Missing
By Palinurus <palinurus@geocities.com>

July 1998

During the two months since Skinner had vanished, Mulder's
frantic horror slowly congealed into grim despair.
Initially, he was convinced that Skinner must be the victim
of a crime or an accident; he refused to believe that
Skinner would simply leave. He was low enough in the FBI
hierarchy that several days passed before he learned that
there had been no crime, no accident. Skinner had carefully
planned his disappearance for several weeks.

Paradoxically, the news that Skinner was safe was crushing.
His anxiety was replaced by a plethora of emotions that were
even harder to handle. Shock, rage, and paralyzing guilt
numbed his brain and absorbed all light. The air seemed so
thin that he could barely live on it. His limbs were too
heavy to lift.

He convinced himself that Skinner would come back. He could
really be back any day. Things had simply become too intense
for Skinner's peace of mind, and he had bailed out, fled.
Surely he was already on his way back. He had by now come to
his senses and realized what his absence had done to Mulder.
He was sorry, or at least missed Mulder as much as Mulder
missed him. He had come to terms with the affair. He had
decided to talk about what bothered him, rather than run
away from it.

The conviction grew so strong that Mulder would wake up at
night from a restless half-sleep, convinced that he had
heard the door open. He'd stare, and see nothing; then he'd
get up and open the door to reveal an empty hallway. Two or
three times a day, in his bleary-eyed, hazy misery, out of
the corner of his eye, he'd spot Skinner's large bulk. In a
crowd, in a car, at the end of an empty corridor. Every
vision caused a rush of joy, excitement, arousal; and every
one ended in sickening disappointment.

At night, the absence of that body by his side became
physical pain.

Sometimes his anger threatened to overcome him. Blood
pounding in his ears, he would crush whatever happened to be
in his hands, tremble, and get up and pace. He felt he might
have a stroke, or just explode, if he didn't find a way to
deal with the rage.

Then he would remember that the desertion was his own fault,
and his anger at Skinner would slowly subside. He could
understand Skinner's decision, and see how the situation
really had been impossible, with his unspoken but incessant
demands to be entertained, to be made love to, to be loved
and cherished and treated like a spoilt child, all in
exchange for the rare privilege of the occasional fuck. He
had never taken any responsibility for the relationship. If
it ever had been a relationship. He had been content to
inhabit his fool's paradise, assuming that Skinner would
take care of things, that all would be well without any
effort on his part. He was the slave. To accept, to endure,
to suffer, and to be forever absolved of any influence.

And then he would recall the scenes, the pleasure, the
abandon, the weightless euphoria of submission and
powerlessness. The blankness of his mind, the ease of
accepting whatever would come. He never even considered a
fight; his trust was complete. He had no idea where they
would go from one moment to the next, and didn't care; he
lay, tied or untied, blindfolded or gagged, passive, bending
with the wind. Knowing he was safe.

He began to dream, joyless erotic dreams in which all sexual
pleasure was tainted with anxiety, with a looming
premonition of the inevitable end. He would see himself in
his dreams, tied down, blindfolded, while Skinner was seized
by a black, shapeless presence, leaving him alone, naked and
defenseless. And he would wake up, gasping for breath, with
a racing pulse, because the sense of impending doom in the
dream threatened to suffocate him.

Whenever he couldn't sleep, Mulder went over the past
months, meticulously, obsessively, reconstructing all the
scenes they had shared, looking for clues foreboding the
disaster that had struck. And found plenty of them; so many
that in retrospect it was incomprehensible that he had been
blind enough, felt sheltered enough, to overlook them. They
had never talked much; but in the past few weeks, they had
hardly talked at all, and rarely taken the time for a drink
before going up to the bedroom. Skinner had always been
remote, aloof, but never so much so as shortly before his
disappearance. Several times he had already left for work by
them time Mulder woke up, further minimizing the
non-ritualized contacts. Withdrawal, distancing, removal:
the signs were everywhere, obvious for anyone but the blind,
deaf, dumb idiot he had been.

Such was the price of stupidity--being cast from the warmth
of Skinner's secure embrace into the freezing, deadly cold.
Once his skin had been thick enough to withstand it. But he
neglected his defenses, and they crumbled, leaving a gaping
hole that bled when that part of him had been torn away. He
had never known how deeply it was embedded in his flesh
until it was ripped out.

When ten endless days had passed, he finally gave up hoping
for a miracle, and went over to the modest offices of the
Lone Gunman. Frohike opened the door and said, "Ah, Mulder,
at last."

When he reached the nerve center of their tiny operation,
the other two looked up from their computer screens.

"That's twenty-five for me," Byers said sardonically.

"What?" Mulder mumbled, barely hearing his own voice between
his blinding headache and cramping stomach.

"I bet twenty-five that you'd be here within two weeks.
Frohike predicted it would be less than a week. Langly
thought it would take much longer. We're working on it, but
we haven't found him yet," he continued smoothly, answering
all questions in one sentence.

"Why didn't you bring Scully?" Frohike demanded.

"I don't want her involved in this," Mulder replied,
immediately defensive.

"Good. Thirty for me," Langly announced, not even looking
up.

"He figured it would be a personal thing," Frohike explained
helpfully. "After all, why else would an employee in his
right mind go looking for his missing boss, right? So we
made another bet. I think I got fooled by my wishful
thinking..." He stared away, momentarily distracted.

Mulder shook his head impatiently. "Have you checked the
Chronicles of Higher Education?"

Byers looked at him, calmly but with barely hidden
annoyance. "Mulder. We know you're upset. We know you've
been thinking about this, probably longer than we have. But
don't tell us how to search for a missing FBI big shot, all
right?"

"OK, I'm sorry. I know you're good at this. I'm just... How
can someone just disappear?" The slight whine in his voice
angered him almost beyond reason. He blinked, stared at
nothing. Any day now, I'll have to stay at home because I've
become an embarrassment to myself.

"You of all people should know how easy that is, Mulder. How
many places there are to hide from all but... the most
determined and resourceful pursuit." Byers was visibly
trying not to look smug. "We'll find him, but it may take a
while. In the mean time, why don't you go on vacation or
something. If he'd see you like this, he'd run a mile."

"You don't know anything about it," Mulder countered, but it
was a token protest. He didn't have enough energy to care
what they thought.

They promised to contact him once a week, and they did, in
their complicated, paranoia-driven manner, meeting in
underground parking garages, in greasy diners, at the
escalator in Macy's. And they carefully listed for him all
the avenues they'd tried: more than he would ever have
thought of; and what they'd found: nothing.

Once, about a month after the disappearance, Langly's
account of the meticulous care Skinner had evidently taken
to erase any traces had upset Mulder so much that he had
exploded, "The *bastard*!"

Langly had looked at him, intrigued but as usual not visibly
impressed, and put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll find him,
Mulder."

The monstrous wound in his side slowly scabbed over, and the
acute pain turned into a dull throbbing. Dull enough not to
preclude all thought, but still painful enough to make
ordinary things exhausting, daunting tasks. Shopping for
groceries and doing his laundry took all Saturday.
Rudimentary cleaning of his apartment took all Sunday.
Sitting at his desk and being polite to Scully wore him out
enough to abolish any thought of evening activity.

At night he would lay on his couch, staring at the TV
without seeing anything, and let himself be washed from
self-pity to incomprehension, to powerless rage, to
disconsolate sadness, and back again, without even
attempting to influence the course of the endless, dizzying
flux.

Then, late one Thursday night, there was a phone call. He
didn't answer; he never answered anymore. A voice told his
answering machine, "We've got something."

He got up, frantic, fumbling with his clothes, ran out
without his coat, and twenty minutes later he stood among
the blinking electronic skeletons, staring at a piece of
printed paper dotted with numbers and meaningless letter
sequences. "What is it?"

"It's from one of the VA databases. We went over the recent
updates, and matched all changes with the veteran's names,
which are stored in another database at the DOD. It
basically says that Skinner has been drawing money from his
army pension. The money has been paid by a bank in Nha
Trang."

"Vietnam? He's in Vietnam?"

"He *was* in Vietnam. Not many banks there are on-line yet,
and this transaction is from six weeks ago; it just took
this long to get registered here. This is a very old trail.
We don't know where he is now." Byers looked at him almost
apologetically.

Mulder glanced at him, about to say, "Is that all?" but
checked himself in time; he had asked them to let him know
as soon as they got anything, no matter how small. He
swallowed, blinked, and asked, "So what's next?"

"We may be able to trace him through this number." He
pointed at a seven-digit number on the paper. "That's his VA
ID number. He's been using that instead of his passport,
which would have been easier to trace, and he'll need it
whenever he wants to do something official there. We'll go
on searching, and we may find other uses of it."

It was clearly a very long shot, and Mulder almost
physically felt his hope leave his body and drain into the
ground. "You'll never find him."

That didn't go down well. "Jesus, Mulder. Of course we'll
find him," Langly replied indignantly. "How long has it
been, nine weeks? Give us some credit, OK? Why don't you
find someone else to help you through your time of
abstinence?" He went on muttering, but the rest was
unintelligible.

Mulder badly wanted to pull him up from behind his table and
punch him, but he controlled the impulse.

Frohike stepped in. "Just let him be, Langly. He's not
having an easy time right now."

"If he'd only taken better care of that guy, we wouldn't
be..." Langly continued, and then shut up as Mulder yanked
him up across the table, accompanied by the sound of tearing
cloth, and hissed into his face, "Shut the fuck up, Langly.
You couldn't take care of a cockroach if your life depended
on it. Don't tell *me* what I should have done." He let go,
upset by his own anger.

