"Come Saturday Morning"
by MJ
A prequel (of sorts) to "I Don't Like Mondays" by JiM.
The "One More Night" series mirrors JiM's "Eight Days A Week" from Mulder's POV.
For JiM and Cynthia

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

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

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

They never had made it as far as food.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



"Rainy Days and Mondays"
by MJ
Second in the "One More Night" series
Parallel to "I Don't Like Mondays" by JiM, from her "Eight Days a Week" series
For JiM and Cynthia
Thanks to JiM and Kass for beta

A gray, rainy Washington day, the kind that stands out in your memory when you see it on newscasts; everyone in overcoats, tan or black, over gray suits, no hats since JFK made them a fashion obsolescence in this town, black umbrellas unfurled under dirty gray drizzle.

The kind of Monday morning that you know will have an eight-thirty meeting that runs until lunch.

Fox Mulder hadn't eaten breakfast, and he was beginning to think that the ten-thirty coffee break would never happen. There was a pack of Ho-Hos sitting on his desk. He could see them. He could taste them, smell them, feel the cream filling throughout his mouth. Drake's Devil Dogs would be good, too, he thought, imagining the chocolate coating melting against his tongue.

Anything for that break. Please, God. He was starving. He'd been starving since he'd come in with his coffee and seen Louise Mitchell finishing the last crumbs of her apple danish. That was the moment that lack of breakfast had suddenly sunk in.

Anyone who looked at Mulder would be equally sure that he hadn't eaten --possibly in days. His shirt seemed to be at least a size too large, hanging off of his shoulders; if he took off his jacket, he would probably be seen to be swimming in it. The jacket fit so much better than the shirt; perhaps the shirt had been bought at another weight? As if Fox Mulder had ever been anything other than lean since childhood.

How long could Samuels from Human Resources continue to drone? How could a discussion of government policy regarding bathroom facilities take this kind of intense focus? Only a bureaucrat could turn the topic into a half-day seminar. Only a masochist could maintain focus on the topic. He peered around the room, looking for the masochists. Mitchell, and Dave Hernandez, and -- oh, no surprise, Paul Hersh. Tim Wyatt, on the other hand, was actively fighting to stay awake, as was Maura Collins. Most of the rest looked battered and bruised -- whether from ninety minutes of Samuels' droning or from the vicissitudes of their individual weekends, Mulder wasn't sure.

Except about himself. And about Walter Skinner.

He was wearing one of Skinner's shirts this morning, his own shirt from Friday draped across a chair in Skinner's room, a pair of sweatpants borrowed from Skinner lying nearby. Not that the weekend had particularly required clothing, except when the pizza delivery guy had arrived on Saturday. He had shown up at Skinner's apartment to drop off a report, slightly under the influence of happy hour at Flannigan's; after his cheerful round of Dutch courage had wound up with his pinning Skinner to the couch and kissing him to within an inch of oxygen deprivation, the rest of the weekend's plans went out the window. The rest of the weekend, even the Saturday pizza, had been spent in bed.

Mulder looked across the conference table at Skinner. Skinner was staring back, poker-faced. No, maybe not quite poker-faced. And the poker face meant nothing. Now that he'd seen Walter Skinner's lips wrapped around his erection, now that he'd seen Skinner's eyes glazed over, unfocused, ready to come, now that he'd seen Skinner flushed, sweating, moaning his name, it was far too simple to paste an expression on Skinner's expressionless stare. Some men undressed women with their eyes; Mulder mentally rearranged Skinner's expression to match the hunger it had shown over the weekend.

The essence of magic is the imposition of one's will upon another being or object. Magic was happening in front of him. Mulder realized that Skinner was starting to slide into one of those faces he was painting for Skinner, the one Skinner had worn just before he'd begged Mulder to go down on him on Friday evening. He felt himself flush, afraid his own expression matched

Skinner's. If there was anything he wanted more than that coffee break junk, it was Skinner. Unfortunately, the chocolate-flavored junk was the only thing he'd be likely to be able to wrap his lips around this morning -- or, more than likely, until Friday at the earliest. Some hungers are more conveniently satisfied than others. His desire for knowing that Skinner wanted him again was being satisfied right now. The appetite for food would be settled shortly. The hunger for Walter Skinner's body would have to wait.

