Road Rage part two

by Goddess Michele

Title: Road Rage part two
Author: Goddess Michele
Date: August,2003-September 2004
Fandom: X-Files
Pairing: M/Sk
Spoilers: various and sundry from everywhere, mostly vague. Also helps if you've read the other two Vacation stories.
Rating: PG-13 to NC17 and everything in between...
Beta: I am my own worst beta!
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.
Feedback: Yes, please! starshine24mc@yahoo.com
Archive: put it wherever you like, including atxf and SM, just leave my name on it.
Author's Note: I know it's late in the game, but I still think I've got a winner on my hands! For my clan, who keeps believing in me when I've forgotten how.
Chapter 7: Donkey Riding
Summary: Tensions rise...so does everything else...
"This is ridiculous," Skinner groused as he paced the carpet of the small hotel room. Mulder didn't reply, just gave him a level stare from where he was sitting on the double bed. Skinner chose to ignore the look and continued to rant.
"I'm fine. It's early. We've got a lead now, albeit a weak one, but it's better than nothing. But the fact is, the longer we do nothing, the colder that trail's growing!" His pacing increased, and though his voice never rose in volume, his tone took on more of a growl as his frustration grew. Mulder could see a warm flush rising from his neck and tinting the tips of his ears pink. Still he said nothing.
"We don't know if this man Roxy talked to is civilian, military, government; maybe one of those `super soldiers'; hell, he could be Krycek's long lost brother for all we know!
"We need to get on this ASAP, not sit here doing nothing just because Scully thinks my ass should be in bed. What does she think I'm going to be doing all day tomorrow? Flamenco dancing?"
That almost made Mulder smile. Almost.
"This is ridiculous!" Skinner repeated. He turned away from Mulder and looked longingly at the door.
Mulder moved.
In a handful of quick, silent steps, he placed himself between Skinner and the door, gripping the other man's arms hard enough to make him wince and stop dead in his tracks.
"It is not ridiculous!" he spat out, and Skinner thought he had never seen Mulder look so furious.
"What do you find so ridiculous here, Walter?" he continued. "Is it ridiculous that you have a brain tumor that could turn you into a vegetable? Is it ridiculous that in just two days you're already losing your memory? You forgot Scully's name, for God's sake!"
Skinner tried to protest, but Mulder's words washed over him like a tidal steamroller, and he found it was all he could do not to stumble as Mulder pushed him back.
"Oh, no, wait, I've got it! It must be ridiculous that Scully, your doctor, more importantly your friend, has told you that you need to rest in order to keep this thing from getting worse--to keep you from dying in other words!" Angry tears shimmered in Mulder's eyes, and when they started to spill over his lids and track down his cheeks, Skinner tried to wipe them away, but Mulder still held his arms in a death grip, and was still forcing him backwards through the room.
"Or do you find it ridiculous that I love you and I don't want you to die? Is that the ridiculous part, Walter? Is it?" Mulder shoved Skinner with all of his strength, slamming him up against the wall next to the bed. Skinner struggled, managed to free one arm, and only succeeded in flailing about with it until he knocked the lamp off of the bedside table. The heavy-based light fell onto the carpeted floor with a muffled thud, followed by the light crackle of electricity and breaking glass as the bulb within it shattered, and the room went dark.
"Aw, hell..." Skinner muttered. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized that although Mulder was now pressing him up against the wall with his body, the grip on his arms had grown slack, and he was able to pull both arms up, and a moment later, put both those arms around his lover, who was sobbing openly now.
Mindful of the broken lamp, Skinner steered Mulder back to the bed and forced him down on it, almost exactly where he'd been sitting. This time, though, he sat next to him, and held him, and let himself be held.
After several long moments of silence broken only by the hitching of Mulder's breath, skinner tightened his grip around his lover's shaking shoulders, found his mouth with his own and gave him a thorough kiss, tasting Mulder's tears.
He left his mouth and peppered his face with tiny kisses and whispered, "I'm sorry, it's not ridiculous, you're not ridiculous."
Mulder's response was to push him back on the bed, smother his words with a brutal kiss and begin tearing at his clothes. It was as if his anger had left him but the energy remained and Mulder was channeling it out of himself in a frenzy of passion.
Skinner didn't stop him. Maybe he wasn't an Oxford trained psychologist, but he knew Fox Mulder. And knew him well enough to see that without this expulsion of energy, Mulder would implode, taking on guilt worry and fear like the weight of the ocean. And surfacing from beneath that weight would destroy him in ways that terrified Skinner to contemplate.
And besides, his shirt was open now, and Mulder's hands were running up and down the length of his body while his mouth did that thing on his neck that always seemed to turn his spine into jelly.
Groins bumped gently together, then more insistently, and Skinner fumbled with the button fly of Mulder's pants. In contrast to his clumsy maneuvering, Mulder's hands moved over his chest and stomach with a painful grace, at times seeming light as air, like cool breeze on his sweaty skin, peaking his nipples, raising gooseflesh all over his body; then heavy and harsh, tugging and pinching with desperate need.
Skinner pushed at cloth, pulled at cloth, needing Mulder to be naked, needing to be naked himself. His temples suddenly pulsed with pain, but the throbbing between his legs was louder, more insistent. He pushed his tongue into his lover's mouth, tangled a hand in his sweaty hair and thrust a leg between Mulder's, forcing them apart.
Straddling Skinner now, Mulder pulled away with a gasp and sat back, struggling out of his shirt. Skinner surged under him like waves and stroked the bare flesh of his stomach, chest, anything he could reach.
Once his shirt was hung neatly in a wadded up pile on the floor, Mulder allowed Skinner to pull him back down into his arms as he shimmied out of his jeans, then wriggled with intent until Skinner's pants were also decorating the foot of the bed. His movements grew more heated as skin pressed to skin, and he groaned loudly into Skinner's mouth as their hard cocks met in a head-to-head battle, one that neither man was about to lose...
When Skinner tried to roll, to push Mulder onto his back, he met resistance, and eyes tightly screwed shut flew open in surprise to stare up at blazing hazel eyes looking back at him through mussed hair.
Mulder sat back again, breathing hard, this time controlling the movement of the body under him with his own slow rocking motion, keeping Skinner excited, keeping him on the verge. He felt stickiness between his thighs, and matched it involuntarily, and reached out a hand to touch his lover's red face. His smile was warm and teasing.
"Your doctor said you're supposed to rest," he said.
"Mulder..." A dangerous growl.
Mulder brushed his hand over Skinner's mouth, silencing him, but unable to stifle a soft sound of his own when Skinner nipped and sucked at his fingers. His next words were breathier.
"I--I'm serious, Walter...don't--don't you move." He slithered across Skinner's body, tried to ignore the heat and friction and failed completely, and reached blindly for his travel kit lying somewhere on the floor near the broken lamp. Inspiring hands on his ass, stroking and fondling, gave him incentive, and he was sitting back up again a moment later with a terrific groan, lube and condom in hand.
"You moved," he accused.
"I helped," Skinner countered.
"Hey, if you need to be alone to rest, I'll go."
"I'm resting." A snapped reply. "If I rest much longer I'm going to rest right here, and you'll have to rest yourself."
Mulder laughed, Skinner gripped his cock and stroked up the hard shaft and across the slick head, and the laughter crashed into a shudder and a sigh. Mulder almost gave in to the desire to let Skinner take control of him, of his body, knowing how his lover could and would make him feel, knowing that Skinner would do the work and he would reap the rewards.
"No," he gulped out the word and pushed Skinner's hand away with a tremendous effort.
"No?"
"I mean, not yet." Mulder leaned forward, kissed Skinner softly on the crown of his head, and then sat back on his haunches, holding himself just above Skinner's body. He could feel the heat generating between them, and a shiver worked over his spine like a concert pianist as sweat trickled down his back. "Let me do the work," he said.