"OK, Mulder, OK, I'm sorry," Langly said in a soothing tone,
pulling down his torn T-shirt. He appeared genuinely
contrite about the outburst he'd brought on. "You're right,
I have no idea. Although we do have some roaches here that
seem to do OK. But I guess someone is slipping them
something extra from time to time. I'm sorry."

There was a brief silence, in which Mulder stared at the
ground and breathed deeply. Finally Frohike touched his arm
and said, "Will you be OK? You could stay here while we
work, maybe sleep in the back room... We have a TV too."

"No thanks, I'm going to..." But while he said it, he
reconsidered. It might be better here. It certainly couldn't
be worse; and if they found something, he wanted to be
present. "Uh, well... OK, I think I'll stay then. He looked
at Langly and said, "Sorry. I know you're doing your best,
I'm just a bit, um, easily upset these days."

"No problem," Langly conceded immediately, staring at his
screen, already miles away with his continued search.

He hung around for a while, but it quickly became clear that
there was nothing he could contribute, so he went into the
back room, switched on the TV, cleared the couch of empty
soda cans and candy wrappers, and stretched out on it.

He woke up slowly to feel a hand stroking his hair. He
didn't open his eyes, didn't move, still half in a dream. He
didn't want to know yet what part of this awakening would
turn out to be an illusion. He floated as long as he could,
clinging to his respite, the touches almost soothing him
back to sleep. But his brain was becoming too alert to be
fooled anymore, and he opened his eyes.

And stared into the horrified face of Langly, who quickly
withdrew his hand and jumped up like a startled rabbit. He
walked into the table, scattering cans and tools, muttering,
"Shit. I'm sorry." He bent over to rub his shin, and without
looking up, continued, "I'm sorry Mulder, I just, eh, well.
I'm sorry." He turned and limped to the door.

"Langly. Wait." He regretted the words when he saw the
hopeful face turning towards him. "Did you find anything
yet?"

The face barely moved, but he saw it change subtly to
reflect the same crushing disappointment that he had felt
earlier that night. He could almost feel the facial muscles
mold themselves into that familiar expression.

"No. Nothing yet." Langly replied curtly.

"Langly." This time the other didn't turn, just paused.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Well." A small shrug, and the door closed.

The next time he woke up, someone was impatiently shaking
his arm.

Frohike said, "Hey! Mulder. We've got something. He's
probably back in the states."

Mulder sat up, his head aching. He rubbed his eyes and said,
"How do you know?"

"That same VA code has been used to buy a ticket from Ho Chi
Minh City to Seattle. Either he must think we're pretty
stupid, or he wants to be found. It's in the name of William
Smith, but that's really not a name, is it? He might as well
have chosen John Doe. We think it's him. We're searching
Seattle and surroundings for this William Smith right now."

At that moment, Byers' voice could be heard from the other
room, shouting "Mulder!"

Mulder got up and rushed out, brushing past Frohike. "What
have you got?" he asked, a little breathless. He could feel
his pulse in his throat.

"Address. William Smith, 1526 Powell, Lynnwood, Washington.
Lynnwood is a suburb north of Seattle. He moved in two weeks
ago, got telephone and cable, and the local supermarkets
have just begun sending him these welcome coupon booklets.
There's even a phone number. Do you want that too?"

He scribbled it down and wondered how long his legs would go
on supporting him.

"You can call him from here, if you like," Frohike offered
helpfully, then grinned when he saw Mulder's stricken look.
"Just kidding. Want us to book you a flight?"

When he was on his way out, Langly called after him, "Hey,
Mulder. Good luck."

He looked around, hesitated, holding the door handle.

"Better hurry," Langly added benignly.

He turned and ran.

Sixteen hours later he sat in uncomfortable folds in a
cramped airplane and wondered about the wisdom of his latest
impulsive decision. He felt sweaty and dirty. He hadn't
slept after he'd left the Lone Gunman editorial office and
spent his day pacing and agonizing over what to pack in his
overnight bag. On an impulse, he'd called Scully to tell her
he was going away for a few days and ask her to feed the
fish and empty the mailbox.

"Are you saying you're taking a vacation?" she asked
incredulously.

"Yeah, well, I figured I needed some time away from the
office. I haven't been feeling too well lately."

"Tell me about it. I'm just amazed to hear you finally admit
it. Where are you going?" She sounded wary.

He'd given her a miserable, clearly improvised excuse, and
she hadn't believed him, but had let it go.

He had considered calling Skinner, but he found he simply
couldn't do it. He looked at the phone as if it was about to
jump up and go for his throat. He went for a little walk
around the block, looked at the phone some more, and finally
decided to gamble that a surprise would work to his
advantage.

In the plane, he created dozens of scenarios in his mind,
all of them derailing badly after only a few minutes. Then
he tried to read the on-board glossy magazine, cursing
himself for not thinking clearly enough to bring a book.
Finally he fell asleep.

And woke up during the landing, with a cramp in his right
calf. He desperately flexed his foot until it subsided. He
still felt quite miserable, but the few hours of sleep had
helped a bit. It was seven p.m. and already dark. He'd rent
a car and drive to the address on the sheet of paper. He
estimated he would arrive around 8:30.

The drive was bad. He was getting very nervous, to the point
where he started to tremble. He swallowed all the time, and
his stomach began to complain. He would have liked to take
another shower, and considered checking into a motel in
Seattle before going on to face his fate. He finally decided
against it; he'd be sweating again by the time he'd arrive
anyway.

It was very cold by the time he arrived. A clear, quiet,
frosty night. The address was in a residential neighborhood.
The street was so quiet that he half feared that the
neighbors would come out to check on a strange car in the
neighborhood. Or Skinner would step out before he'd parked,
making the walk across the neat lawn to the front door
endless and excruciating. But neither happened; he parked,
and made it to the front door on slightly wobbly legs.

Pressing his nose against the glass, he could see inside
through the thin sheers. It took a second to see clearly,
but then he saw Skinner, sitting in an easy chair next to a
wall of books, reading. A fire was burning in the fireplace.
The house looked as if it had been lived in for years. The
furniture looked expensive and well-used. There were lots of
lamps, rugs on the wooden floor. There was even an upright
piano standing against one of the walls.

And for the first time, the realization struck him that
Skinner might not live there alone. This unforeseen
possibility took his breath away. He leaned against the
wooden window frame with one hand for balance. The sudden
rush of blood to his head created black gaps in his field of
vision. For a moment he thought he might faint, but his
vision cleared, and he could breathe again.

Feeling foolish, he stalked around the house and checked the
garage. It seemed too small to hold two cars. There was no
other car parked at the curb. He looked around for other
clues, saw none. He went back to the window and looked in
again. Skinner hadn't moved. Now he could also hear soft
classical music through the glass pane.

He stood, stock still, determined now to take the chance,
waiting for courage. Then he walked to the door and rang the
bell. He could hear a floorboard creak and suppressed an
immediate impulse to run away as fast as he could. Then the
outside light came on and the door opened. Skinner stood and
gaped at him.

His mouth went dry, his knees were weak, and he suddenly
felt close to crying. "Hi," he said weakly.

There was a moment of ink-black silence, in which the world
came to a halt. Skinner stared at him as if he was a
banshee. Then he stepped back and said, "Come in."

Mulder didn't know what enabled him to just walk in, rather
than jump at Skinner and wrap his whole body around him; or
alternatively, prostrate himself on the ground, throw his
arms around Skinner's legs, and grovel, pleading, begging to
be loved. But he walked in. Stood. Turned around, hands in
his coat pockets, and looked at Skinner.

He looked good. He still had a tan from his trip, he seemed
to have acquired some more muscle, and he looked... content.
Although on second thought, he did seem to have slightly
darker circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't been sleeping
enough. Even so, Mulder felt pale, sweaty and rumpled next
to him.

"Nice place," he said, not sure himself if he meant it or
said it in irony.

The music stopped, and the silence was oppressive.

Skinner sighed, walked over to the fireplace to lean a
shoulder against the mantel. "I'm renting it from an
acquaintance," he said, unwittingly putting to rest one of
Mulder's major fears. He looked up at Mulder, who hadn't
moved. "How did you find me?"

"Picked up your trail in Vietnam and followed it here. Seems
you got sloppy after the first two months."

"I didn't think anyone would still be looking. I didn't...
think I'd see you again."

Mulder slowly shook his head. "Why did you think I'd give up
that easily?" He had intended to be a bit more circumspect,
but none of the niceties, none of the good intentions
mattered anymore. "Why? Why did you leave?"

The fire crackled in the brittle silence.

"I was disappointed."

"Disappointed..." Mulder was getting angry. "Disappointed in
what? In me? Did I even have anything to do with it, or was
I part of the clutter that you left behind, that was too
cumbersome to take with you?"

"I was disappointed in the way it was going. Or not going.
It was not the life I had planned, Mulder. I need more than
that life." His gaze was now almost entreating, as if he
desperately hoped Mulder would sympathize.

Mulder noted the look, but was in no mood to sympathize.
"And that is your reason to just drop everything? Was your
life written in stone? Was it so immutable that you didn't
even bother to try?"

"It was useless, Mulder. We only had sex, do you remember?
It was great sex, but it's all we ever shared. We barely
exchanged a word, before, during or after, and you didn't
seem to mind. There was never anything the sex, and no
prospect of more. Maybe it would have been enough to live on
twenty years ago. But not now. It's just not enough."

"Jesus Christ, Walter..." Mulder shook his head, baffled.
"Did you ever bother to ask? No, you didn't need to, of
course. You just appraised the situation with your infinite
wisdom, your infallible judgment of human character, and
decided that it wasn't going where you wanted it to go. And
then you packed up and left? Without even fucking bothering
to tell me?" His anger was rapidly growing. "Do you know how
*I* felt in the last two months? Did you ever think about
that? Do you give a damn about it? It wasn't good enough for
you, so you kicked me into the gutter like a stinking dog
and took your exalted life elsewhere?"