The door opened -- Skinner's assistant, Kim, with a message for Skinner. Skinner took the message and read it, breaking Mulder's spell. He handed the paper back to Kim after initialling it, and nodded. She looked across the table and stared pointedly at Mulder.

A reprieve from the meeting. A reprieve from the meeting that translated into "next flight to Iowa."

A reprieve that might, if he was lucky, not run into the weekend. And if he was unlucky?

Fox Mulder had gone hungry before in his life. Some hungers, alas, are more demanding than others.

He stared back across the table at a vaguely unnerved Walter Skinner and mouthed one word with his lips. Whatever it was, it looked like "Friday." Skinner nodded back, his own lips slightly slack. Hardly poker-faced now.

Hunger is what keeps us going. The history of the world is nothing more than the human drive to meet one need, one lust, or another.

The hunger for a case in Iowa was *not* a hunger that held any motivation for Fox Mulder today.

The rain drizzled gray in the conference room window as he left.



Archive: Yes to allslash, ArchiveX; Just Say No to Gossamer!; others, please ask first...
Title: "One Fine Day"
Author: MJ
Series/Fandom: X-Files
Pairing: Skinner/Mulder
Rating: PG-13
Feedback Addy: MJR91@aol.com
Web Addy: MJ's Fiction and Links, http://members.aol.com/mjr91/ficintro.html
Warnings & Spoilers: No actual ep spoilers. Third in the "One More Night" series, companions to JiM's "Eight Days a Week" series.

Third in the "One More Night" series --
#1 -- "Come Saturday Morning"
#2 -- "Rainy Days and Mondays"
#3 -- "One Fine Day"
Accompanies JiM's "Eight Days a Week" series, following "I Don't Like
Thanks to Kass for beta and support

"One Fine Day"
by MJ

A hotel room in Davenport, Iowa is a far better place to stay than, say, in the cold streets of the Bowery in midwinter, or a non-air-conditioned pension in the steaming, humid tropical jungle of New Orleans in the summer. Or, for that matter, in a gray cinder-bricked new building at a modern Oxford college when all of your friends are living in century-old digs and attending centuries-old colleges, slightly amused by their American friend's getting the short end of the Oxford stick. Fox Mulder had experienced two out of the three, and the Bowery could wait.

However, when less than a week ago, the man of your dreams finally collapsed in your arms and you found yourself in his bed for the entire weekend, a hotel room in Davenport might as well be the Bowery in winter, or the asphalt of an impromptu airstrip in Vietnam in the heat of midsummer, as his lover might remember. It was not where Fox Mulder had the slightest urge to be.

He picked over the remains of a room service dinner, an incredibly overpriced steak, too small and overcooked. It had failed to fill him, but he loathed the thought of ordering one more item from the kitchen here. He wasn't likely to die of starvation, and the breakfasts here were tolerable and large. His hunger was for something else, anyway.

That something else was the aforementioned lover, Walter Skinner.

It is a disquieting thing to realize when interviewing a witness that your primary thought is that his glasses look just like your lover's. Or, when reviewing a stack of photographs taken by a local agent, to discover that you are missing the photographic details in order to recall to mind the feeling of your body entering his, the sound of his moans as you held him. In fact, love itself is a disquieting thing, as he was now realizing. He had been accused of insanity more than once in the past, by people who were observing his actions; he was rather more convinced of his own insanity now, observing the current state of his own mind. It was a mind singularly unfocused on the details of this case; it was, rather, focused on the very hunger that kept him from noticing that he really did need something else to eat tonight.