Skinner reached behind him and doubled over the pillow under his head and shoulders, and this raised him up just enough that he could easily rest his hands on his lover's thighs, and feel the muscles just under the smooth, almost hairless skin jumping and throbbing under his fingertips.
With shaking hands, Mulder tore open the condom packet, flourished the ribbed-for-his-pleasure safety like a bad magician, then popped the rubber over the head of Skinner's cock so fast that Walter barely realized he was sheathed, and then he was pumping into Mulder's fist as the man above him stroked the latex over his straining erection.
"Ah, God, yes..." he gasped, and bucked when Mulder pulled his hand away and placed it on his chest.
Mulder scratched at the fur there and felt Skinner's heart beating hard and rapid under his palm. Hard and rapid and strong.
"And going to stay that way," he muttered. When Skinner seemed on the verge of asking him to repeat himself, he gave the man's nipple a vicious tweak, grinned slyly at him and reached for the small packet of lubricant.
"Now this is the tricky part," he muttered, slicking up his fingers with lube, rubbing it between fingers and thumb to warm it.
When Mulder reached between his own legs, Skinner wondered for a moment if the condom was going to be wasted right now. He groaned out Mulder's name, and then just let his eyes feast on the sight before him. As he watched his lover preparing himself for him, pleasuring himself as well, he tightened his grip on Mulder's legs, squeezing and rubbing instinctively, his hips rising and falling in rhythm with Mulder's movements. Though they were separated by physical space, Skinner almost felt like he was already inside Mulder, that his cock had already replaced the man's fingers. He could almost feel his lover's muscles clenching around him, and his breathing took on a heavy panting cadence.
"I--I think I'm ready," Mulder hissed, biting at his lips, his eyes barely open.
"You damn well better be," Skinner groaned back.
"Now remember, Walter. Just sit back and let us do the drive--drive--ohhhdriving..." As he spoke, Mulder moved forward just enough to let their chests brush, then drove himself back carefully, finding Skinner's cock and slowly, slowly easing himself down on it.
Skinner felt Mulder wrap himself around him, felt him moving slowly up and down him, and felt him everywhere, inside himself, around him, in the air he was panting in and out of his lungs, in the sweat beading on his chest, in his hammering heartbeat. He spoke his lover's name like a litany, like a prayer, and his body surged up to meet Mulder's movements.
Mulder pressed his hands to Skinner's chest, still moving up and down on him, though with less steady precision.
"No, don't move."
Skinner bucked under him again and Mulder slammed himself down as hard as he dared, given his precarious position. He scratched at Skinner's chest and his sides, scoring his ribs lightly with short nails, then, on the next undulation of Skinner's body, he slipped his hands under the other man and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him forward so that he could embrace him without harm, and still keep himself snug around the rock hard cock buried deep inside him.
They rocked in tandem then, Skinner thrusting and Mulder squeezing and there was more sweat and swearing and tears and then, like a bad math problem, where Train A, carrying a million pounds of fear, is moving down the track at a hundred miles an hour and Train B, carrying a cargo of passion half that weight but with an extra ton of love and traveling at the speed of light suddenly collide, they exploded simultaneously.
Skinner groaned and thrashed through his orgasm, finding Mulder's mouth as the younger man's own orgasm caused him to bear down on Skinner's cock, milking the last drops of cum from him and making him tremble from the sensation. For long moments they did nothing but kiss and cling to one another, not finding words, not needing any.
Mulder finally rolled to one side with a huge groan, and Skinner's arm was there to catch him and pull him close. He squirmed about, butting his head into Skinner's shoulder as if punching a pillow to make it more comfortable.
"I should clean up," he whispered, running a hand across Skinner's chest. Skinner caught the hand and licked the fingers.
"I will."
"Walter..." There was threat in the tone, and love, too.
"Of course, what with the breaking lamp and that supplication to the gods you were just howling out, I'm sure Scully will be in here any minute now, and she can always clean up for us."
Skinner felt more than heard Mulder's laughter, and he wished they hadn't broken the lamp--he would have liked to see the accompanying smile. He felt Mulder's hand brush down his chest again, across his stomach, and he shivered under his touch.
"Let's just have a moment here, Walter, then I'll get up."
"Mmm, a moment sounds good. Maybe two even..." He closed his eyes, and was asleep too soon to hear Mulder say,
"Maybe a lifetime of them..."

Chapter 8: Everything Shines
Summary: action, adventure, a Jedi craves not these things....but somebody's gotta do it
Frohike stood up on his toes to peer out the spy hole of the door, and grinned at the sight of one of John Doggett's bright blue eyes peering back at him.
He barely had time to get the last lock undone before Doggett was pushing his way through the door.
"Whoa, Johnny, where's the fire?"
Doggett didn't answer, just brushed past the little man and moved between shelves groaning with hardware towards the space the Lone Gunmen referred to as their office.
Frohike grumbled darkly to himself as he relocked the door and then marched after the other man.
When he got to the desk that Langly had most of his computers set up on, Doggett was already there, staring intently at the screen directly in front of the youngest of the Gunmen; Langly's hands were flying over the keyboard in front of him while windows flashed on the screen in every colour of the spectrum. Doggett leaned forward expectantly, muttering, "this better be good."
"Just sit back and watch the magic, G-Man," Langly snarled.
Byers came up behind them, and Frohike noticed how the quiet man's attention wavered between the information Langly was manipulating on the screen, and Langly himself. He thought it was an interesting observation, but opted to file it away for perusal at a later date. Right now it was more important that they were helping Agent Doggett, who in turn would use their assistance to help Mulder, Walt, and, of course--
"Have you talked to Scully today?" Frohike asked. Doggett nodded a reply, still fixated on the computer screen.
"Is she okay?" Frohike pushed.
Another nod.
"Did she say anything about--uh--" Frohike didn't know what he was actually asking about. It might have been Skinner's state of health, Mulder's state of mind, or Scully's state of arousal.
"She says Skinner's fine, Mulder's a mess, and they have a lead."
"Well," Byers said, over brightly, "That's something."
"I've got it!" Langly exclaimed. More screens flashed, a snipped of the Star Wars theme blared from tiny Bos speakers next to the computer, and the printer spit out a bit of paper.
"Take that, DOD! You're no match for the power of the Dark Side!" Langly gave Doggett a huge, smug smile.
Doggett played it cool.
"That didn't look so hard," he scoffed.
"Not hard? Are you wacked, dude? That took mad skills!"
Frohike stepped between them.
"Save the anger ball for Middle Earth, hippie!" Then, to Doggett: "If you actually had any idea what he just did there, you wouldn't have needed him to do it, now would you, G-Man?"
Doggett and Langly glared at each other over the top of Frohike's head.
"Hey, Langly," Byers called from the photocopier, "This looks great!"
Langly forgot all about Doggett and visibly preened under the praise.
Frohike noticed this in the same way he'd seen Byers attention to Langly earlier, and he thought he might do well to consider taking a trip on his own some weekend in the future, maybe let his partners have a little alone time, a little space.
Doggett snatched the printout out of Byers hands.
"Pretty good," he agreed, sounding more reluctant about it than he really was.
"So, what's the sitch here anyway," Frohike asked as Byers took back the new Department of Defense identification card that Langly had just created. "What are Black Ops up to these days that you're just dying to check out, Johnny?"
"Don't call me Johnny," said Doggett.
"All right, Agent Doggett," he emphasized the consonants in the man's name sarcastically. "What's goin' down at the DOD that you need to be sneakin' in?"
"Sneaking in?" Langly yelped, "I don't think so. That I.D. is so good you could tap dance right through the front door with it. I found a back door right into personnel. After that, it was easy enough to find some poor slob who'd taken his vacation pay."
"Sheldon Seeney," Byers said, cropping Langly's work with a paper cutter on another desk.
"Oh, the name was nothing," continued Langly, "Cake and pie. It's the bar code that was the challenge...well, a challenge for anyone else, maybe." He cracked his knuckles with authority, and then his slender fingers were moving over the keyboard again like a three year old in search of a security blanket.
