From mladner@agt.net Mon Jan 27 12:40:00 1997
CLASSIFICATION: SRH (Mulder/Skinner) NC-17
SUMMARY: A coincidental late-night meeting at a popular greasy spoon results in a strange conversation and some cheesy occurrences.
Hello. I didn't write this. I'm posting it for my friend, who due to fiscal realities was forced to close his internet account a while back. Death threats should be sent directly to the RCMP. All other comments to him can be mailed to me to be forwarded at mladner@agt.net.
THE STANDARD DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and the characters of Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and Dana Scully are all the property of Fox Television and Ten Thirteen Productions. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made from their use. The surly waitress belongs to me, and to every Denny's Restaurant in North America, at least.
WARNINGS AND WHAT-NOT ALL: This story contains some fairly tame scenes of consensual sex between two men. If this sort of thing offends you, you should be hitting that back button right about now. This story also contains several usages of naughty words and several remarks questioning the quality of the food available at Denny's. If THAT offends you, again, you have come to the wrong place. Please go away.

---

Denny's Cycle I - Miles To Go Before I Sleep
by Ethan Nelson

Assistant Director Walter Skinner entered the Denny's restaurant at a little after one in the morning, expecting nothing more than to enjoy a substandard slice of apple pie and some greasy coffee before he finally called it a night. Though ordinarily a healthy sleeper, he found that every now and again he could get to sleep only with the aid of an act of God. Those were rare enough in his life that he had been forced to search out some other alternatives. Denny's was hardly a favorite haunt of his--his tastes in cuisine ran more towards the sort of menu items that didn't rhyme-- but he was restless and it was still open, which was more than he could say for the few restaurants he did frequent.

This night the source of his consternation was the same as it was more often than not. Once again Agent Mulder had managed to saddle him with a headache that could only be obliterated with the aid of several sticks of dynamite. Walter was seldom so extreme. What with Mulder's usual crap, budget requests, completely ridiculous 302s, and various other assorted aggravations, he had been unable to close his eyes without envisioning himself in a McDonald's hat, and happy to be that way.

"Table for one, sir?" The hostess asked him. Her look said it all: he was clearly a weirdo, but she had seen far worse.

"Yes, thank-you."

"Smoking or non?"

"Non."

"Right this way."

The restaurant was deserted but for one lone man, bent over a laptop computer on the other side of the non-smoking section. Whether out of charity or indifference, the hostess seated Walter in a large corner booth, facing the parking lot. From here he could see his car, the convenience store across the street, and a couple of working girls having a bad night. Still, it had to be more scintillating a view than endless Flow-bee infomericals. As if an even haircut was a major concern of his.

He scanned the menu with a jaundiced eye, halfway interested in ordering a very late breakfast. He had eaten a lot of meals like that in his youth. The dry toast and strangely green sausages were a memory that had put him on an All Bran breakfast diet for years afterward. Even the swarthiest of men could withstand only so much. He turned to the back of the menu and examined his dessert choices. The apple pie was out of stock. He could have a sundae, maybe...

"I think I saw this once on Unsolved Mysteries,'" the man at the other end of the section was telling the waitress.

"Did you?"

"Yeah yeah yeah. I know I did. This guy got his hands on a bad piece of pie, and he asked for another, but they kept giving it to him from the same plate, see, and of course the other pieces were just as bad. He finally asked for the manager."

"And nobody ever saw him again?"

"Ah, you saw that one too."

"So the pie's out. How about the fruit plate?"

"I could tell you stories about the fruit plate," he was telling her. Walter looked up. Something in the tone was familiar. Something that, for some reason, filled him with dread.

He had not been able to identify the other man on the basis of the top of his head alone, and he had not really tried, anyway. Now he saw very clearly who it was. Fox Mulder: thorn in his side, pain in his ass, and bane of his existence. If he tried to leave now, Mulder would see him straight away. Maybe if he sneaked out the emergency exit. This wasn't the only Denny's in Virginia, after all. *This is ridiculous* he told himself. *Are you a G Man, or a mouse?* With a groan of resignation, he got up from his table and crossed the restaurant to Mulder's. Mulder was wearing his glasses, lending to his expression of surprise.

"Good morning, sir. I didn't see you come in."