"Mulder, it wasn't like that. I was miserable, and you
couldn't help, and I..."

"And that gave you the right to stick a knife in my back?
And how the fuck could you be so sure I couldn't help? Did
you ever ask me? Did you ever give me a chance to do
something about it? Not fucking likely. You had decided that
I couldn't, and that was it, you didn't have to ask me. The
all-knowing AD Skinner knows best." He was almost shouting
now.

"Goddammit, Mulder, listen to me! It's not... It wasn't
going to work. We could have gone on for a while, but it
would have ended eventually, and with a lot more pain. I
could see it coming, and I didn't want it to happen, so I
decided I wouldn't wait for it." He shook his head sadly.
"Why didn't you just leave it be? It's going to be a lot
harder now."

Mulder turned around and marched over until he stood next to
Skinner. Bringing his face even closer, he hissed, "It's
going to be a lot harder? You throw me out like a dirty
towel, and when I call you on it, you complain I'm making
your life difficult? I almost *died* when you left,
Goddammit! I'd rip your fucking *heart* out and take it back
with me if I thought I could get away with it, you bastard!"
The last words were almost shouted. Mulder straightened
himself and glared at Skinner, breathing heavily.

Skinner raised himself to his full length, and seemed to
grow several additional inches. "Don't give me that crap,
*agent* Mulder. For you it was sex, only sex, nothing else,
so don't come whining now about how you've suffered. Did I
hurt your ego? I'm sorry. Did I squash your hope of having a
creative, industrious, understanding master for the rest of
your life? I'm sorry about that, too. But don't pretend
you're actually hurting. It's undignified, it's a lie, and
it makes me sick."

Mulder stared at him, glassy-eyed. It was unthinkable,
unbearable, but even so it was probably true. His legs were
quickly becoming unsteady again. Careful to keep his
balance, he slowly took off his coat. He sat down on the
sofa and draped the coat over the armrest.

The longer he thought about it, the more plausible it
seemed, and the better it fit with all the memories that
still sat fresh in his mind, painstakingly reconstructed for
a completely different purpose. It made perfect sense. It
was the perfect explanation, the one he wouldn't have
thought of, because it might mean things could be repaired.

He softly said, "You're wrong, you know."

Skinner whirled around and snarled, "Would you kindly spare
me your moral judgments? And while you're at it, would you
kindly pick yourself up and get out of here? This has cost
me far too much already, and I'm not waiting to hear your
self-righteous assessment of the situation. This is not only
about you anymore."

Mulder waited it out with difficulty, and resumed, "I mean,
you're wrong about me. I never told you, and I probably
should have. I would have, if you had asked. I thought you
knew. Even *I* thought you knew everything."

He got up and walked over to Skinner. Leaning against the
mantel, he reached out with one hand, hesitated, then curled
his fingers around Skinner's neck.

Skinner removed the hand, took a step back and said, "Don't
do that." Looking at the wall in front of him.

Mulder exclaimed, "God *damn* it, you blind fool! *That*'s
why we never talked - whenever I try to say anything except
'fuck me' you tell me to shut up." He was shouting again,
took a few deep breaths to calm down. "What I was going to
say is that I love you."

Skinner stared at him for a long time before he finally
shook his head. "I don't believe you."

But Mulder was on his way and sure of his destination. "Of
course not. You've made up your mind for both of us, and you
always know best. But I'll stay here and wait until you
believe me." He took a step forward, brought his face close
to Skinner's and said softly, "I do love you, you know. You
just never noticed. You never bothered to look." He stepped
away, sat down on the big sofa, and added, "And I never told
you."

He stared into the fire. The mix of emotions was so complex
that they seemed to cancel each other. He was left in an
eerie, quiet mist. He looked at the flames and waited. When
minutes had passed and Skinner still stood motionless, he
got up and asked, "Do you have anything to drink?"

Skinner looked up, composed, as if he'd been disturbed while
reading the paper. "Of course, what would you like? Would
scotch be all right?" When Mulder nodded, he opened a door
in the bookcase against the wall and poured two glasses. He
walked over to Mulder, handed him one, and retreated to his
chair. After another minute, he said pensively, "You never
told me."

"You never asked," Mulder replied in a gentle tone.

"That's true, I never asked. I never even considered it." He
seemed slightly dazed. "It's not easy to talk to you, you
know."

"Isn't it? I suppose... But you could have tried. You should
have tried."

"Goddammit, Mulder, I *did* try. You ignored me. You just
wanted to get laid," Skinner said, his tone defensive. "At
least, that's what I thought. I guess I gave up too soon."
He looked straight at Mulder. "I'm not made of iron, you
know. Though you probably wouldn't say so."

"I... I know that. I just thought things would change by
themselves, eventually, when the time had come. I would talk
to you. It was just so easy to wait, and so hard to say
something." He pulled a face. "I should have known what I
was in for."

They sat in silence. Eventually Skinner asked, "What do we
do now?"

"We should be... We should be bawling our eyes out, or
screwing each other senseless. But I guess... Having another
glass and going to bed seems more appropriate, somehow."

Skinner got up, fetched the bottle and moved over to the
sofa. He poured Mulder another glass, then himself, and
carefully sat down. "Do you mind if I..." he reached out a
hand, carefully, "if I touch you?"

"No, of course I don't mind," Mulder replied with a small
smile.

Skinner reached out and slowly stroked the side of his face.

They looked at each other for a second, then Mulder moved
over, put his feet on the far armrest and his head in
Skinner's lap. Looking up, he said, "You're an idiot, you
know that?"

"Yeah." Skinner lay a hand on Mulder's throat, caressed it
thoughtfully. "I guess it takes one to know one." He stared
at the fire, his glasses reflecting the light. His hands
drifted over the face in his lap like a blind man's hands
over a Braille text. Unbuttoning Mulder's shirt, he traced a
rib with one hand, appeared to stumble over a nipple, and
then the hand faltered, stopped, and Skinner sat motionless,
eyes still fixed on the fire.

Just when Mulder began to wonder if he had fallen asleep,
Skinner seemed to suddenly come to his senses again. His
movements became purposeful, almost businesslike, and he
went on unbuttoning where he had left off.

Mulder looked up at him, puzzled, vacillating between worry
and amusement. When Skinner moved on to his fly, he grabbed
his wrist to stop him. "Walter."

"Hmmm...?"

"I don't think I want to have sex tonight."

"I don't think your speech center has consulted the rest of
you," Skinner countered.

"The rest of me will have to take it as it comes for
tonight. I don't want to... It shouldn't become a sexual
thing again the moment we meet. Let's wait, for a change. If
you don't mind."

Skinner gave him a baffled look. "I guess... No, I don't
really mind. I just hope I haven't planted the idea in your
head that I'm tired of having sex with you." He finished his
whisky in a gulp and added, "And I hope you weren't planning
another round of talking. I don't think I have any words
left. Nor any thoughts, for that matter. Hopefully some more
will form during the night, or you'll have a catatonic on
your hands tomorrow."

Mulder tugged at his neck until he bent his head far enough
to be kissed. Then he got up and asked, "Where's the nearest
shower?"

When they were both in bed, Skinner put out the lights, lay
back, and said, "I don't think I know how not to have sex
with you."

"You're doing fine, Walter." The voice sounded as if it was
about to become a giggle.

"I'm not doing fine, I assure you. I feel ridiculous. But
then, I guess the whole thing is really a hoot, if viewed
from the proper distance." He sighed. "Are you sure you
don't want to have sex?"

"Absolutely. But I think I can still bear being touched. You
could move over to my side and put your arms around me, for
example."

"Are you laughing at me?" Skinner asked, moving over.

"Not at all. I'm just explaining some basic..." Then the
giggle couldn't be contained anymore. "I'm sorry, Walter.
You're just such a... such an absolutist. But I do love you.
Really." He rearranged himself a bit to be more comfortable,
then resumed, "What are we going to do?"

"Aside from sleeping? I was hoping you might have some
thoughts on that. Until two hours ago, I knew exactly what I
was going to do."

"What was that?"

"I was going to accept a part-time consulting position that
I was offered. Together with what the Bureau owes me, the
money is good enough to support me comfortably, and the job
sounded interesting. And then I would get a dog and become
the neighborhood's friendly uncle."

"Sounds, um... very solid. And now I've messed up your
plans."

"Yes. Of course I had never realized I'd drop them the
moment you showed up. So now we have to come up with
something new. I'll consider anything but taking my old job
back. If only because I don't want to be your boss anymore.
Assuming they'd even take me back, which I doubt. They don't
take kindly to desertion."

"But you wouldn't mind going back to DC?"

"If I can find a way to support myself..."

"Don't be coy, Walter. It would take about two days."

"I'd have to go *ask* for a job."

"I doubt that, even. Just tell a few people you're in the
market, and I'd be surprised if it doesn't take care of
itself."

"You have too much faith in me. But it's worth a try. I also
don't want to go back to Crystal City."

"You could live anywhere. Buy an inconspicuous little place
in Chevy Chase. Or a colonial mansion in Virginia. Don't
tell me you're strapped for cash."

"OK, I won't tell you that. So it's arranged? That was
easy."

"Too easy. You'll have second thoughts tomorrow."

"I doubt it. But we'll see."

They arranged themselves into their customary sleeping
position, on their sides, Skinner behind Mulder, one arm
loosely around his waist. Skinner lay for a moment, sighed,
and said, "Mulder, I sometimes wish you weren't so skinny.
You really occupy only one dimension. Though I'll admit you
do that very elegantly. But you should work on expanding
your girth a bit."