"At the risk of repeating myself," said Frohike, "Which by the way happens way too often around here, I'll ask again: why are we forging some narc's ID?"
Byers was just pulling the freshly forged and now freshly laminated ID card out of the laminator. Doggett whisked the card out of his hands and held it up to his face.
"Hi, I'm Sheldon," he declared in a nasal whine. "I'm a Pisces who enjoys black ops and long walks in the park, and I'm just looking for a woman who understands me."
Langly snorted a giggle through his nose, and Byers smiled at him. Langly didn't notice, already focused back on his computer, building firewalls and covering his tracks.
"Funny, G-Man, really funny. Tell me this: Is this just a lark of your own, or are you trying to help our people here?"
Doggett didn't miss the grim tone, and he held up a hand in a placating manner. "Easy Melvin, relax. Of course I'm doing this for Dana." He and Frohike exchanged a look full of protection for Dana Scully, peppered with just a hint of jealousy and a sprinkle of mistrust.
Doggett backed down first, and addressed all three men.
"We know that whatever's wrong with Skinner, it has somethin' to do with that time he was sick back a few years."
"Nanotechnology," confirmed Byers.
"Bad mojo," agreed Langly.
"Well, according to Skinner," continued Doggett, "He was being blackmailed at the time by Alex Krycek."
"Rat," said Byers.
"Bastard," said Frohike.
"Dead rat bastard," said Langly.
"And Krycek had some sort of gadget that was making Skinner sick."
"The mighty Palm Pilot of Doom," said Langly. He finished his defensive programming and hit another key, bringing up a map of Middle Earth. "Whatever happened to that thing anyway?" he asked as he resumed his ongoing battle for Helm's Deep.
"That's just it--no one knows. Dana says that according to Skinner, Krycek didn't have it with him when he was killed--uh--when he died." Doggett liked the Gunmen, trusted them nearly as much as Mulder did, but he didn't know how much they had been told about that night in the parking garage, and he didn't think he should be the one to fill in any blanks. "Anyway, then Mulder told her about this fourth floor caper that he went on a few years ago at the DOD, looking for--"
"The cure for Scully's cancer--the chip!" exclaimed Byers, remembering.
"Well, yeah. So then he figured if there was anything left hangin' over him or Walt that you guys mighta missed, it might be there."
He ignored Frohike's bristling at the suggestion that they had been anything less than thorough in erasing their friends from any unwelcome inquisitors, and simply headed for the door with a wave.
"You're welcome!" snapped Langly as virtual Elven archers nearly took off his head.
"I owe ya one!" Doggett called back over his shoulder. And then he was gone and Frohike was muttering over his locks again.
"Do you think there's really anything there?" Byers worried aloud.
"If there is, that ID will get him there," Langly replied. "My kung fu is the best."
"Keep tellin' yourself that, `Manhammer'," Frohike told him. Then more quietly he added, "I sure hope he makes it."

Doggett could barely smother a grin as yet another door opened with a wave of Langly's bogus card. Part of him marveled at what kind of guy this Sheldon Seeney was to have such access, while another side of him was a little disgusted with the ease with which he was able to move through the DOD offices. Either security was way too lax, or he looked too much like a narc--neither answer thrilled him, but he hoped it was more the former than the latter.
He stopped thinking about any of it as he entered the room. While his jaw didn't actually drop at the sight, the football field sized room with its apparently endless rows of shelves and drawers did take his breath away for a moment...
...a small green light flashed on a screen deep in the heart of the building and a security guard looked up from his magazine...
...Doggett looked at the shelf nearest the door and saw that a sticker was attached haphazardly to it: Aa--Be
"S-K," he muttered and headed down the aisle at a quick pace.
...the security guard pulled a close up of the ID card used to scan through the restricted doorway and keyed in a code that began comparing the ID to all known identifications in the database...
"R..R...S...Sa...Christ, this place is friggin' huge!" Doggett moved faster now, scanning shelves for the letters he needed and muttering them aloud as he passed: "Sk-Sk-Skar-Skil-Skin--"
...The two identification cards on the screen had the same bar code, the same name, the same signature, the same basic information, and the same clearance... ...the same picture.
When Doggett had first contacted Langly about the possibility of getting an ID card for the Department of Defense, he hadn't thought about the photo part of it much.
Langly had.
Instead of replicating the DOD agent's picture on the new ID, where it would have been suspect if anyone had looked at the man wearing the tag too closely, Langly had gone the opposite way. Since he was already in the system, and manipulating information, it was nothing to simply slip Doggett's picture into Sheldon Seeney's file and onto the identification--the old one and the new one.
Once Doggett was clear, he could then go back in and switch them back, and no one would ever know.
As the DOD data base did its job badly, and Doggett leapt on a plastic box labeled SKINNER, WALTER S., Richard "Ringo" Langly smugly traversed a virtual Middle Earth to be crowned King.
Now that Doggett had actual evidence--of what he couldn't be sure, but still it was something he could see, touch, take--now he felt nervous. He glanced around the room, expecting a dozen armed guards to come barreling in any second now, guns blazing.
The box reminded Doggett of the old Tupperware containers that his ex-wife used to freeze baking in. He wondered if he should just go through it here, and then he decided he'd pressed his luck quite enough for one day.
"Hell, one lifetime," he muttered to himself as he tucked the container under one arm and headed back to the exit.
At the door he paused, sorely tempted to see if there was anything under DOG-, but again, he knew he was pushing it. He suddenly grinned nastily and intoned in his best Governor-of-California voice: "I'll be back."
And then he was out the door and running for the stairs.

"Honey, I'm home!" Doggett called out, and a moment or two later, Byers was opening the door for him.
"What took ya so long?" Frohike cracked from deeper inside the room, where he was sitting in a large ergonomically designed office chair and fiddling with a camera.
"Stopped to chat up the security guards--thought I might ask one out," Doggett replied dryly.
"I think Scully might have a thing or two to say about that," Frohike replied.
"Have your gab session later, ladies," Langly interrupted gruffly. "Didja get the swag, or what?"
"What's with the hostility, Blondie?" Doggett asked, setting the container he'd stolen from the Defense Department onto the wooden table next to Langly's computer. Then he pulled the identification badge from his jacket and handed it to Byers, who removed the metal clip from it, set it on a chipped china saucer, and put it in what looked like a microwave oven set up on still another counter.
"The "Lord of the Geeks" here is just bitter `cos he got buggered by a dwarf or something," Frohike told him. Langly just glared at his computer screen.
"Oh, for a moment there I thought it might be something serious." Doggett turned his attention to the container. "Let's see what we've got here."
Frohike joined him at the table, and after removing the colorful melted slag that the ID had become from the oven and tossing it in the trash, so did Byers. Langly closed his video game program and started up the original hacking program he'd designed for getting into the government files, so that he could now go back and erase John Doggett from existence.
Doggett opened the plastic container gingerly, but apparently the DOD felt that locking their doors at night was enough, and it wasn't booby-trapped in any way. He removed a plain file folder from the top of the pile and flipped it open.
"Whoa, check out Don King!" he exclaimed, and Frohike laughed. Byers and even Langly turned to see what Doggett had in his hands.
The picture of Skinner had to be at least twenty years old, maybe more, and revealed a man just as serious as the man they all knew now, with the exception of a bush of dark curly hair that seemed more out of place than the seriously dated suit he was wearing.
Following the picture was a dossier describing a slow but steady rise through the FBI ranks, including a stint in the legal department that Doggett figured not even Mulder knew about. Doggett knew that Skinner had come to his position honorably, but he didn't realize just how clever the man really was.
"All the more reason to protect him," he muttered.
"What else we got here?" Frohike grew quickly bored with the paperwork. He reached into the container and pulled out a small vial containing, of all things, a dead bee.
"Wow, what's this? Wednesday Addams' hope chest?" asked Langly, pulling out another vial, this one containing some brackish amber fluid. Langly hoped it wasn't an aged urine sample.