The hunger that was making his channel-surfing on the hotel television a pointless endeavor.

He turned off the remote, headed over to the corner table, where his laptop's display still glowed. One e-mail, that was all. One sentence to Walter Skinner, nothing that couldn't be read in the office, though anyone who didn't know what was going on might find it perplexing.

But then, Fox Mulder specialized in perplexing people.

It wasn't intentional -- well, not always. Sometimes it really was deliberate, if he had to be honest. But he had no desire to perplex, vex, or otherwise annoy any other member of the human race at the moment. All he wanted was to get this case closed -- one more set of mysterious interrelated deaths at a top-secret research laboratory -- and get back to Washington. Or, more precisely, to Walter, whom he hoped wasn't going slowly insane in quite the same way that Mulder was right now... but then, boredom in a lonely out-of-town hotel room is its own form of torture; missing your lover, quite another form.

Shit. What if Walter really didn't want this? It wasn't like they'd done anything more than fucked their brains out from Friday night until just before that blasted Monday morning staff meeting. They certainly hadn't talked about it. The farthest they'd gotten along those lines was Mulder's own silently-mouthed "Friday?" when he'd been called out of the meeting to take over on this case yesterday morning.

He was finishing this up tomorrow and Thursday and flying back by Friday if it killed him. He'd said Friday, and Skinner had nodded. Well, he could have shook his head "no" if he'd wanted to, so maybe everything really was all right. Too late to worry now; all he could do was get back and make sure that he had Walter thoroughly convinced about this all over again. And again, and then maybe one more time just to make sure the message got through.

And Walter Skinner thought that Fox Mulder had a thick skull? That was the pot calling the kettle black.

He finally settled on CNN and threw down the remote. Picked up the bedside telephone, ordered a hot chocolate and a piece of cake from room service. The steak really hadn't done it, he realized. Picked up the receiver again, stared at it, put it back down. Sitting up, he unbuttoned his shirt. Yesterday's shirt, really; he'd only grabbed an overnight bag he kept stashed in the trunk of his car. Walter's shirt; he'd borrowed it yesterday morning when they'd gotten ready for work. Too large, the sleeves too long; memories of a boy dressing up in Dad's clothes. He pulled the shirt tighter around himself, as if Walter Skinner's shirt sleeves, like his arms, might have the power to drive away Fox Mulder's childhood, the power to banish the nightmares from Mulder's sleep.

He refastened the shirt slowly, and rolled up its sleeves, three buttons hanging open. It was an ordinary enough white cotton shirt, to be sure, but it was Walter's, and it was there with him. Skin has a hunger of its own, the hunger for contact. This wasn't the contact he wanted, but he'd have to make do for a few more days.

The door. Room service. He let in the uniformed post-adolescent and signed for the tab as the food went on the table and dinner's remains were collected. Remains. He looked down at Walter's shirt hanging on his lank frame. Sometimes remains are all you have to get you through.

He sat down with the hot chocolate, picked up the file, and went back to work on the case.



Author: MJ
Title: Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday
Archive: ArchiveX, allslash: YES, Please. Gossamer: I'm not crazy, NO. All others, ask and it shall be given unto you.
Pairing: M/Sk
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Spoilers: Every episode anyone thinks Mulder's dead but he isn't; you know the routine...
Feedback to: MJR91@aol.com

Fourth in the "One More Night" Series
A mirror to JiM's "Eight Days a Week" Series - This story parallels "Tuesday's Dead" by JiM
Small spoilers for Redux II

"One More Night" consists of
1) "Come Saturday Morning"
2) "Rainy Days and Mondays"
3) "One Fine Day"
4) "Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday"

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

He looks around the enclosed space; he's lying down -- strapped down, it seems. Light overhead, uniforms... Oh. An ambulance. What's he doing here? He blinks, slow recognition as he realizes that the hooves of a thousand stampeding Pamplona bulls are drumming in his head.