"It's supposed to be the innocent who sleep so well..."

"And I never see any sons of bitches when I'm out at night. You have a table?"

"Over there," he said, gesturing vaguely.

"No sense taking up two. There might be a crush."

Walter sat across from him, half-relieved and not willing to acknowledge why. "Elvis," he said.

"He's a big eater. Bigfoot, too."

"Probably not." Mulder gave him a questioning look. "No salad bar," he said.

"Who says we don't see eye to eye?" He tapped around a bit on his laptop.

"If I'm intruding..."

"It's okay. Personal project." He closed the lid and set the computer beside him. "I'm not going to try to ding you for overtime."

"Or for the meal, I presume."

"No. We'll go dutch." He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Without the frames to protect him, he looked weary.

"How long have you been here?"

He looked at his watch. "Since nine or so. I didn't come for the food," he assured his boss. "I just needed a change of scenery. What about you? Waiting for your roach killer to air out?"

"No. I couldn't sleep."

"And they replaced Beverly Hills 90210 with one of those goddamned Tony Robbins things."

Walter raised an eyebrow. "Are you a fan, Agent Mulder?"

"Not anymore. It isn't the same without Brenda."

The waitress returned just then. She did a classic double-take. "You two know each other?"

"This is my boss," Mulder said. Her expression told Walter everything he needed to know. He wondered what Mulder had called him this time.

"What can I get for you, Mr. Skinner?"

He looked at Mulder. "What do you recommend?"

Mulder's eyes gleamed as he shot the waitress a look. "Everything they have here is good. Just make sure you ask for the Pepto-Bismol and the stomach pump on the side."

"Keep that up and I'm going to ask you to leave," she said. "I know what kind of tipper you are."

Did Mulder flirt with every able-bodied woman in the Western Hemisphere? The AD cleared his throat as conspicuously as possible. "I'll have a bowl of vanilla ice cream. No topping. And a glass of... iced tea."

Mulder looked amused, but, for once, kept his mouth shut. "Another round of coffee for me. How's the *pumpkin* pie?"

"That'll be a fruit plate, then."

"I'll defer to your wisdom." The waitress gave him a saucy grin and was gone. "You don't know how happy I am that you're here, sir."

"Oh?"

"She gets off in another hour. I think she was planning to hit me up for a ride home."

"Not in your neighborhood?"

"Not in my generation. You say Kennedy to her and she thinks you're talking about that weird chick from MTV."

"You're a fine one to be talking about weird, Mulder."

"I'm always being persecuted," he said. He drank the last of his coffee, grimacing. "I think this qualifies as alchemy."

"Don't even think about it."

"Still, you have to wonder..."

"Mulder."

"It started out as coffee grounds and water," he said, fighting a smile. "How did it wind up as road tar?"

"Christ. I knew it."

"Must have. *You* ordered the iced tea."

Walter looked at him. What was going on here? Mulder didn't appear to be drunk. Or stoned, not that he had ever suspected the agent of rampant drug use. The man was strange enough completely straight. Granted, the two of them weren't always locked in battle, but since when had they shared even an uneasy camaraderie? He found himself giving Mulder's mug a second look. He lifted it and peered inside.

"Agent Mulder, are you sure it started out as coffee and water?"

"The only certainty in life is uncertainty, sir."

He raised a brow. "I can have the health department on this place by dawn."

"Let the obscure be explained by the more obscure, the unknown by the more unknown."

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a Clive Barker fan."

"I wouldn't have pegged you for one, either."

The waitress returned with their snacks. She looked a little disappointed, to Walter's mind, that he hadn't yet left Mulder to her mercies. He could hardly do so now. Mulder was under the influence of something, whether it was a change in the weather, the so-called coffee, or the cheesy honky-tonk music that blared from the restaurant stereo. It would be nothing less than irresponsible to leave the man alone. There was no telling what a man like him could get himself into given the right mood and the wrong woman. It sounded like some kind of pastiche Chandler line, but what the hell. It was late. He was restless. And his iced tea was more ice than tea. He winced a little.

"I see you've uncovered one of the greatest conspiracies in American history."

"That being... what?"

"That Denny's, if it is indeed a family restaurant, is a dysfunctional one."

"I'm going back to my table now." He made as if to rise.