Byers took both vials from him, muttering something about analysis.
"Okay, I'm seeing things here, and not getting the connection--how does a queen of spades signify anything about Skinner?" Frohike held up a playing card. Doggett took it from him, flipped it over, and thought the skull on the back of it looked familiar, but he wasn't sure from where.
"Okay, I think I'm getting this," he said. "I think this is all stuff from old cases--ones that Skinner had a particular hand in, or was part of, or maybe ran--I dunno--but I think this is stuff that could have maybe opened up more answers...or even just protected him..."
"So you think someone was holding this stuff to keep him quiet?" Byers asked.
"Yeah, or under their thumb or something."
"Never mind the trip down FBI memory lane--is the whatsit that Krycek was using in here?" Langly pushed aside a jar with a dead worm in it, a couple of pens and a desk sign that read "Thank you for not smoking". Doggett knocked his hands away as he spotted a lumpy object wrapped in felt.
"Hey, what's this?" He unwrapped the package to reveal a silver cased, hand held device of some kind, with a wide screen and several buttons on it.
"All right! Jackpot!" exclaimed Frohike. He grabbed the device from Doggett, and then promptly lost it to Byers, who fumbled, and it was back in Doggett's hands a moment later.
"I think we have a winner, folks!" Doggett said, grinning. He turned the device over in his hands once, twice, then a third time. "Now how do we turn the sucker off and save the day?"
Langly had been watching Doggett silently during the tussle over the device, and now he stood up, plucked the thing right out of Doggett's hands, and flipped a switch on the side.
"Unless your bad guys are Pikachu and the Mario Brothers, Agent Dogbird, you are shit outta luck." Tinny electronic music began emanating from the device.
"It's a Gameboy," he declared flatly. "Advance."

Chapter nine: The Night Pat Murphy Died
Summary: danger Fox Robinson! Seriously for anyone who's trying to figure out the chapter names, it's just a really cool album, okay?
Mulder stood separated from Skinner by glass windows, and watched as his lover was slid into a long dark tube for the MRI--the tube seemed somehow coffinish, and far too narrow for Skinner's wide shoulders.
For a moment, Mulder allowed himself to remember an old Appalachian curse and how that woman in the scanner had fried up like--like--
Scully touched his arm and he gave a startled squeak.
"He's going to be fine. This procedure is perfectly safe." She could feel his muscles humming like guitar strings tightened to the point of snapping.
Her words didn't reassure him. But rather than reminding her of that old case, which would have brought up old disagreements with it, he accepted her physical comfort and shook his head sadly.
"He didn't know where we were this morning, Scully," he said quietly.
She found his hand with her and gave it a squeeze, saying, "I'm not surprised. How often do you two overnight here, anyway?"
"Not often," he had to admit. "Although there was that one night with the tequila shooters..." That memory brought a smile to his face and nearly triggered his gag reflex at the same time.
"There you go. Don't borrow trouble, Mulder."
"I don't think I have to borrow any, Scully--seems I have plenty already."
The scanner had wound down now, the sounds fading away, the lights blinking at a slower pace, and Mulder tightened his grip on his friend's hand as skinner was drawn slowly from the machine.
Until Skinner was sitting up with the aid of a nurse, Mulder didn't even realize that he was holding his breath.
Scully let go of Mulder's hand and brushed his shoulder.
"I'm going to get started on the new text results. Give him a few minutes in the recovery room before you go barreling in there--he's going to be a little disoriented, okay?"
"Define a few, Scully," Mulder replied, his gaze never leaving the room, never leaving Skinner.
"Grab a coffee or something. I'll come up as soon as I've got some answers." A last reassuring pat and she was gone.
Mulder thought about coffee and something in his stomach rebelled at the concept. He supposed he could at least buy a cup, even if he couldn't actually drink it. That would satisfy Scully's `few minutes' and not keep him away for too long.
Skinner glanced over at the window on the other side of the room as an orderly helped him into a wheelchair. Without his glasses, he could barely make out the figure on the other side of the glass, but he was sure it was Mulder. He lifted his hand and saw a blur of movement in response. It was enough, and he closed his eyes with a smile as he was wheeled out of the room.
Mulder watched until Skinner was gone from the room, his hand still raised from returning Walter's wave. He pressed his fingers against the cool glass and wondered for just a moment if Scully's God was watching, and if He was, what He might be making of all this.
`I must be tired,' he thought. A last glance at the empty room and then he turned away to pursue his quest for bad coffee and a good man.
Skinner muttered darkly under his breath as the orderly arranged a blanket over him in the recovery room.
"I'm not an invalid you know," he told her.
"I can see that, Mr. Skinner", she replied, and something in her tone gave him a momentary pause.
She handed him a paper cup with pills in it, and another one full of water. "You may experience some pain--this will help," she told him. "The doctor will be with you shortly."
Skinner stared hard at her, but without his glasses her features were too soft, too indistinct, and then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her. Skinner stared hard at the space she had been occupying just a moment ago, that niggling feeling of familiarity tugging at him almost painfully. After a minute or two, though, he gave it up. His memory couldn't find whatever it was it was searching for, and his head was starting to ache.
He closed his eyes and hoped Scully would be along soon.
Mulder had made his way as far as the cafeteria, mostly on autopilot, the majority of his thoughts on the man in the room upstairs. He shuffled through a line up with a coffee in one hand and a sealed plastic cup of orange juice in the other, and only realized what he was doing when a small woman with a moustache and gray hair jammed into a net asked him for money.
He grinned apologetically at her, threw another sheepish smile at the people behind him and fumbled some change out of the pocket of his jeans. Drinks paid for, he steered himself to a table, stared bleakly at his purchases, and then sat back with a hand over his eyes and started counting seconds. He figured when he reached three hundred, that would be good enough for Scully.
"Mulder."
He was startled enough to almost tip his chair over. Scully didn't seem to notice. She pulled another uncomfortable chair up to his table, pushed his unopened juice aside, picked up his coffee and set a file folder down in front of him. Mulder recoiled a moment, suddenly terrified of the documents in the innocent beige folder and what they might reveal.
"Something strange here," Scully said, adding cream to his coffee and sipping it herself.
"You're not being helpful, Scully," again, his actions seemed out of his own control. He opened the folder and was greeted by the sight of his lover's brain, in glorious Technicolor.
He was suddenly very glad he wasn't drinking that coffee.
"Pretty much the same as the last batch, Mulder. See, here?" She pointed. "That gray mass? That's the nanocytes. They're in the same place and approximately the same size. No change."
"Is that supposed to be encouraging?" Mulder asked bleakly.
"Well, as long as the mass doesn't expand, then there won't be any additional pressure on the brain and that is encouraging." Scully pulled the picture away and Mulder looked at the next one.
This was a sheet of x-rays. Scully had definitely gone through all the motions, and Mulder knew he should be more grateful. He felt it, for sure, but too much of his heart was wrapped up in Walter skinner to give Scully more than a fleeting ghost of a leer.
"Ooh, now these are dead sexy!" he told her.
"Sexy, maybe, but confusing, definitely. Look at these two." She pointed at two shots of Skinner's left side and arm. "Do you see those?"
`Of course I see them,' he thought with sick dread.
Two more dark masses; one in Walter's arm, near the shoulder, one in his thigh.
Mulder closed his eyes, but the pictures remained burned into his brain, and shutting out the actual images in front of him just allowed the ones in his mind to grow worse.
He remembered the way Skinner had looked when--when--
He groaned aloud, opened his eyes and stood up.
"What can be done, Scully?"
"Well, we had looked at some pretty extreme courses of action last time, Mulder, although the carbon was much more wide-spread then." Scully touched the dark spots on the x-rays as she spoke.
"Amputation," Mulder remembered. He could suddenly feel the ghost of Skinner's arms around him. "Not an option," he declared coldly.