He'd gone back to his apartment after having dinner with Walter. He needed computer time, needed to look at some documents Langly had sent. No time over the weekend; he and Walter had never gotten out of bed. Three men in the apartment, one going over his computer files, one ripping through boxes in the bedroom, the third...

The third one was a fucking mirror image of him. In his suit, the old charcoal with chalk stripe that his father said made him look like a Swiss banker, and Walter's shirt, the one he still hadn't gotten back to his lover since their first weekend. Plastic surgery, a fucking clone, or another damned shapeshifting alien goon? He couldn't be sure. Pure impulse reaction, it wouldn't kill it if it wasn't an alien... but a Smith and Wesson will take off a face you don't want to look at pretty effectively... Red blood? Human? Wonderful; explain this one to the locals.

And two others more anxious to get out than to fight with him. He'd taken off after them by foot; wound up in a fistfight with the computer one in an alley behind the Alexandria docks. The geek had gotten the better of him by far; the last he remembered, his head was sinking against a dumpster behind a waterfront bar.

This looks like a real ambulance crew; they were doing real emergency medicine kinds of things to him. And a suit with them... he vaguely recognizes another FBI agent, he'd seen the guy in the halls at the Hoover... the guy grins, nods, tells him that he's glad Mulder was found, they thought for sure the body the police had found was him, and his partner and boss were over at the hospital ID'ing it earlier...

Shit... Walter's been at the hospital? Looking at what he thinks is Mulder's dead body? No, it's too damn much, he's put Walter through this before deliberately, no way Walter will forgive him for this one, not even planned this time... Too tired, jaw hurts, too drained to talk, no way to ask to have the agent call Walter's cell phone... he leans back on the gurney and closes his eyes, trying to avoid the thought of Walter Skinner chasing him down a hospital corridor once before, the thought of Walter Skinner confronting him this time... Walter was right, he should have taken a change of clothes and stayed over...

Light overhead again, different this time. Fluorescent bulbs. More light? Window. In bed, feeling like the road under the feet of the Boston Marathon. He'd thought about entering the Boston Marathon... Drifting again. Mustn't drift, not a good idea... Voices. Low, one female. Scully. Scully's there?

Looking more intently. Oh, the hospital... shit. He hates hospitals, hates everything about them. The doctors, the nurses, the food, the pills, the IV's, the injections, the stitches, the food... too much thinking. It hurts to think. A concussion? Not sure; well, Scully's there, she'll explain it to him.

Awake again? Shit, fell back asleep. Here's Scully. Her mascara's streaked - funny, never really thought about her wearing makeup, but of course she does... she's been crying? Why? He's here, he's in one piece, a lot sore, a lot bruised, a lot bloody, but one piece... oh, right, he was supposed to be dead, they'd found the jerk in his clothes, must have thought it was him...

Scully cried? About him? Whoa... not right, Scully, not right; don't ever get that worked up over Fox Mulder, it's not worth it to you... but it feels good to know that she really does care about his existence that much... if anything happened to Scully, he'd have to kill the bastards for her.

She's leaving, going to talk to the doctor about his IV, she says, but she'll be back. Good; he wants her back. Wants his partner there covering his back; wishes he'd had it last night... she's out the door, someone else coming in... not another doctor. Please, not another fucking doctor...

Walter? Jesus God, it's Walter... he's dead meat. He knows he's dead meat, third time at least that Walter's thought he was dead... but no, he's coming across the room looking like Mulder must have when he saw the Antarctic spaceship, like the biggest fucking miracle in the Universe is right in front of his face.

He tries to sit up, to reach over to Walter, but it's difficult, he hurts too badly to move properly... but Walter is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed now, an arm around Mulder's back drawing him up against solid, comforting muscle. He's leaning against Walter now, hopes to God he never has to move from this position again... and Walter's talking to him, whispering into his hair, words that Jesus he never thought he'd ever hear anyone say to him, not like this, not like they'd die if they didn't tell him...