"It's called *lean*, Walter. What do I need two dimensions
for? Is one not enough for you?"

"It is, in all situations except this one. It would be nice
if I could lean against *your* broad chest for a change, but
you don't have enough of a second dimension for that."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't think my second dimension will
ever expand much, even if I'd try. Instead of asking me to
expand, why don't you shrink a bit?"

"I would, except I don't think I'd shrink into quite as
graceful a silhouette as yours. I'd shrink into an egg. And
then you'd leave me."

"That's true, I would. OK, then don't shrink. But I think
you're overestimating your chest circumference, or
underestimating mine. Try it. Turn around."

Skinner grumbled, but turned. Mulder wrapped his arms around
him, and to his surprise it didn't feel awkward at all. He
dimly thought he should have tried it before, and couldn't
remember why he hadn't.

"Walter?"

It was distinctly strange to feel Mulder's breath in his
ear. "Hmmm...?"

"Did you just say you loved me?"

"No, I... Do you think I should have said that?"

"It would be nice to hear. If you feel like saying it, of
course."

He took a breath, then imagined how the words would ring
out, reverberate, bounce against the bedroom wall, echo back
into his face... He winced, wriggled out of Mulder's arms.
"Just let me turn around first."

"You mean you can only say it in a certain posture?"

"Jesus Mulder, you're laughing at me again. You have to stop
doing that." He continued his turn and buried his face
against Mulder's shoulder. Then he took another breath and
said, "I love you."

Mulder chuckled. "You're a courageous man, Walter Skinner."

The next morning, Skinner woke up in an empty bed. He sat up
and looked around, bewildered, and then noticed the sound of
the shower. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, and tried
not to make any plans. When the shower stopped, he
languorously got up and stepped into the bathroom. To his
mild disappointment, he received a hasty kiss in passing and
was left alone.

When he re-emerged from the bathroom, he took a step into
the room and stopped in his tracks.

Mulder had thrown the bed covers aside and lay face-down on
the bed. His ass was turned towards Skinner, half-covered by
the tails of an unbuttoned white shirt. His right leg was
pulled up at an angle, slightly lifting his hip; his right
hand disappeared below it. His left arm was stretched out
beside him, palm turned up, the fingers slightly curled.

"Oh Jesus..." Skinner's breath stuck in his throat, and he
grew rock-hard almost instantaneously. He held on to the
bathroom door for support, and gawked.

The slight, short movements of Mulder's right arm indicated
that he was jerking off with a slow rhythm. The folds in the
shirt covering his back, his buttocks, and his thigh muscles
moved slightly with the motion, outlined sharply in shifting
shadows in the morning light. He was looking at Skinner over
his right shoulder, his eyes heavy-lidded, almost closed.

Skinner stood breathless, motionless, giddy, in his frozen
universe. "Oh God, Mulder..."

How to approach this delicate situation? He noiselessly
stepped back into the bathroom and got a small bottle of
lube. Then he went back and studied the scene like a
billiards player, pondering his next move. Although it had
clearly been created for his benefit, he was almost afraid
to disturb the delicate tableau. He stood, stared, fighting
dizziness, ignoring his alarming heartbeat. Then he took a
furtive step, another few, and stood still again beside the
bed.

Mulder, breathing heavily, pretended to be oblivious, his
slow hand motions now the only sign he was awake.

Finally Skinner made his move. Carefully kneeling down
between Mulder's legs, he ran his hand over the inside of
the bent leg, followed it up to the hip. Leaning slightly
over the prone figure, he reached over the leg into the same
space Mulder's right hand was occupying, checking as
furtively as possible if he was wearing a cock ring. He
wasn't.

Skinner gently put his large hand over Mulder's and stilled
the movement. A small whimper was the only reaction. "Don't
come yet, Mulder," he whispered warningly.

Keeping his hand in place, he shifted his balance back and
used his left hand to caress the inviting ass before him. He
slowly ran his fingers, then the palm of his hand over the
curve, and slid his fingers into the crack.

Mulder pulled his leg up higher, trapping Skinner's hand
between leg and hip bone.

Skinner freed it gently, and used it to spread the ass
cheeks. Slow, heavy breathing when he bent down, growing
faster when he ran his tongue first up, then down, then up
again to the halfway point. The breathing almost stopped. He
put his mouth to the tight opening, waited a bit for effect,
and then sucked strongly.

The muted cry that followed went straight to his balls and
made his head spin.

He continued sucking, using one arm to keep the writhing
body pinned to the mattress. When he finally thrust his
tongue inside, Mulder convulsed, then slowly lay back down,
moaning. Putting one arm around Mulder's pelvis to protect
himself from unexpected movements, he sucked, thrust, and
bit softly until Mulder sounded breathless, incoherent, and
on the verge of coming.

"Don't come, do you hear?"

Another moan, a stifled "Oh, Jesus..."

He moved, pulled up Mulder's hips and lifted him half onto
his knees. Then he groped around for the bottle of lube on
the mattress and squeezed a bit on the fingers of his right
hand. Spreading Mulder's ass with his left hand, he slowly
pushed his finger inside, probing, stretching. A second
finger, and Mulder grabbed a pillow, hugged it. He made
soft, plaintive noises, increasing in strength when the
third finger entered him.

Reaching around with his other hand, Skinner found the
artery in Mulder's groin, felt the pulse. It was quite fast
already. "Don't come, Mulder. Don't even think about it."

A short, breathless laugh, then, "Oh God... I can't, I
really can't."

He pressed down hard with the three fingers of his right
hand, and Mulder cried out, sounding as if he was in pain.
"AH! Jesus... Oh God, Walter, please... OH!"

Skinner set up a slow, circular motion, brushing over his
prostate with every thrust. The pained cries intensified as
Mulder tried to curl up, pulled up his knees until Skinner
blocked them, and writhed, struggled under the merciless
stimulation. His hips moved against the hand in a
counter-circle, making it even harder to hold back. He was
covered in sweat, trembling. "Oh Jesus, stop... I can't take
it, I'm going to..."

"Don't come yet," Skinner growled. The fingers of his left
hand again felt for Mulder's pulse. It was very rapid, and
he wondered how long Mulder could keep this up.

Mulder clenched his teeth, and didn't come. Stinging beads
of sweat (or was it tears?) ran into his eyes. His back
ached from the tension. The frantic beating of his heart
reverberated through his chest; it felt like it might give
up at any moment. He held on, desperately, while Skinner's
hand moved inside him in hard, tender strokes, forcing more
strained cries from him. When he was sure he would have a
stroke from the pressure, Skinner suddenly withdrew his
hand.

Mulder lay gasping, Skinner's knees between his, keeping his
legs apart. His heartbeat refused to go down, his muscles
wouldn't relax, his ass was tingling. He moved slightly,
winced, and lay still again, aching, exhausted.

"Don't come," Skinner whispered in his ear, certain that
neither he nor Mulder would last much longer. Wrapping one
arm around Mulder's waist and half-lifting him off the
mattress, he moved forward on his knees and guided his cock
into position. Mulder felt the pressure against his
sphincter increase, felt himself being stretched wide open,
Skinner entering him with a strong, sure stroke. He cried
out again, then whispered, "O God, I can't..." and began to
come.

Skinner was pleasantly surprised that the penetration hadn't
made him come immediately. He didn't pause, and fucked
Mulder hard, deep, keeping the pace until Mulder began to
soften, to slowly melt in his embrace, and he could feel his
own climax approach with all the quiet grace of an oncoming
train. He gasped with the force of it, trembled, almost let
Mulder fall out of his arms onto the mattress. He slowed
down, ground to a halt, and after a few seconds of heavy
synchronized panting, their combined bulk toppled over to
the right.

Mulder was still clutching his pillow, Skinner was still
clutching him, and the soaked shirt was stuck between them.

Minutes later, Skinner emerged from his stupor to the sound
of muffled sobs. "What the hell... Mulder? What's wrong?"

Mulder shook his head and dove deeper into his pillow.

Skinner held him, mystified and at a compete loss.

A few minutes later, the sobs lessened until there was only
an occasional hiccup, then nothing. After another minute,
Mulder turned onto his back with his pillow and said,
"Sorry."

"What was that?" Skinner couldn't keep the amazement out of
his voice.

"That was... just some post-traumatic stress relief. I've
had a few traumatic experiences lately."

Skinner gazed down at him, his heart shrinking.

Mulder turned another 90 degrees to face Skinner and said,
"It would be good for you, too."

To his enormous surprise, Skinner suddenly felt his nose
congest and his throat constrict. What the hell was
happening here? "I never... I'm an ex-marine, Mulder. I
don't cry."

"I'll bet. 'Old soldiers never cry, they simply sneak
away...'," Mulder improvised without thinking. The look on
Skinner's face made him realize what he'd said, and he
amended, "Oh shit, Walter, I'm sorry, that was... an
accident. I didn't mean it the way it came out." Then,
resignedly, he thrust the pillow into Skinner's face and
said, "You may want to use this. I'm sorry. I really am."

"So am I," came the muffled reply after a while. Then
Skinner threw the pillow to the side and took Mulder in his
arms again. "I'm very sorry. I really am an idiot."

"Yeah," Mulder offered cheerfully, "like you said, it takes
one to know one." He grinned at Skinner and continued,
"Well, that was very therapeutic, don't you think?"

"Damn you. You must have drugged me. Bewitched me."

"I've charmed you into betraying your true self. Well, part
of it. And high time, too."

"Mulder, I'm beginning to worry that you have forgotten your
place. I may have to put you back in it. Assuming you still
want it."