"I didn't allow it last time, Mulder," Scully reminded him a little shortly. He held up a hand defensively.
"I know, Scully, and I know you're doing everything you can here. It's just like that last time, though. Time's running out and I feel like I'm ten steps behind. I'm sitting here staring at Walter's death sentence with nothing more powerful than a juice box in front of me! I need to be out there, Scully, finding the son of a bitch who's doing this!"
"Mulder, we're covering that. John said he'd call as soon as he and the Gunmen have anything, and your friend Mitch promised to let you know if anyone else started asking about you two--"
"I know that. But Scully, that's all reactive, not pro-active. And when have you ever known me to just sit around and wait?"
She almost smiled at that.
"Why don't we go see how the patient is doing?" she said. "I can explain course of treatment to you both then, and maybe between the three of us, we can figure out how you can be more `proactive'" Unexpectedly, Scully arched a brown suggestively on the word proactive, and it startled a smile out of Mulder.
She scooped up the file folder, drained his coffee cup and then let him lead her out of the room.
Skinner opened his eyes at the sound of the door opening. His relieved smile became a frown when he realized it wasn't Mulder approaching the bed but another nurse, this one male.
The man wore industrial green scrubs and heavy shoes. His gray hair was crew cut short, and while the muscles in his arms bulged the sleeves of his shirt, his waist was thick, bordering on flab.
`Regular Army', thought Skinner, and something familiar registered in his mind. Hadn't he just heard something like that somewhere? Someone describing...who? Himself?
The orderly smiled at Skinner and held up a needle.
"What's this now?" Suddenly nervous, Skinner pushed himself up to a sitting position.
"Just something to help ya sleep, big guy," replied the orderly.
"I think I'll hold off on the nap until my doctor gets here." More internal alarms started clamoring as the man made no move to stop what he was doing.
"Whaddya, afraid of a little needle? Not a tough guy like you." The man smirked and reached for Skinner's arm.
Skinner pushed the hand with the needle in it away. "I said no," he growled.
"Don't make this difficult," the orderly growled back.
Skinner raised an arm to deflect another attempt with the needle, and then something in his head felt like it was exploding, and he clapped both hands to his skull with a wounded cry.
The orderly plunged the needle into the taut muscle of skinner's bicep. The twinge of pain could barely register past the throbbing of his brain, but Skinner felt it just the same, and he uttered a hoarse shout. "NO!"
"Just shut up and let us do our work, buddy," sneered the orderly. "It'll all be over soon, anyway."
"What the hell is going on here?"
Skinner tried to focus on the blessedly familiar voice, but couldn't even manage to open his eyes. The pain in his skull was lessening slowly--at least it didn't feel like rabid gerbils were gnawing at his frontal lobe anymore--but that just made the pain in his arm from the needle more vivid, thin heat burning its way through his arm and into his body. And he was starting to feel a little sick, a little dizzy. There was a weight on him suddenly, and his ribs fairly groaned in protest. There was more shouting, Mulder and someone else, and then the weight was gone and the voices seemed far away. He could hear the beat of his own heart over them, and feel blood trickling down his arm, warm and wet.
"Sir!" A woman's voice, loud in his ear. "Walter! Can you hear me?"
He struggled to open eyes gummed shut by what felt like super glue. He heard something break with a loud cracking sound, and a sudden yelp of pain that he recognized as Mulder.
"Fox!" he cried out, forcing his eyes to open.
Scully was inches away from his face, frowning worriedly.
"Stay with us, sir," she demanded, and then she disappeared off to his right somewhere. He failed to turn his head enough to see what was happening, but he noticed a dark shadow loom over him, obscuring the lights for a moment, and then a crash, and a thud, and someone was groaning and his eyes slipped shut again.
"Walter! Walter!"
"Sir! Walter!"
The glue on his eyelids had been replaced with wet sandbags apparently; the effort of opening his eyes almost didn't seem worth it.
"Please, Walter!"
The voice sounded terrified and he worried about that for a moment, had one second of crystal clear thought and realized he'd been drugged, and he opened his eyes.
The man was close enough for Skinner to see the rapidly shifting colour of his eyes, the full shape of his mouth, and the bleeding gash on his forehead.
As he lost consciousness, Skinner wondered who the man was...

Chapter 10: Boston and St Johns
Summary: The boys part ways, Scully explains, Skinner gets surly, Scully takes a nap
The room swam into focus in a rolling high seas way that caused Skinner to retch and cough as he came awake.
"Steady, sir."
A glass was lifted to his lips and the cold water made his taste buds cramp in a delicious way. All too soon the glass was pulled away, and a warm blur passed his eyes as Scully placed a hand on his forehead in a gesture more maternal than professional.
With a groan, Skinner pushed himself up to a sitting position.
"My glasses?"
Scully handed him the wire-rimmed glasses and when he put them on and his vision was clear he realized with some amazement that he was in his own bed.
"Where's Mulder?" he demanded. He ignored the placating hand that Scully put on his arm. "What the hell happened?"
He saw Scully recoil from the growl in his voice and tried to rein in the fear-based temper. "Sorry," he muttered, "Looks like I woke up on the wrong side of...of the wrong bed."
That earned him a tentative smile and he asked again, "Mulder?"
"He's fine, Walter," Scully assured him. "A little bruised, but that's hardly anything new for him."
They shared a quick smile at that, and then Scully continued before Skinner could ask.
"He's still in the city, waiting to get a lead on what happened."
"And what exactly did happen?" he demanded.
Scully told him.
Security had shown up after the fact. Mulder held the still struggling orderly pinned to the floor after he had caught him trying to squirm out the door. Scully was trying desperately to wake Skinner, who lolled senselessly on the hospital bed, threatening to slide right off it at any moment.
Security was followed by a bevy of medics, a flock of nurses and a gaggle of curious onlookers, all trying to find out what was going on.
Two burly security guards took hold of Mulder's prisoner and hauled him to his feet.
"Where are you taking him?" Mulder asked sharply, swiping at the blood on his forehead--the result of his fight with the orderly, or whatever he was.
"We'll hold him downstairs and call the police," on of the guards told him. "Do you want to come with us and tell us what went down here?"
"I'll be right behind you," Mulder promised, glaring at his enemy. Then the anger was replaced by something smoky and panicked in his eyes as he turned towards Scully and Skinner.
Like the world's smallest she-bear, Scully was standing between Skinner and far too many intentions, possibly bad, useless if good. One nurse who got too close with nothing more helpful than a bedpan in her hands got a quick shove back for her efforts, and another one when Mulder pushed past her.
"You okay, partner?" Scully demanded, giving the cut on Mulder's head a critical eye.
"I'm fine, Scully," he said. "Walter--?"
"I think he's been drugged, Mulder," Scully replied, glaring off another nurse. "With this." She held the needle, half empty, in a tissue. "We'll need to test--"
"No," Mulder declared.
"But Mulder--"
"Take him home, Scully."
"That's ridiculous!"
The doctor who had originally seen Skinner had arrived.
"Obviously we'll need to take care of your--your--"
"Shut up," Mulder told him in a quiet voice. "We're taking him out of here and you're going to let us."
"Don't be a fool," snapped the doctor, "You don't know--"
"Listen, you stone brained quack!"
Even Scully looked startled at the fury in Mulder's voice.
"In case it escaped your notice, `doctor ,'" he sneered over the man's title. "Your little fiefdom here has been seriously fucking compromised. God only knows what one of your staff just tried to do to my lover, but unless you want to be up to your ass in lawsuits, I suggest you take said officious little ass out of here and make yourself useful, if that's even possible. I want a stretcher up here and all the files you have on him."
The doctor looked ready to protest further, and Mulder took a step forward.
"This is completely improper," he muttered, obviously defeated, but unwilling to go quietly. When no response was forthcoming from Mulder, he turned to the nurse next to him to get Mulder's `request' underway.
The speech seemed to drain something out of Mulder, and he turned a miserable frown back to Scully, who was noting Skinner's pulse. Mulder put his hand over the one she was holding Skinner's wrist with.