Shit, the damn door. He can feel Walter's arms clench around him reflexively, crushing his aching ribs; he dimly hears a small, feminine-pitched, gasp.

Oh. Damn. Scully.

And he and Walter are both laughing, not that it's funny, and he's sure there's a muttered oh Jesus Mulder from across the room.



Author: MJ
Title: Some of These Days
Fandom: XF
Pairing: M/Sk
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: the movie, "One Breath"
Feedback: MJR91@aol.com

The fifth entry in the "One More Night" series mirroring JiM's "Eight Days a Week"
Mirror of "Thursdays I Don't Care About You"
For JiM and Cynthia

"One More Night" consists of:
1) Come Saturday Morning
2) Rainy Days and Mondays
3) One Fine Day
4) Goodbye Ruby Tuesday
5) Some of These Days

Some of These Days

Fox Mulder is not a happy man. This is no surprise to anyone who knows him; it usually seemed that Mulder's natural state was one of terminal misery. Lately, however, the mood has been far better than it had been, for reasons formerly known to two, and then three, people - Mulder himself, Walter Skinner, and Dana Scully.

Scully had taken the discovery of Mulder's relationship with Skinner far better than he'd thought she would, especially considering that she'd discovered it purely by walking in on them in Mulder's hospital room. He knows that Scully wasn't the reason that Walter had been dragged into what ostensibly wasn't an OPR meeting. Jana Cassidy's presence and direction of the meeting, however, had made it all too plain to Mulder that an OPR meting was exactly what Walter was going into.

And it was all Mulder's fault. Or so Mulder tells himself; after all, he'd seduced Walter in the first place. By rights he should be the one being raked over the coals now. But Walter's the Assistant Director, he's the supervisor, he's the one expected to know better. And Walter is only an Assistant Director, but since the events of the past month, Mulder is good Bureau publicity.

Sometimes it's hell to be right.

This is one of those times.

He paces back and forth in the office. Scully watches sympathetically, offers him a cup of coffee, asks if he wants to go get a bite to eat. His bladder can't take the coffee; his stomach can't take the food. Walter's the career man; Walter's the one who loves this place. Mulder's just marking time, as far as he's concerned; he wanted to find the truth, and he's found it. There are no worlds left to conquer, at least not here. If they flayed him alive, it wouldn't hurt now; he knows what happened to his sister, he's certain about his father, he has Walter. But it's not his hide they want -no, he's supposed to be doing a press conference tomorrow, in fact. They probably wouldn't let him quit if he tried right now.

They always said he was spooky. Now they know he's queer. He's been the Bureau renegade. And he's been sleeping with his boss. And all they can do these days is have photos taken of him with the Director and the Attorney General for his incredible heroics - when they didn't have the time of day for him six months ago - while they lynch Walter. The man who's always enforced their rules like the rules came from Charlton Heston in "The Ten Commandments."

What are they doing in there? This meeting's taking forever. He guesses it takes a while to roast a victim over coals till he's well done.

Scully offers him a muffin. He turns it down; he's not hungry. He may never be hungry again.

The office telephone rings. Mulder turns, stares. He doesn't move to answer it. Scully looks at him, sighs, then teaches for the receiver. After her greeting, she listens, nods and makes an acknowledging sound, then, silently, hands the receiver to her partner. He stares again, as if not quite sure what to do, then speaks. It is Kimberly, Walter's assistant. She sounds as if she has a horrible head cold, and she wants him in Walter's office. Now. Please. He shakes his head in disbelief as he slams down the receiver. The "please" did it. Walter's never said "please" at the office; he's a supervisor. He doesn't ask, he orders. Something's wrong, obviously.

What the hell did they do to him up there? The silent resolve to kill Jana Cassidy forms in his mind as he grabs his jacket and storms out the door.