"Oh yes. A damn fine place it was. Nothing wrong with that
place."

"So. I'll put you back in it. Today is Saturday, right?"

"Yes..."

"So why the hell did we wake up at..." Skinner raised
himself up on one elbow and glanced at the clock. "Oh, it's
10.30. Well. Anyway, the problem, one of the problems, is
that I have no... gear. I have almost nothing to help you
remember you place. I need some things. That's where you
come in."

Mulder looked at him suspiciously. "You mean I get to choose
what..."

"Here's the plan. I go to the supermarket here in Lynnwood
and buy some food, and then I'll cook dinner. You're going
to drive to Seattle today and find a hardware store, and
you'll buy us some toys. You know what you like, and you
know what I like. I'll even give you my plastic to pay for
it. That way we both get a present, in a way. What do you
think?" "It seems barbaric to me. Civilized people buy those
things over the Internet."

"Civilized people with plenty of time. I'm in a hurry. I'm
worried it may be too late already. Your ego seems to have
grown quite a bit since I last saw you."

"Since you *left* me. So you really want me to physically
drive there, find an establishment where they sell that...
gear? Gear. And go in, and get a shopping basket, and look
around, and... and... report to the cash register with my
little basket filled with cuffs, plugs, whips...?"

"Don't forget the enema bags."

Mulder looked at him in mock horror. "What if I meet someone
there? Like someone from the Seattle bureau?"

"Then you'll have something in common with a third Federal
Agent. I like this plan better and better."

"I don't even believe you can cook."

~:~

Mulder came back around 4 in the afternoon with a large,
discreet plastic bag that appeared, and turned out to be,
rather heavy. Trying not to look self-satisfied, he handed
it to Skinner, who could barely suppress a smile. He had
laid a fire, and with the cold, gray weather outside and his
plastic bag of gifts inside, it was beginning to feel a bit
like Christmas.

And the Christmas elation came with it. It was hard to
suppress to urge to turn the bag upside down and dump its
contents on the rug for inspection, and then rummage through
it with both hands... he put it down gently, and sat next to
it on the floor, cross-legged. Mulder sat down on the sofa
across from the fire and looked on.

The first item was the receipt. He glanced at it. It came to
a bit over 500 dollars, which made him smile again. "I'm
glad you didn't economize on my behalf," he said, grinning.

In rapid succession, he pulled out some standard items.
Light brown leather, fleece-lined wrist- and ankle cuffs. A
suede cock-and-ball harness in the same tan color. A bottle
of lube, and another of some soothing ointment. It smelled
expensive, a fresh, herbal scent. A black velvet blindfold.
Butt plugs in three different sizes. A nylon riding crop.
Trying it out on his hand, he found that it had a mean sting
to it.

"Did you even try this before you bought it?"

Mulder, now sitting on the edge of his seat, shook his head.
"I like a surprise." He succeeded in looking coy.

"I'm not sure you'll like this one. But I'm honored that you
have so much faith in my restraint."

The heaviest objects remained at the bottom of the bag. A
wooden paddle, nicely balanced, handling like an old,
familiar friend. Skinner held it, flexed his wrist, then
waved it around, and felt the old, intoxicating sensation of
power return. He looked at Mulder again, and thought he saw
the complementing feeling in his eyes. His arms suddenly
felt heavy with emotion.

Mulder got up and stood beside the fire, looking at him with
tense anticipation. The best was clearly still to come.

Putting the paddle aside, Skinner delved into the bag again.
Only one thing remained. It was heavy in his hands, and very
smooth. He freed it from the bag, almost reverently. It was
a large wooden dildo, elegantly shaped, slightly curved, the
shape suggestive but not overly naturalistic. One end was
slightly thickened to prevent it from sliding in. It was
made from some kind of tropical hardwood, very dark brown
with flames of a lighter color, finished with a hard, very
clear high-gloss finish that enhanced the grain of the wood.
It gleamed in the afternoon light. A thin leather strap
carrying a price tag was knotted around it like a parody of
a cock ring. The thing had cost almost 90 dollars.

"Classy..." Skinner said to himself, his tone dreamy. "It's
almost a piece of art." He looked at Mulder, who was leaning
against the mantel, motionless, so intent Skinner was
reminded of self-hypnosis.

The dildo was surprisingly heavy. Its size made him a little
nervous; he wasn't sure how to interpret that gesture. If it
was a gesture. Was Mulder trying to impress him? To please
him? Did he secretly still think the whole thing was about
sex, and that the damage could be repaired with heavier sex?
Or had he just taken a fancy to the damned dildo, without
intending it to be used at all?

Stop that, you fool. You're thinking for him again, adopting
his brain, assuming you can predict how it works.

He looked up again, and said dubiously, "I hope you've
thought about this, Mulder..."

Mulder stared at him with huge eyes, a scorching, searing
gaze. He appeared mesmerized by the little act Skinner had
created for him. He was half-erect, and he stared at Skinner
as if he was only seconds away from jumping at him.

For a moment, Skinner was unable to look away, gaze glued to
his lover in breathless admiration. Mulder was leaning
against the mantel, in faded jeans and a loose-hanging,
light blue flannel shirt that missed the lowest two buttons.
Barefoot, lean, lanky, beautiful. Aroused and making a point
of conveying the message. The vision seemed almost unreal.
He stared until he felt the world recede, until they seemed
to be captured in a transparent bubble together; then he
forced himself to look away.

Skinner looked back at the object in his hands, stroked it
with an almost loving gesture. "It seems a bit big..." He
was quiet again, lost to the world. Then he suddenly put the
dildo down and got up, saying, "However, I do think you
forgot something."

Mulder now looked at the floor, feigning innocence, but
coloring slightly.

His blush, more than anything else, made Skinner realize
they were already crossing the line between real and
make-believe. He smiled a victorious smile. "Fortunately,
I've known you for a while, so I picked up some disposable
enema bags at the drugstore." He retrieved a rumpled brown
back from behind a chair and added it to the small pile on
the floor. "Of course, I can't let this pass unnoticed. But
you knew that, didn't you?" He smiled up benignly at Mulder,
who seemed to waver between laughter and chagrin. Then he
got up again and moved behind his lover.

"Don't move," he whispered, reaching around and running his
hand over Mulder's chest, then dropping it to his fly. Using
his hips, he pushed Mulder's pelvis against his hand, and
rubbed, until he felt a twitch in response. "You are so
unbelievably beautiful," he said softly, opening Mulder's
jeans with one hand, pinning him to his chest with the
other. He pushed the jeans and boxers down over Mulder's
straining erection, just far enough to free it. Taking it in
his hand, he slowly stroked it with his thumb.

Mulder leaned back heavily, his head resting against
Skinner's chin, then sliding to the side and coming to rest
on his shoulder. There it turned and nuzzled the side of his
neck.

"Should we continue this, I wonder? I think it might take
the edge off the rest? I'd really better stop," Skinner
drawled, smiling when Mulder made a little noise against his
neck. He pushed the other away and said, "Why don't you take
your clothes off, Mulder?"

Mulder nodded, pulled up his jeans, and started in the
direction of the bedroom.

"Stay here."

He turned around, looked at the large windows facing the
street, began, "But..."

"There's a fair amount of lawn in front of the house,
Mulder. Besides, there's never anyone in the street.
Undress."

Mulder looked at him hesitantly; then he slowly began to
undress.

Skinner looked on, motionless, until he was done, then
picked up his rumpled brown bag from the pile on the floor
and said, "Wait here."

When he came back with the filled bag, Mulder sat on the
couch, the only place in the room that was invisible from
the street, hunched over, hugging himself as if he was cold,
even though the fire had warmed the room to an almost
tropical temperature.

"Kneel on the rug, facing the fire."

Mulder now looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Do you mean...
But... It's like a fucking theater stage!" Equal parts
indignation and apprehension.

Skinner just stared at him.

Mulder was horrified. Hands gripping the edge of the seat, a
posture that revealed his half-erection, he looked at
Skinner imploringly. "I can't... I don't think I can do
this..."

"Mulder..." Skinner found with satisfaction that he still
could do his menacing tone quite well.

Mulder got up, very slowly, eyeing the windows again. "Can
you at least close the curtains?"

"Then the neighbors will assume that something untoward is
going on here. We don't want to do anything that looks
suspicious," Skinner said in a reasonable tone. "Kneel,
Mulder. Face the fire. Now."

His movements a perfect choreography of stage fright, Mulder
gingerly stepped onto the woolly rug, looked over his
shoulder at the deserted street, and knelt, three feet away
from the small stack of toys that Skinner had built.

Skinner stood behind him, picked up the velvet blindfold,
and tied it over his eyes, checking to make sure that he
couldn't see. He stroked Mulder's hair for a moment, then
commanded, "Put your forehead on the floor."

With a shaky sigh, Mulder obeyed.

Skinner placed the enema bag on the fireplace mantel and
moved behind Mulder. Kneeling down, he quickly looked over
his shoulder to make sure his bluff wouldn't backfire, then
gently inserted the nozzle and opened the valve. And stepped
back to admire the scene.

More than half the fun came from Mulder's intense dislike of
this procedure; it always generated some resistance, always
took a bit of persuasion. It was the first struggle for
dominance, Mulder's defeat just serious enough demoralize,
to make him more pliable, more receptive to whatever else
was coming. The tension was visible in every line, every
curve of his body; he never looked more beautiful than when
he was struggling.

"Don't move until I'm back. I'm going to do something about
dinner." 'Doing something' would consist of placing the
steaming pan on the stove, but there was no need to be more
specific.