"Can he be moved?" he asked almost too softly for her to hear.
"I think so," she replied just as quietly. "But Mulder---"
"No buts, Scully. Get the files and get him gone. Take him home. You know? `Home'?" He emphasized the word with what he hoped was a meaningful look. Scully understood.
"There'll be records in the computer..." she murmured.
"I'll get the guys on it. And I'll find out who this bastard is. Just, you know--"another stricken look at Skinner's unconscious form.
"I will."
Scully turned to the few people left in the room. "Who's helping?" she demanded loudly. "Get me a kit here--it's a hospital, people, you don't have a damned bandage?"
Mulder almost grinned as he slipped from the room.

"I'm glad I was out of it--you on a rant is a terrifying thing," Skinner said, smiling gently. Then, more serious: "So, what's our best guess here, Scully?"
"I haven't got the resources to pin down the substance you were injected with, but based on observation of your reactions to it, I'd have to say something heavily Demerol-based, maybe."
"Ah, a nap. Do you think this was a nap that I was supposed to wake up from?" Skinner glanced around the room. Scully read his mind and she handed him the glass of water.
"Again, I'm speculating--Mulder would be so proud--"; a smile; "--but the way you've come out of the unconscious state suggest to me that the perp wasn't trying to kill you, he was trying to immobilize you."
"What on earth for?"
"I wish I could say, Walter." Scully shrugged and looked momentarily defeated. "Transport, maybe?"
"That suggests something a little more far reaching than just hospital staff with a grudge," he replied. She nodded agreement, and Skinner noticed for the first time how tired she looked.
"Have you slept?" he demanded.
"I'm fine," she replied.
"That's not what I asked," Skinner bit back the urge to add `Agent Scully' to the end of his sentence.
"I know that...Walter."
He smiled when he realized she'd almost given him back his FBI title as well. Old habits, he supposed, and he wondered if they'd ever get over them. Well, if the nanocytes in his brain did their job, he guessed he'd never have to worry about calling Scully Agent, or anything else for that matter.
"If I promise to wake you if I feel so much as a sneeze coming on, would you do me a personal favor and just crash for a while? We've all been on short sleep rations, but you're well and beyond that, Dana." And he added for emphasis, "and you know it."
"Okay, okay!" she exclaimed. "You're right." She laughed suddenly. "Mulder has always wanted to hear me say that."
She touched the bandage on his arm. "Maybe I should just check--"
"No! Go! Rest! Watch cable or something--God knows we pay enough a month for Mulder to have his pay-per-view; somebody ought to be using it."
He realized he'd barked at her like the old days only when she sketched a comic salute at him, heel click and all, and said, "Yes sir!"
That made him laugh.
At the door, she turned back to him and said, "Call me if you feel anything unusual, or if you need anything at all. I mean it Walter. We don't know enough about what's going on to screw around with this."
He nodded solemnly, and she seemed satisfied with that. In fact, she had already taken another step out of the room when she turned back again.
"Walter..."
"Dana...?"
Another patent-pending Scully psychic moment: "Mulder's okay. I'm sure of it."
And then she was gone, leaving Skinner to wonder what was happening with his lover, and just where this latest attack left them, in terms of safety, security, and life of course. A twinge of pain in his arm made him look, and he realized it wasn't the arm that had received the amateur version of acupuncture. His left arm was aching, and as he looked at it, the veins in his bicep rose to the surface of his skin, black and pulsing, and then receded.
He hoped that whatever Mulder was doing, he was doing it fast.

Chapter 11: Old Black Rum
Summary: The power of persuasion...like socks full of bricks...
The orderly who had attacked Skinner sat sullenly in the small room, his hands cuffed behind him, one of the security guards hovering over him like a storm cloud. There were two chairs in the room, one of which he was sitting on, one door, and no windows.
From where he sat, the man could see Mulder in the hall outside the door talking on his cell phone. The other security guard was standing at the door, alternating his focus between Mulder and his prisoner. The frown the guard gave him was far from encouraging, but he refused to let his fear show. He glared right back.
"Thanks, Langly, your kung fu is the best...yeah...for sure, cheese steaks on me next time...Yeah? Good on him. Get him to call Scully, tell her what he found...uh huh...well, yeah, that, and besides, she'll get off on the sound of his voice, and you know we all want to see that...thanks again...I will."
Mulder shut down his cell phone, slipped it onto the belt clip attached to his jeans, and turned to the security guard.
The prisoner watched with growing trepidation as Mulder and the guard exchanged a few words and a nasty smile.
Mulder walked into the room while the guard stayed outside. The second guard abandoned his slouching menace above the orderly and met Mulder at the door. More words muttered between them, and then, much to the man's alarm, the second guard joined his partner in the hall and politely closed the door behind him, leaving him alone with Mulder. Alone, and unobserved.
"You got a name?" Mulder asked, almost conversationally, as he turned the empty chair around and sat backwards on it, resting his hands lightly on the plastic chair back.
The man glanced down at the nametag still pinned to his scrubs and gave Mulder a sneer. All the while he was subtly struggling with the cuffs, not liking the way this was playing out at all.
"No," Mulder said, still speaking in that low, almost pleasant tone. "I'm sure that's a fake. What's your real name?" He leaned a little closer, less pleasantly. "After all, you just tried to kill my lover--I ought to know what to call you."
"Kiss my ass," the man shot back through gritted teeth.
"Well, Mister "Ass"--must be a family name--you want to play nice here; it might just save your namesake."
The man remained stubbornly silent at that, and Mulder's eyes darkened a fraction. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm himself while his memory slammed image after image of his stricken lover into his brain with speeding truck force.
He felt a headache coming on, and rubbed his temples absently, still maintaining eye contact with the other man.
"Been to any good gay bars lately?" he demanded suddenly, blurting out the words in a harsh way that made the man twitch in his chair.
"You look a lot like someone who was asking about us not too long ago. A buddy of mine described you pretty well." Mulder's tone dropped again, keeping the other man off balance and unnerved.
The man muttered something Mulder couldn't make out, but the look of distaste on his face spoke volumes.
"Sorry, what was that?" Still falsely calm, almost smiling, as his headache grew. "You were just there to score?" He leered. "Well, why didn't you just say so? I'm sure we could have arranged something." He stood and made an airy "love my curtains" gesture around the room. "This wasn't necessary--" He moved in close and lowered his voice. "Maybe we'd have both done ya."
"Shut up, faggot!" the man yelled, fighting the cuffs so hard that he was almost bouncing in his seat.
Mulder snapped. All pretense of calm left him; all flirtatiousness and understanding were gone in a heartbeat.
With a surge of angry adrenaline feeding him strength, he hoisted the man to his feet, fingers digging cruelly into the man's biceps. As he lifted, he moved forward, forcing the chair over, making the man stumble briefly, missing a nasty fall just from Mulder's grip on him.
Mulder's momentum increased as he bypassed the chair and shoved the man harder, knocking him up against the wall with enough force to jar him almost senseless. His teeth clicked together painfully on his tongue and his fisted hands were jammed into the small of his back.
Mulder's eyes blazed and he was nearly panting into the other man's face.
"Number one, asshole: That's `Mister Faggot' to you!" He shook the man briskly and tried not to relish the fear he now saw widening the eyes before him.
"Fuck you, `Mister Faggot'" the man sneered with the last of his bravado.
Mulder brought his knee up hard, slamming it into the man's groin with enough force to drive all the air out of him, leaving him groaning and gasping for breath.
"Number two: In case you didn't notice, buddy, there's nobody here but us. Conveniently, any inconvenient witnesses are behind a closed door. And the best part? I don't think those guys out there would even care if I took you apart right now. Hell, I think they might even approve."
Another swift kick and a face slap, and Mulder danced the man back to the chair he'd been using moments ago, throwing him into with a hard shove, then backing away, wiping his hands on his jeans like he'd touched something nasty.
