulder. It was difficult to resent that. "Yeah, Fox. I'm here."

" 'm glad. I'll be okay. Sorry I'm so much trouble…" His eye fell shut as he drifted back to sleep.

I brushed a stray lock of hair out of his face. He looks…no, not angelic —hardly that, but surprisingly innocent, when he sleeps. As if he had never falsified a 302, or gone off on an investigation without authorization, or disobeyed a direct order, or ever ditched his partner. Either partner…Scully, or me. As I say, undoubtedly the bane of my existence…

I had always thought that a quiet, orderly life was a hallmark of civilization, that Marcus Aurelius had codified the rules for a placid, relatively content and peaceful existence.

You can have that, or you can love Fox Mulder.

At least I know where I stand.