Mulder made a small noise. Raising his head, he swallowed
and said, "No. Please..." When he turned his unseeing face
toward at Skinner, it was flushed red; his voice was almost
a whisper.

"It won't take long. Relax and wait it out, Mulder." He
didn't await further pleas.

The kitchen also faced the street. After half-closing the
door to the living room, he cast another quick look at the
street to make sure it was still deserted; then he filled
the steamer with water, placed the Dim Sum he had prepared
earlier inside, and put it on the slow burner. After
pottering around for another minute, he went back.

To his satisfaction, Mulder had not visibly moved. From the
way his shoulders slumped and his head rested heavily on the
floor, it was clear that he had given up on the battle, at
least for the moment.

Skinner checked the street again, silently laughing at
himself because he was getting entangled in Mulder's fears,
the fears that he had so carefully orchestrated himself.

The enema bag was about three-quarters empty. Dropping down
on the rug beside Mulder, he began to stroke his back with
long, even strokes.

Mulder shivered, moved slightly to push his back up against
the caress, and asked in a hoarse voice, "Is there anyone
outside?"

"Of course not," Skinner replied in a long-suffering tone.
It was clear that Mulder barely believed him.

When the enema bag was empty, Skinner unwrapped the smallest
of the three butt plugs and lubed it. Taking out the nozzle,
he quickly inserted the plug. Mulder gasped softly but
remained still, forehead on the ground, arms by his sides.
In spite of the heat, he was trembling.

On a whim, Skinner took the hand that was closest to him and
held it. He looked at the prostrate figure with wonder. What
would make anyone submit himself to this? What pleasure did
people derive from it? It was mystifying, baffling, and very
intriguing. The amount of external control that Mulder was
willing to accept always awed him, and it moved him beyond
words. He looked on as the trembling became stronger and
Mulder's back became shiny with sweat. He stroked the
fingers of the hand he was holding, and counted his
blessings.

After several minutes, he got up on his knees, leaned over
Mulder and removed the blindfold. "You can go now," he said
softly.

Mulder blinked a few times, then got up slowly, stiffly, and
went.

In his absence, Skinner looked again at the wooden dildo.
The dark wood shone. The smooth, glossy surface invited
touching. He ran one finger over its length. Its beauty made
it inviting, belying the harm it could cause. Before, it had
seemed outrageous, a bluff, a whim. But now he didn't think
it was. It represented the very approach/avoid dynamic that
was the driving force in Mulder, and it seemed very typical
that he would choose it. He had bought it because he was
attracted to it; not to be shown off, but to be used.

Mulder stepped back into the room, naked, but looking fairly
composed. His first glance was at the windows. He had
apparently taken a hasty shower: some drops of water still
clung to his skin.

"Fetch a towel," Skinner told him. When he returned with it,
Skinner took it, positioned Mulder in the center of the rug,
facing the window, and carefully rubbed him dry, watching
his cock rise slowly in the process. He ran his index finger
through the crack of his ass, and found that Mulder had
re-inserted the plug. He pulled it out, lubed up the
middle-sized one, and gently pushed it in. Placing his other
hand against Mulder's stomach to counterbalance him, he
twisted the plug. There was a sharp intake of breath, and
Mulder's cock pushed against the back of his hand.

Skinner moved to stand beside Mulder, facing him. "Put your
left foot between my legs," he instructed. Mulder obediently
stepped out, hanging on to him for balance. "Farther,"
urging Mulder on until his legs were spread more than 90
degrees apart. His shoulder rested against Skinner's chest,
his arm was around Skinner's waist, hand clasping his side.

Skinner reached for the plug again with his right hand, and
dropped his left hand to cup Mulder's balls, pushing his
wrist against Mulder's thigh to keep him from falling
forward. He pushed the plug in a bit and pulled it back
again.

Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed.

Fondling Mulder's balls with his left hand, manipulating the
plug with his right, Skinner observed him as his arousal
grew.

Mulder's hips moved slightly against the plug in his rectum.
He leaned against Skinner, then turned his head and pushed
it against Skinner's shoulder to stifle his moans. He knew
he wouldn't be allowed to come yet. The knowledge made it no
easier to still his hips. It turned his growing excitement
into a slow, exquisite torture. He fastened his teeth on
Skinner's shoulder through the cotton of his shirt and stood
as still as he could, panting hard.

Finally the unbearable movement in his ass stopped and his
balls were exposed to the air that now felt chilly. He let
go of Skinner's shoulder and stood, swaying.

"I think this is a good time for your punishment," Skinner
announced.

Mulder, still breathing hard, looked at him out of the
corner of his eye and nodded assent. He held out his wrists
in front of him to be locked in the soft leather cuffs and
tied together, and stood still while Skinner knelt before
him to fasten the ankle cuffs. His ankles were tied together
as well, allowing only very small steps.

"Kneel down here," Skinner said, indicating the chair facing
the window, "and put your chest on the seat."

Again that God-damned window. Mulder looked outside again
and saw a deserted street; he couldn't shake the feeling
that dozens of leering faces would appear inside the frames
of the windows as soon as he turned his back. He looked at
Skinner pleadingly, but there was no sympathy, only
impatience.

Feeling like a fool, he looked outside again to try to warn
any spectators off, sighed, and turned to kneel in front of
the chair.

"Bend over," Skinner urged him on.

He bent, face sideways on the seat, his view confined to the
brown ribcord of the upholstered armrest. To his horror, he
already felt his throat constrict, tears rising, threatening
to fill his eyes. He swallowed, blinked, and breathed
deeply; after a moment, it was easier.

"How many do you think you deserve?" Skinner asked.

This was a ritual question; he didn't know if what he said
had any influence on the number of lashes he would get, but
he wasn't sure it didn't. Getting it right suddenly seemed
very important. How many? He had willfully left out the
enema bags, to emphasize his resentment, to assert his
independence, to stress that his cooperation was an
essential part of this game. And maybe hoping to escape the
hated ritual for once. Intentional sabotage, defiance,
disobedience...

He cleared his throat and said, "Fifteen, Sir."

"Fifteen. Hmmm. All right, we'll see."

He heard Skinner step away and pick something up, presumably
the paddle. He didn't raise his head to look. He felt the
air move when Skinner knelt down beside him, heard the
rustle of his clothes when he raised his arm, and clenched
the muscles in his buttocks.

The sound was as bad as the stinging, burning pain. It was
very loud, and it would have made him flinch even if it had
been someone else's flesh. The blow pushed the anal plug
deeper inside, producing a jolt of arousal that seemed to
make the pain more acute. He gasped, clenched his fists,
bunched his shoulders, and it took some time before he could
make himself form the words. "One, Sir."

He had barely finished the words before the second slap hit
him, making him whimper. He had no defense against this
pain. Was he out of practice, was it really so much worse,
or had something changed inside him? His persistent erection
pressed against the front of the chair. His arms were
clamped against his chest, his hands balled into fists. He
forced himself to breathe slowly, to wait until the roar in
his ears quieted somewhat, before he said, "Two, Sir." His
voice sounded brittle.

The pain got worse as the flesh on his buttocks heated. The
tender, hot flush spread over all his body and his face. The
third slap made him wonder if he could take all fifteen; it
seemed impossible. He would break down, cry, grovel, beg for
it to stop. Would that make it stop? He didn't know. He
raised his torso slightly, moved his bound hands between his
thighs, shielding his maddeningly erect cock between his
forearms, and lay down again. "Three, Sir," he managed
weakly.

The fourth blow was worse than all the previous ones. It
made him cry out and bury his face against the armrest. In
the store, he had tested the paddle on his hand, and it
hadn't seemed very bad then. Now the pain threatened to
overcome him. Swallowing back his tears, he moved his lower
jaws to release the tense muscles. His thigh muscles
trembled and his buttocks were on fire. He badly wanted to
run his hands over his backside to feel how much damage had
been done, but it was impossible with his cuffed hands, and
anyway, Skinner wouldn't allow it. His breath was shaky as
he whispered, "Four, Sir."

Upon the fifth, his whole body jerked. A strangled cry
escaped and was mercifully muffled by the armrest. His chest
heaved as he tried to control his breathing. The roar in his
ears was deafening, he was dizzy, and he felt he might
faint. He gasped, "I can't bear it, Sir. Please."

Skinner moved behind him and ran a cool, tender hand over
his right buttock, then his left. "I'll give you a moment,"
he conceded, stroking Mulder's ass and the back of his
thighs, a cool, dry touch against the burning skin. "The
first few are always the worst." He lifted Mulder up
slightly and touched his cock, still painfully erect.
Withdrawing one hand, he spread Mulder's buttocks and
twisted the plug inside him. The response of his cock was
strong. He pulled back his other hand and inserted his
thumbs in the crack, opening it, and ran his tongue through
the cleft. Mulder shuddered and moaned. He certainly didn't
seem to be in any physical trouble. He moved back and said,
"Resume the count, Mulder."

Mulder wanted crawl away, to curl up in a tight little ball.
He was almost desperate, but he knew that counting was his
only chance of controlling the tempo of the beating; if he
didn't count, Skinner would set his own pace. He took a few
deep breaths and said, "Five, Sir."

The sixth blow almost unbalanced him, but the pain strangely
was more bearable. The plug in his rectum seemed much bigger
now. "Six, Sir."

It was becoming easier. His ass felt raw and overheated, but
it was slightly numb. He now remembered that that was the
way it always was; just when the pain seemed too much to
bear, it receded a bit, and the arousal became stronger. He
clenched his teeth for the seventh blow, and when it fell,
he concentrated on the intense sensation in his rectum. He
didn't even notice that his hips were moving, thrusting his
erection against the chair. "Seven, Sir," he announced,
slightly light-headed.