He didn't want the man to catch his breath or regroup his defenses, but he recognized something dark and grotesque rising in him, and he knew he was the one who had to do the regrouping; the one who had to step back, refocus and remember why he was here; why he was doing this. It was too easy to picture a life without Walter Skinner and the thought that this man could be in some way responsible for even making him have to think about it filled him with a white-hot rage that was almost blinding.
The man muttered something that Mulder almost heard, and he moved forward so fast the other man flinched.
"What? What did you say?" he demanded.
Silence from the man.
"Did you say `she'? `She' who?"
More silence. Mulder thought a moment: about the guards outside, about the police on their way, about how much time he had.
And he thought about Skinner.
The smile on his face scared the man more than the previous physical violence.

"He slipped outta the cuffs--don't know how--and Mr. Mulder here was just giving his statement when all hell broke loose." One security guard was talking to the police while the other was supervising the transfer of the prisoner. Neither guard seemed particularly distressed that the man was being wheeled out on a stretcher, unconscious.
"Mr. Mulder was forced to act out of self-defense," the guard continued. He gave the policeman who was taking notes a solemn look. "He's a hero."
The policeman shot a skeptical glance over at Mulder, who was holding a wet towel full of ice on the knuckles of one hand while letting a nurse fuss over the black eye and swollen lip he was now sporting in addition to the cut he has sustained in the original fight.
"Uh huh..." A final note on his pad, and a thank you, and the policeman hustled off after the perp, suspicious of the convenience of the matching stories he'd just heard, but not inclined to inquire further.
Both security guards approached Mulder.
"That was pretty extreme," said the first one. Mulder shrugged and discovered that in fact, everything did hurt.
"Probably too much," said the second man. Mulder locked eyes with him and they glared at one another briefly.
Then the guard offered Mulder a wide grin.
"That's `Mr. Faggot to you'? Jeez, Mulder, I nearly peed myself on that one!" And he burst out laughing.
Mulder gave him a weary smile in return.
"Did you get anything out of him?" asked the other guard.
Mulder nodded. "I think so. A place to start, at any rate."
"Well, then, that's all that matters." The man surprised Mulder by leaning forward and kissing him on his unhurt cheek. "Go on, now; we'll take care of anything else that comes up here--you just take care of the big guy, kay?"
"Thank you. You have my number--call if anything happens, here or with--" he jerked his head in the direction of the door the man had been rolled out of. "I can't tell you how important this is."
"Oh, we know."
The guards exchanged a look, and their hands brushed quickly and discreetly together.
Mulder spared them a last appreciative smile and a half-hearted `aren't you boys sexy?' leer, and then turned and limped tiredly down the corridor.

By the time he hit Banff he was cruising on autopilot and he knew it. Aside from a couple of serious scuffles today, both of which had left him aching in places he didn't know it was possible to feel pain, there was also the worry, tension and over-all exhaustion from the last few days. He'd never been a great sleeper, and circumstances had made it worse lately.
As the car climbed away from the city, Mulder thought about her--Not `her-Scully' and not `her-Sam'; not even `her-Roxy', although he did have a moment where he mentally reminded himself that he owed the queen a drink for helping them thus far.
But the woman who had him most preoccupied was the "she" that the perp at the hospital had mentioned.
She...Marie...Marie something. Despite vigorous application of his most persuasive appeals to the man in the hospital (said appeals still making his knuckles throb), Mulder couldn't get more of a name than that. The difficulties he had encountered just getting that much out of the man convinced Mulder that he really didn't know more than that. At least about her name.
More details had come easier, although his aching body might argue with him on his definition of `easy'.
This "Marie" was somewhere in Calgary; she wanted Skinner tracked, and the orderly had done just that with help from a few friends. Once Skinner had been sedated in the hospital, someone else was supposed to take care of things from there, and the orderly was simply supposed to vanish.
Mulder steered the car past the falls that marked the start of the grid road that wound its way up through the mountains and trees to their cabin. One eye was nearly swollen shut and now the other wanted to close as well. He had a sudden urge to just pull over into the brush at the side of the road, shut off the car and sleep for a month.
Instead, he stifled a yawn and cracked open the side window, letting cool air wash over him. Dimly he was aware that it felt good on his hurt places. Blinking rapidly, he reached for the radio and was pleased to find Elvis Presley, reminding him that lions weren't the kind he loved enough. A worn smile floated around his lips, tried to beam, or at least light up his eyes, and settled for turning up one side of his mouth. Elvis made him think of his own `teddy bear', and he pressed harder on the accelerator, coaxing a little more speed out of the car. Another half-smile, this one with a touch of embarrassment at his own folly.
Relief so great it almost made him light headed washed over him as the car found the driveway and he heard the familiar crunch of gravel under the tires.
As he parked the rental car he'd gotten next to the SUV that they'd originally taken into town, he remembered watching Walter laying the gravel for the driveway, all shirtless and glistening muscles, and he cranked off the ignition with enough force to almost break the key. A shudder worked through him, and he suddenly brought his hands down on the steering wheel again and again and again, swearing under his breath and fighting the tears that were instantly burning in his eyes.
The steering wheel took the brunt of his emotions stoically, not complaining, and eventually his rage seeped from him even as his tears did not, and he shakily stepped out of the car.
The gravel under his feet made grumpy crackling noises, and the gloom of late evening hugged the surrounding trees, combining to make him nervous. He glanced around uneasily, imagining the ghosts of dead soldiers skulking in the woods.
He didn't realize how tense he was holding himself until he tried putting his key into the door lock and his hands were shaking so bad it took several attempts.
Once inside, he slammed the door, locked it, keyed in the security code, heard a startled noise from the living room and almost wet his pants.
"Shit," he muttered weakly, looking over at the couch and seeing Scully just visible in the dim light of the television screen.
Quietly, Mulder slipped into the living room. He watched Scully move on the couch, her small body rocking slightly, and she made another soft sound.
"Scully?" He spoke her name quietly, only realizing she was still asleep when he received no response.
A warm smile turned up the sides of his mouth as he took the television remote from her hand and carefully eased the gun out from under the pillow her head was cushioned on. He shut off the TV, let his eyes adjust, and then pulled the crocheted afghan off of the rocking chair next to the couch and draped it over his sleeping friend.
The afghan had been a Christmas gift from a friend of a friend of Walter's, and the two of them had put it to good use over the winter.
Scully settled under the blanket with a sigh and Mulder couldn't resist touching her hair briefly before moving away.
The cabin was mostly dark by now and Mulder found his way to the bedroom mostly by memory. A dim sliver of light gleaming from under the bedroom door revealed itself to be one of the kerosene lamps spreading mellow light over the nightstand and part of the bed, while throwing interesting shadows around the rest of the room.
A bear growled from one of the pools of darkness as Mulder toed off his shoes. He glanced around warily, and then smiled as Skinner snored out another sleeping breath.
Mulder thought about taking a shower, and his stomach thought about lunch, which felt like it had been years ago. He thought about the lead that needed following up, and his cuts and bruises thought about ibuprofen.
Deciding thinking was highly overrated, and too tired to even consider doing any more of it, Mulder made his way to the lamp, turned down the kerosene and blew out the existing flame, and then flopped down on his side of the bed. He curled up arms and legs, felt Skinner stirring beside him, and fell asleep while still trying to find a word that meant more than `exhausted'.
Hours later both men had managed to shift and meet in the middle of the bed, arms and legs entangled, although neither of them had woken...

Chapter 12: Consequence Free
Summary: this worked better as haiku, I think--thanks, big bro!
Mulder awoke with a startled groan, feeling something pressed hard to his mouth. Despite his groggy state, he was able to quickly ascertain that the something was another mouth, warm and inviting despite the ache of pressure on his swollen lips. Another sound escaped him before he could stop it, and he opened his eyes.