Kimberly doesn't have a head cold, though there is a pile of tissues on her desk. Mulder's never seen Kimberly cry before. Like her boss, she never loses composure, never lets go. She is letting go now. She points to the door of Walter's office with her free hand, waves him in immediately. He throws the door open as if he thought he were trailing the smoker into the room, just like the old days, and dashes in just like when he slid home back in Little League.

Two sights at once. Immediate comprehension. Walter, jacketless, looking out his window at the gray Washington weather. A cardboard box, open, on top of his desk. Mulder knows those boxes, remembers packing one just like it himself a few years ago, when he'd tendered his own resignation. Did Walter quit, or did they lynch him? The thought about Jana Cassidy resurfaces; he buries it rapidly as Walter turns toward him.

He's smiling. Looking ten years younger, looking thoroughly relieved, much as Atlas must have looked if someone had lifted the world from his shoulders. Mulder's seen him smile before, but never in here, not like this; he hasn't seen Walter smiling like this since the hospital.

Mulder reaches out. This time, he's holding Walter, Walter's not holding him up the way he did in the hospital. Different to feel, suddenly, that he's the one who's needed rather than needing, and he's not sure what to make of it, but he likes it. He likes it lot; he could get used to it.

They are embracing. How long? Minutes? Longer? He's not thinking about it, not worrying; whatever happened in that meeting, Walter's okay and he's leaving this ridiculous hellhole in one piece.

They are still embracing when Mulder hears a discreet cough from behind him. He turns.

It is Kimberly, holding a file out for Walter. "If you don't mind, Sir, I have a resignation for you to approve before you leave." A brief sniffle. "And... congratulations." She smiles at them through smudged mascara as she exits. Mulder's eyes follow her out the door.

Walter tugs his shirt, points out the window. The storm front's broken outside and the sunlight is dazzling. Walter, however, is more so. He uncaps a fountain pen, signs off on Kimberly's letter, and grins at Mulder again. The hot dog vendor's set up across the street, Mulder sees, and he suddenly realizes that he's starving. He grins back, reaches for Walter's hand, and orders him to come along for lunch.

Maybe it really isn't that bad a day after all.



Author: MJ
Title: Saturday In the Park
Fandom: XF
Pairing: M/Sk
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: the movie (Jana Cassidy, anyone?)
Feed me at: MJR91@aol.com
Sixth in the "One More Night" series mirroring "Eight Days a Week" by JiM
This story mirrors "Reprise: Friday I'm in Love" by JiM
For JiM and Cynthia

"One More Night" consists of:
1) Come Saturday Morning
2) Rainy Days and Mondays
3) One Fine Day
4) Goodbye Ruby Tuesday
5) Some of These Days
6) Saturday In the Park

"Saturday in the Park"
by MJ

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

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

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

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

Walter Skinner loves him.

Enough to tell the FBI to go fuck itself.

It's absolutely unfathomable, especially to Mulder. But he's not going to argue with a miracle. Let the FBI go fuck itself.

Jana Cassidy actually came to Mulder's office yesterday to ask him to take some files to Walter. She'd practically groveled. Served her right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. He could get used to it.



Author: MJ
Title: "Sunday, Bloody Sunday"
Fandom/Pairing: XF, M/Sk
Rating PG-13
Archive: YES to ArchiveX, Allslash; all others ask nicely (I'm easy).
Feedback: MJR91@aol.com
Summary: Last in the "One More Night" series with JiM's "Eight Days a Week" series
Seventh in the "One More Night" series mirroring JiM's "Eight Days a Week".
Mirrors "Sunday Driver" by JiM. For JiM and Cynthia.

"Sunday, Bloody Sunday"
by MJ

It is late, very late, at night. Fox Mulder knows this. Knows it by the darkness of the room, the silence around him. Knows it by the stillness in the air. He can't see the clock on the wall; the tube down his throat prevents that. But he can dimly make out night coming in through the window.

Tube, throat. Yeah, antiseptic smell. He's in the hospital. One more time.