"Mulder."

The voice took some time to register. He lifted his head.

"Straighten up and turn around."

Turning on his knees, breathless, he wondered what had
happened.

Skinner held the soft harness he had bought, and proceeded
to put it on, careful to touch Mulder's straining erection
as little as he could. He pulled the straps painfully tight,
and Mulder winced at the rough treatment.

"You should have thought of that before," Skinner
admonished.

Before? Before what?

"You were rubbing yourself against the chair, Mulder. I
don't know why you thought I wouldn't notice. Turn back. And
you don't have to count anymore."

That was punishment, and he felt his heart lurch at the
unexpected snub. He turned and assumed his position again,
still wondering, the straps of the cock harness cutting into
his flesh uncomfortably, and more so after the next stinging
blow sent another lightning bolt up his spine. He shifted
around, trying with growing desperation to find a better
position as the blows fell faster. The searing shocks from
his prostate made his cock jump painfully against the
restricting harness. His mind shrunk, his whole awareness
was concentrated in his ass, his rectum, his cock, blow
after blow intensifying all sensations until the world began
to disappear.

When it stopped, his mind was blank. He lay in the chair,
panting, motionless, unthinking, until Skinner touched him.

"Get up."

He tried, but couldn't. Skinner helped him up and lay him
face-down on the floor, his torso beside his bound hands.
Those same cool hands were on his buttocks again, soothing,
caressing. Something cold - he could smell the herbal
fragrance - was massaged into his burning flesh. It felt so
unbelievably good, Mulder wanted to stretch out, to croon,
to close his eyes and float and never come back.

The plug was removed, and replaced with the third one. This
one was big - big enough to stretch his sphincter
uncomfortably. He shifted a bit as Skinner pushed it in
slowly, then shifted more, then groaned as he was opened
wider. The plug was pulled back a little, then in again,
even more slowly. He breathed deep, slow breaths until the
thing was finally in place and the burning began to subside.

"That dildo is still bigger," Skinner warned him.

He had almost forgotten about the dildo. In the shop, he had
hesitated for a long time about it, decided against it, but
gone back again because he was fascinated. Its beauty was
enchanting; it seemed to be calling to him like a Siren. He
stood with the thing in his hands and could almost feel it
being forced inside him. It would hurt, badly, but it would
be so intense, so overpowering... He had put it back again
and made for the exit, then returned once more to stare at
it. The smoothness, the heavy balance, the delicate shape -
he had dropped it into the basket with the rest and rushed
out, before he'd change his mind again.

It appeared that Skinner couldn't resist it either. So it
was going to be tonight. His heart pounded - arousal,
anxiety, anticipation. It would hurt.

The stroking of his backside stopped, and he lazily opened
his eyes. It was late twilight now, and Skinner was
(finally, finally...) closing the curtains, and went on to
throw some logs on the fire. It was now the only source of
light in the room.

"Can you sit up yet?"

He tried, and could, although he was a still bit wobbly.

Skinner undressed (the cowardly bastard...) and sat down in
the chair, beckoning Mulder over. "Suck me. And do your
best."

Mulder moved over on his knees, knelt in front of the chair,
and bent over Skinner's lap. He knew he was good at this,
and relished his temporary control. He could set the tempo
and the tone, and he knew exactly what Skinner liked.

Within minutes, he had Skinner almost incoherent, fingers
entwined in Mulder's hair but not really trying to influence
his movements, just feeling, passive for a few minutes,
being tossed around by Mulder's mouth, his unbelievable,
incredible mouth. His breath came in short bursts, his voice
didn't work properly anymore, it only produced ridiculous,
whimpering noises, and when Mulder finally deep-throated
him, his hips wanted to rise up from the chair, but he
didn't even have the brain capacity left to coordinate that
movement. He just writhed, moaned, and then begged for
release, only to be strung along for another eternity before
it finally came, explosively, a starburst.

It took some time before he could speak again, and all that
time he was aware, vaguely at first, then more acutely, of
Mulder's smug face, his triumphant smile.

"Was that your best?" Skinner asked him.

"Was it satisfactory?" Mulder countered, grinning.

"It was... quite satisfactory," Skinner replied, smiling
himself. He sat up in the chair, organizing his thoughts,
forming a plan. "I want you on your back."

Mulder lay back, his still bound wrists modestly covering
his crotch, long legs stretched out on the rug. Skinner
pushed up his legs a bit, spreading his knees. Then he
reconsidered. "Pull up your knees, and wrap your arms around
them." He unfastened the strap that held the ankle cuffs
together, pulled it through the ring on one of the wrist
cuffs, and re-tied it.

Mulder tried to move his legs, and found to his horror that
he was as good as immobilized on his back, like a tortoise.
"You're not going to make me stay like this, are you?"

"I don't know yet, Mulder. We'll see. Are you comfortable?"

Mulder mentally checked and found that nothing hurt yet, but
that probably wouldn't last long. The posture was very
undignified, and he resented it.

Skinner went about his work. First he unstrapped the
cock-and-ball harness, evoking a sigh of relief from Mulder.
He now had very easy access to the plug in Mulder's ass, and
he worked it a bit, noting the reactions. Mulder never was
so easily aroused as when he was slightly upset. He erection
was as strong as ever. Pushing the plug in, he watched the
anal muscle close on it, trying to keep it out. He turned it
a half-circle, and heard Mulder hiss. He shifted position to
watch Mulder's face. It was visibly flushed, even in the
yellow half-light of the fire. He twisted the plug again,
and saw Mulder close his eyes, arch his back, and bite back
a moan.

He slowly took out the plug and reached for the lube.
Covering his fingers and knuckles with the jelly, he kneeled
next to Mulder's thigh. He wanted to be able to watch his
face; sounds of pain and pleasure were hard to distinguish
by ear alone. He started with three fingers, and found they
were no problem. He pulled out and added a fourth, feeling
slight resistance at the first joint, then stronger
resistance at the second. Carefully fucking the tight hole
with four fingers, he didn't push on until the muscles began
to yield.

Mulder lay incapacitated, unable to decide whether to focus
on his residual indignation, his increasing arousal, or the
pain that went with it. His head was thrown back, his mouth
open to catch any breath he could. His spine was arched in a
futile attempt to relieve the relentless pressure in his
ass. The sounds he occasionally made sounded barely human to
him. The hand inside him was gentle, patient, persistent,
and he wanted, desperately wanted to give in to its
persuasive motions. He felt its slow progress in his whole
body, felt his muscles gripping it, his pulse beating
against it.

Skinner began to push inside again with a bit more force,
and felt the muscle give, accepting his hand, opening
without much resistance as he slid inside up to his
knuckles. He pulled back, then forward again, and it was
easy. He sat still, breathless, his gut hollow with renewed
arousal, and watched half his hand slowly disappearing
inside Mulder, listening to the strangled noises his
movement evoked. He held it in place for a moment and felt
the overworked muscles slowly clamp down on him.

He had to withdraw and use both hands to lube the dildo.
Resuming his place, he gently pushed it against Mulder's
ass, felt it open again, willingly, and slid it in until he
met some resistance. His mouth was dry, he was fully erect
again, and he wondered if he would actually come once more
from this slow, persistent fucking.

The dildo went about a third of the way in, and Mulder
moaned again, softly. Skinner looked at him, and released
the strap that held his legs up.

"I'm not... I'm OK," Mulder panted.

"I know, but it's just too beautiful. You have to be there,"
Skinner replied, aware that he wasn't making much sense.

Mulder stretched his legs gingerly, keeping his knees
slightly bent. Shadows from the firelight played on his
skin. His eyes seemed black again. The dark curve of the
dildo protruded from his anus, its thickened end almost
touching the floor, moving slightly when he moved his legs.

Skinner began to feel a bit nervous about the abuse. "Can
you take more?" he asked softly.

There was a nod, barely visible. "Slow." The voice was
almost inaudible.

Skinner took the end in his slippery fingers and pulled it
out slightly, then back in, very slowly, exerting only the
slightest pressure. That seemed to work: after every
retraction, it slid in a little further.

He looked at Mulder's face, staring sightlessly at the
ceiling, turning to look at the fire, then back again. His
hands, still bound, lay on his belly, relaxed, unnoticed.
His breath came in shallow gasps. He had lost his erection;
there seemed to be nothing left except the desperate desire
to take the dildo, to cajole or force his body into
accepting the intrusion.

With very slight increments, it could be pushed in further
and further. Kneeling between Mulder's legs, Skinner worked
with intense concentration. It was now a challenge for both
of them; he was part of it as much as Mulder. He could
almost feel the stretching, the pain in his own ass. His
erection was throbbing, but he barely noticed it, intent on
working the dildo in without causing any damage, with as
little pain as he could. Finally he stopped, and looked at
his work, exultant.

He stroked Mulder's thigh, his hip, in appreciation, in awe.
"It's in," he whispered.

Mulder lay very still, panting. He moved his leg slightly,
experimentally. Then he raised his head and said, "I want to
see it."

Skinner looked at him, wide-eyed. He tried to determine what
he felt at that statement, and took a second before he
realized he was shocked. But he got up, went to the bedroom
and took down the three-quarter-length mirror. In the living
room, he set it down between Mulder's legs and held it,
adjusting the angle. And when he looked again at the figure
lying supine before him, legs spread and slightly bent,
colored amber by the fire, ass stretched open by the now
almost invisible dildo, he could see Mulder's point. It was
absolutely breathtaking.

Mulder lifted his head and studied himself. His penis
twitched, and his erection began to come back. He smiled, a
strange, twisted smile. Even his facial muscles seemed
stretched, exhausted. "Do you like it?"