"Shh..." Skinner pulled away from him and brushed a finger softly over his mouth instead. Mulder tried to follow the digit with his lips as he came more awake, instinctively moving into the touch; he encountered Skinner's lips instead.
"Shh..." Skinner murmured again, the breathy purr warming the air between their mouths. The kiss was gentle, but not hesitant; Skinner continued the movement of his mouth on Mulder's with soft persistence, taking care to avoid causing any more discomfort.
Even when Mulder grew more demanding, and tried to deepen the kiss, Skinner just shushed him again and slipped an arm around the back of his head, grasping his hair in a tight hold that Mulder had more than just a nodding acquaintance with. He struggled to recapture Skinner's mouth, but those strong fingers tangled in his hair and held his head completely still.
He gasped aloud at the feel of Skinner's teeth as the older man burrowed under his chin and nipped at his Adam's apple, and the gasp turned into a louder groan as Skinner's tongue soothed over the bite.
Another careful kiss on the mouth, and Mulder could see the gleam in Skinner's eyes when he smiled at him, and just make out the light sheen of perspiration across his forehead as dim `wannabe morning' light pressed at the window coverings.
"Scully's sleeping," Skinner warned him in a whisper, and then he went right back to work on Mulder's throat, interspersing soft bites and kisses with licks and then a prolonged teasing suck on a vulnerable earlobe.
Mulder bit his lip to keep from making any noise, and then winced at the sudden self-inflicted pain. For the first time that he could ever remember, he suddenly wished that Dana Scully was very very far away.
He realized that he was still wearing his clothes from the day before, although Skinner was making short work of his jeans, and his shirt was rucked up his body to allow one of his lover's big hands to stroke across the bare skin of his stomach and chest.
Even as Skinner's actions were rapidly turning his mind into so much oatmeal between his ears, Mulder managed to spark at least two brain cells together in order to shimmy out of his jeans. When Skinner cupped a hand between his legs, Mulder snaked an arm between them and did his own exploring, pleased and excited to find Walter hot and hard beneath the thin pajama pants he was wearing.
A stroke, another, and then a firm squeeze, and Mulder felt the vibrations against his throat as it was Skinner's turn to try and stifle any sound.
"Scully's sleeping," he teased, and then Skinner's mouth was on his again, cutting off sound, nearly cutting off air, and they thrashed on the bed, silent but for panting breaths and the whisper of sheets on skin as the blankets were twisted and clothing shoved hastily off and out of the way. More rustling sounds, and then a pause, and Mulder caught Skinner's eye as they rocked their bodies together.
There was a spark there in his lover's eyes that had nothing to do with lust; it was something challenging and a little playful, and Mulder didn't trust it for a minute. Skinner pushed into Mulder's hand and brushed his lips over Mulder's ear, making him shiver.
"How sound a sleeper is she, Mulder?"
Mulder's eyes widened. He barely had time to realize what Skinner was suggesting when he felt a stinging heat from Skinner's mouth on his chest. Sharp teeth worried at a nipple, and Mulder couldn't contain a cry of surprise.
"Bastard!" he hissed at Skinner, his gaze moving from the top of his lover's head nestled on his chest to the bedroom door; there was something about the solid oak nature of the barrier between bedroom and living room that pacified him briefly.
He felt a chuckle vibrate the skin over his breast; Skinner's only response to his complaint. And then he was working his way across Mulder's chest with lips, teeth and tongue, intent on drawing more positive sounds out of him. He sucked the other nipple to hardness while stroking his hands down Mulder's sides and across his hips, fingertips barely brushing the tip of his cock. The fingers paused, seemed to consider, and then brushed over the head again, this time a bit firmer.
Mulder wondered if he was going to chew his lips right off, and thought it might be a distinct possibility as he stifled another yelp. He knew he was fighting a losing battle as Skinner's hands grew busier, working in teasing tandem; this one stroking hot and heavy over his thighs and the length of his cock; that one delicately cradling balls and teasing the crease of his hip where leg joined body.
Mulder managed to keep all his usual repetoire of sounds buried inside himself, aside from the occasional whimper; he thought briefly that if push came to shove, as it were, he could just end the teasing, push Skinner aside, maybe do some teasing of his own. It was still possible to take control of the situation.
Everything changed when Skinner took him in his mouth.
With an involuntary shout, Mulder bucked hard, hips coming off the bed, only to be slammed back down by Skinner's hands. The man's mouth stayed with him, hot and wet and moving light speed up and down the length of his cock as he pressed him firmly to the bed, his hands stroking and squeezing his flesh constantly even as they held him pinned down.
Mulder tried to push Skinner away by clutching at his shoulders and the back of his head and making a whimpering, groaning sound low in his throat. His efforts were met with limited success.
Skinner grinned up at him, released his cock with a soft kiss to the crown, and then shifted around between Mulder's legs, spreading them and giving him access to more of his lover.
Mulder felt a hand give his balls a friendly squeeze and then move lower, but before anything more than a strangled " Ah-oh-oh God!" could escape him, Skinner was sliding up his body and kissing him again. Mulder could taste himself on his lover's lips, and his hips pumped hard, bringing more skin on skin contact.
Skinner was smiling down at him, keeping his fingers moving teasingly over his balls and under them while he pressed their groins together.
"Now that I've given you a head start," he said, his voice low and breathy, "First one to cum makes coffee."
Before Mulder could reply, he was sliding down his body again, now stroking the cleft between his buttocks and taking his cock back into his mouth.
"Wha--oh, oh, Christ, Walter--" Mulder arched up to meet Skinner's assault, and lost words as he felt the other man simply let him slide further into his mouth, tongue busily teasing the underside of his cock, throat muscles working deliberately. All focus, along with a generous blood supply, pooled below his waist, and his thought processes began dwindling into the non-existent category. For one brief moment he saw himself pushing Skinner away, toppling him over like a giant redwood, then jumping him like a crazed sap-sucking lumberjack. He knew he could make Skinner roar fiercely enough to wake an army of couch-napping Scullys. And then they'd see who would be making who coffee--or was it whom? Well, either way--
Skinner started to sing.
Well, not sing, exactly, his mouth being rather too busy to contemplate forming words. Hum, rather. Soft sound, barely registering in Mulder's ears, but the vibrations that suddenly sizzled up the length of his cock were so intense he might as well have been fucking the sub-woofer of a Bose speaker in the middle of a KISS concert. He cried out in pleasure, forgetting his plans for Skinner, forgetting his sleeping partner, forgetting himself.
And when Skinner pushed the finger that had been teasing his ass deep inside him, he forgot everything, and he felt himself tightening, straining, bucking, and finally exploding with a scream...

"Walter, I cannot go out there!" Mulder complained, not entirely unhappily.
"Scully probably didn't even wake up," said Walter, sitting back on the bed with a self-satisfied smile as Mulder found a clean pair of shorts and pulled them on. "Besides," he added, in a tone both arch and sweet, "You've been louder."
"Smart ass."
"That I am."
Mulder added his robe to the ensemble, and then froze in the process of belting it shut at the sound of the shower starting up.
"Reprieve!" Mulder exclaimed, delighted. "I can hit the kitchen, brew a couple of cups for us and be back here before Scully gets to the `repeat' step on the shampoo bottle." He opened the bedroom door, paused to look back at Skinner with a grin. "Then, when the three of us are all up and together, I'll tell her it was you hitting that high C." Mulder ducked out the door and the pillow just missed him.
He passed by the bathroom and thought he could just make out singing over the sound of water running. He paused just a moment, then carried on to the kitchen, half singing, half humming quietly to himself: "Joy to the world, all the hmmm hmmm hmm. Joy to the hmm hmm in the hmm hmm sea--"
He burst into the kitchen with a flourish. "Joy to you and me!"
And wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole as John Doggett looked up from the coffee maker and smirked at him.
"I was wonderin' what you did for an encore, Mulder," he said, "I didn't think anything could top that stirrin' rendition of Ave Maria you were sharin' with us this morning."
"Aw, hell...."
End part two/three

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