How long has he been here this time? He's not sure. There have been so many hospitals, so many intubations, so many "how did I get here" queries. This is just one more. And at least he wasn't on a case... at least he's fairly certain this had nothing to do with aliens, enemies, or viruses of unknown origin.

He just hates doctors, that's all. If he'd gone when Walt had told him to, he'd probably be home now. Don't think about it. Just hope you can get back to sleep with this fucking sewer pipe down your throat.

You recuperate a lot slower when you're pushing fifty, don't you?

Yeah, you do...

He feels like he's underwater. Like he has to cut through something giving him resistance before he can surface and see what's going on, even though he can see. Like there's pounds per square inch pushing against him, keeping limbs from moving. Even though, judging from the fucking tube, all of the fluid's probably inside him. The resistance is probably fatigue and medication. He knows this, but that doesn't make him any more comfortable.

He can go back to sleep, slide under the influence of whatever medication he's been given. It's tempting. But he wonders how long he's been here, how long he's been out. He tries to remember how he got here; it doesn't register. What was he doing last? Oh, of course, Walter was away, had been for a week, he was going to take a run before Walter got in from that flight back from Schenectady.

Walter must be back from Schenectady by now.

Walter must have brought him in. Maybe Walter had been right; maybe he should have gone to the doctor when Walter told him to go. But six years, no, seven, of refusing to do what Walter wanted him to do at work, and ten years now of carrying on that same tradition in their home, made the idea of conceding to Walter Skinner an absolutely impossible concept. Walter was pigheaded, compulsive, anal-retentive, still had some kind of fucking drill sergeant fantasy -- that had been the line he'd delivered to Walter during their last shouting match. It was a pretty good line, too, wasn't it?

Shit, Mulder, you just like to argue with Walt. The sex has always been great after a really good blowup, and it's never just been makeup sex, either. The bickering's been as much a part of their relationship as Walt's cooking, or his own insistence on watching Saturday morning cartoons, still.

Cartoons. He wonders what Bugs Bunny would do here. Walt hates it when he tells him that they're Bugs and Elmer in person. But hey, Walt can hunt... and he and Elmer even wear the same hair style. It's not just coincidence. It's a sign. They have been destined to be together since the day Elmer Fudd first hunted wabbit. The Universe desires the pairing of balding but cunning mighty hunter and tall, thin, lunatic. Only Bugs had to wear drag to get Elmer's attention, and he looks terrible in a dress...

Shit, he's delirious. Wait, though; if you know you're delirious, isn't that a good sign? You have to be in your right mind to be aware that you're not in your right mind...

He wants Walter. Wants him so badly he can taste it, need welling up inside him like air in a balloon. He is tired, and he feels like crap, and this fucking tube's down his throat, and hi hates being alone at night, has hated it with a passion since Walt left the Bureau, before Walt went into security consulting, since the afternoon Walt moved into his apartment and his bed permanently. And his arm aches, his hand hurts...

No, wait, his arm's all right, it's just been moved away from the bed, over the rail -- the rail's pressure into his flesh is what hurts. But something's gripping onto his hand like a vise... With some effort, he shifts his eyes, looking out the corner, towards a man half-asleep in a chair beside the bed, holding onto his hand as if it were likely to go away on its own.


Everything aches, but maybe... yeah. He can sort of squeeze back; not enough to really squeeze, but he can move it a little around the fingers holding him. Ah, that' s getting attention... Yeah, hi, Walt. It's me, Mulder.

Damn the tube; Walt will never know what he just said to him. "What's up, Doc?" At least, it was going to be that. Walt snorts back at him, kisses the hand. They look at each other, Walt in the chair with his head turned towards the patient, Mulder looking back out of the corner of his eyes --turning his head is too difficult.

Too much effort; he's starting to drift off again.

Walt moves his arm back on the bed for him, lays his large hand on top of Mulder's, watches him slide back under, medication pulling him down slowly. Walt stands, bends over, kisses him gently on the forehead. " 'Night, Bugs. I love you, too."