Skinner could barely find his voice. "It's the most
beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"I want you to fuck me with it. And I want to watch you."

Skinner swiveled the chair around and leaned the mirror
against the back. Its oblique angle would let him sit
between Mulder's legs without getting into his line of
vision. The bottom of the mirror was held in place with a
heavy book from the bookcase. As he adjusted the tilt, he
felt light-headed, elated, and deliciously perverse.

Resuming his place between Mulder's legs, he gripped the end
of the dildo tightly and pulled on it. It slowly slid out,
about half an inch. He pushed it back in, and heard Mulder
moan. After a few seconds' rest, he resumed, pulling out
slowly, then pushing back in. The moans became louder.
Mulder's erection grew stronger, and an angry pulse on the
underside of his cock threw a rhythmic shadow on the skin of
his hip. He moved his hips slightly in time with the
thrusts.

"Are you OK?" Skinner inquired, although there was no reason
to assume he wasn't.

Mulder was gasping. He ground out, "I'm... I'm very OK...
Deeper..."

The amplitude was now at least for inches. Skinner
hesitantly pulled the dildo out further, pushed it back. It
slid smoothly both ways, and Mulder began to whimper.

"Oh God, Walter, please... Harder... It's so unbelievably...
unbelievably..."

Ignoring his misgivings, Skinner obeyed. The writhing body
below his hands was clouding his mind, his brain felt like
it was on a nitrogen high, and he realized he would probably
come as soon as Mulder did. He looked at the dildo,
stretching the flesh on its way in, sliding smoothly out,
slick with lubricant, ethereally beautiful as it ruthlessly
fucked Mulder, evoking gasps and twitches and the racing,
raging pulse...

He pulled it all the way out, waited a second, and thrust it
in again forcefully, then again, and again, slightly
unnerved by the brutal action, but too aroused to care.

At the third thrust, Mulder cried out and went over the
edge, flailing, convulsing, his semen illuminated by the
fire, flying in glittering parabolic arcs and landing on his
chest.

Skinner watched him come, his heart pounding so hard it
seemed to make his eyes bulge. He touched himself and
immediately came, almost doubled over, his head touching
Mulder's abdomen as he emptied himself, too dazed to even
hear his own animal grunts. He dimly realized that he
couldn't drop his weight on Mulder, shifted his weight and
dropped next to Mulder.

When he woke up, Mulder lay on his side, facing the fire and
away from him. The dildo was still deeply lodged in his
rectum. Skinner wondered briefly if he should pull it out,
but he was too sleepy. When he moved behind Mulder, he
accidentally brushed against the protruding end of the
dildo, making Mulder flinch in his sleep. He carefully
pulled up his other leg and lay it over Mulder's hip,
protecting him from further collisions, and fell asleep
again.

Mulder's brusque movements woke him up what seemed an
instant later.

"Walter, get that thing out of me." He sounded agitated.

He blinked, shook his head to clear it, and half sat,
remembering in the same instant that he had neglected to
untie Mulder's hands. "Shit. I'm sorry." He got up on his
knees and gingerly took hold of the protruding end of the
dildo.

Mulder winced, then said, "Wait... wait. Untie my hands."

Skinner leaned over him and untied the strap that held the
cuffs together, then took of the cuffs.

Mulder carefully rolled over on his stomach and said, "Try
again."

Skinner swallowed, tried not to stare at the smooth, rounded
ass that was presented to him. The dark, imposing shape of
the dildo visibly stretched the flesh, holding the buttocks
apart. Its shaft twitched slightly as the muscle clenched
it, working fruitlessly to push it out. He put his left hand
on Mulder's lower back and slowly pulled with his right.

Mulder squirmed, then tensed up, breathing hard. "Oh shit...
we should have... Walter, wait..." His back was shiny with
sweat again.

Skinner waited. The dildo was almost halfway out, and the
view was incredible. He was ashamed of himself, but was
unable to look away, to ignore his arousal. He reached out
and caressed Mulder's ass, his back, his thighs, and was
very relieved when it actually seemed to relax him.

"Try again, Walter, slowly..."

He pulled, and the dildo slid out smoothly. Mulder heaved a
heavy sigh of relief. "I thought I had inadvertently married
it... How do I look?"

Skinner stroked his ass some more, then replied, "You look
fine. I don't think there's any damage."

"Good. Christ, it feels even bigger than it looks." He
turned his head to Skinner and rested it on his arms. "You
know, I really bought it for you."

"For me? You mean, to use on me? What particular spirit
possessed you at that moment?" He stared back in disbelief.

"It would be good for you. You're too stuck in your role,
Walter. You should try something else for a change. What
time is it? I'm hungry."

"Oh shit..." Skinner got up and jogged to the kitchen, full
of somber premonitions. At least it didn't smell overheated,
and the steaming pan still held some water. The Dim Sum,
however, had degenerated into a soggy whitish mass of dough
fragments, studded with little gray and green balls of
stuffing. He looked at it sadly. "Damn..."

He threw out the water and waited until the soggy contents
had stopped dripping, then dumped them into a bowl. It
wasn't even worth taking plates. He went into the living
room again, holding the pan before him as if it was a soiled
cat box.

"The esthetics are definitely not what they are supposed to
be. I hope the taste is still OK." He set the bowl down
before Mulder and lifted the lid to peer inside, shaking his
head regretfully. "You'll have to close your eyes and open
your mouth. If you were to see what I'm going to feed you
I'd have to change you into a toad, or else die of
mortification."

Mulder grinned and opened his mouth, then exclaimed, "It's
delicious!" He raised himself on his elbows and before
Skinner had time to react, he looked at the grayish, slimy
mass. "Oh... I see." He looked at Skinner, trying to keep a
straight face. "It's a bit overcooked, I think."

Skinner rolled his eyes and wailed, "I *know* it's
overcooked! If it hadn't taken me an hour and a half to
bring you off, it would have looked as good as it tastes, I
hope..." He picked up a morsel and ate it. "The taste is OK.
But it's supposed to look... oriental, delicate, fragile,
elegant... Close your eyes." He fed Mulder another bite.
Stretching out on the floor again and leaning on one elbow
to reach the food, he continued, "You're lucky I'm not much
of a magician. I suppose I'll die of mortification, sooner
or later." He reached for another piece, deposited it into
Mulder's open mouth.

Mulder let his hand roam over Skinner's side, then pulled
him closer and languidly stroked his back, eyes closed,
chewing and swallowing whenever something was put in his
mouth.

Skinner went on, "I should have thought of this. On the
other hand, Dim Sum is about the only thing I can cook
decently." He fed another bite, and then he took one
himself, closing his eyes as well, half-leaning against
Mulder, his skin almost rippling in the wake of the hand's
caressing. "I'm really a one-trick pony. As soon as I learn
another trick, the first one disappears," he mused. Mulder's
hand was slowly stroking his ass, and he arched back against
it.

Mulder grinned. "You sure fooled the Bureau for a while."

"I really needed only one trick there. Barking. Not many
people can bark as loudly as I can, so they were quite happy
with me. It worked everywhere. The Bureau is a one-trick
place if I ever saw one." He sighed and leaned against
Mulder a bit more, his arm on Mulder's other side warmed by
the fire. He was going to fall asleep again. Mulder's
fingers pushed into the crack of his ass, and he was mildly
curious about what was going to happen, but not sure if he'd
stay awake long enough to find out.

"But you're right, sexually you are a one trick pony."
Skinner opened one eye, but looked at closed lids. "It's a
pity, you know. Not that I mind, but you're really missing
something, and you have no idea."

One finger was pushing against his anus, then moved away,
furtively returned again. He swung his leg over Mulder's hip
and said, "Go on," then gasped in surprise when Mulder
immediately, roughly sank a finger into him. "Oh! Um..."

"Does it hurt?"

"No, of course not." He sounded almost indignant. "It's just
a bit, eh... unexpected - oh!" Mulder experimentally pushed
his finger in a bit further. "Jesus, Mulder, I'm not... Ah!"
He was breathing heavily now.

"That would be your prostate," Mulder explained helpfully.

"Thanks. I hope you're not aiming for another romp, Mulder,
I'm not... Oh God..."

"I'm just re-establishing my dominant position here, Walter.
It's suffered a bit."

Skinner chuckled. "I see. You can consider it re-established
now."

Mulder stopped moving, but held his finger in place. He felt
Skinner slump slightly in his arms, and was suddenly almost
overwhelmed with tenderness.

The fire was dying; it gave off an occasional small hiss and
an orange glow, heating only Mulder's back. After a few
minutes he slowly pulled his finger out of its new home and
stiffly got up. He threw some more logs on the fire and
fetched the comforter from the bedroom. Lying down again was
more painful than getting up. Wincing, he supported himself
on one elbow and pulled the comforter over them both.

"Walter. Do you mind if I... put my finger back?"

He watched a slow grin appear on Skinner's face. "Something
happen to your dominant position in the bedroom?" He draped
his leg over Mulder's hip again to provide access.

"It just feels so cozy," Mulder replied, feeling a bit
sheepish. He carefully pushed his finger back in, thinking
that cozy was exactly the right word.

"How's *your* ass doing?"

"I don't know. I don't even want to send a query down there
to find out. Ignorance is bliss. That dildo came only in
this size, you see. Otherwise I might have opted for a
slightly less ambitious one."

"It was interesting though. I'm glad you have this
self-destructive streak." Skinner was mumbling, falling
asleep.

"You should be. I don't think I would have put up with you
otherwise. And then you'd have turned into the
neighborhood's friendly uncle." He moved his finger
slightly, waking Skinner from his slumber.

"Mulder..."

"Just to remind you that I'm still here. Now you can go to
sleep."


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