Mulder grabbed his arm. "Hang on a second. Hear me out." He was giving Walter that intense look he had. Something in his eyes made it impossible to look away. Walter sighed inwardly. He really needed some sleep.

"What?"

"Doesn't it puzzle you why a family restaurant would be open twenty-four hours, otherwise? Christmas, Easter, Hanukkah..."

"No good, Mulder. I'm still not sending you on a Denny's hunt."

"The bureau would save a lot of money on meals, sir."

"Especially after you and Scully die of food poisoning."

The conversation continued for better than an hour in this fashion, Mulder stringing together one wild theory after another, over and over, letting Skinner play straight man to his dementia. It was a playful version of the same exchanges they shouted over in Skinner's office, day after day. Walter began to relax, slowly, sucked in by Mulder's baiting, his warmth, his... flirting? He sat up abruptly, alarmed at the idea. Was Mulder flirting? Was Walter *really* alarmed at the idea? Oh, Jesus... He wasn't. Not at all. He felt rather pleased by it, actually. Of course, Mulder flirted with everyone, that much had been clear to him from the beginning. He was a very focused man. And when that focus shifted to a specific person rather than one of his endless quests, he showed no mercy.

"So, why couldn't you sleep?" Mulder asked him.

"Too much on my mind." And now he had one more thing to think about. Bastard.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly." Mulder didn't look too insulted. He decided to let it go at that.

Mulder didn't. "I was sorry to hear about your divorce."

"It was a long time coming."

"Mrs. Skinner said something to that effect."

He frowned. "She talked to you?"

"Yeah. During that whole mess with the... uh..."

"The hooker. You can say it." He sipped his iced tea to give himself something else to look at. Mulder had left his glasses off, and his eyes were becoming magnetic. Walter wondered if it was natural or some kind of special effect. He wondered if there was something to Mulder's ideas about the toxic factor of Denny's beverages. "What did Sharon tell you?"

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "She said you'd become roommates more than spouses. That you felt silence equalled strength. You wouldn't open up to her."

Walter rubbed his forehead. How the hell had they gotten onto this topic, anyway? "Some things, I couldn't talk to her about."

"She was your wife," Mulder said, gently.

"All the more reason not to tell her." He shot Mulder a look as if to add "and I'm not going to tell you, either."

"Fair enough."

Walter smirked. "You aren't going to ask me what it was?"

"Nope. If you can't tell somebody you lived with for seventeen years, you *ain't* tellin' *me.* Believe it or not, sir, I know when I'm beat."

"I had developed an attraction to someone else," he said, before he could stop himself.

He held up a hand. "You don't have to tell me. I'm just the guy with the rancid fruit plate."

He gave Mulder a defiant look. "The someone else was another man."

Mulder's mouth opened, then closed. "Nothing wrong with that."

In for a penny, in for a pound. "The man was a subordinate." His eyes didn't leave Mulder's for a second.

"Let's not get too specific, now," he squeaked. Suddenly the same fruit plate he'd maligned seemed the most important thing in his world.

Walter spooned some ice cream into his mouth. So Mulder hadn't been flirting. This should make for an interesting office dynamic, he thought. Assuming Mulder didn't report him. Assuming the ice cream wasn't laced with strychnine or something equally nasty. How in the name of Christ had they managed to taint the ice cream? He ate some more, half-hoping it would taste better with time, half-hoping it was poisoned. What a repugnant situation. When he managed to look up again, he found Mulder pinning him with another of his looks.

"What?"

He paused. Seemed to be speculating. "What if I told you I'm bisexual, too?"

"What if you did?"

Mulder raked his hands through his hair. "What if I told you your *attraction* was returned?"

Walter sat back in his chair and fixed the agent with his favorite stare. Mulder squirmed. He could almost see the wheels turning. He had never said it was Mulder he was attracted to. He had dozens of agents under his command. What an ego! It irked him that Mulder was right. Excited him that he was interested. Scared the hell out of him, too. If they took this beyond what it was, a late-night conversation over poisoned desserts, they were risking so much. Walter's work situation was always as tenuous as it was steady, and Mulder... he couldn't afford to dig himself a deeper hole. Walter thought hard.

"You want to get out of here?"

*** *** ***

"Nice pad, Walter." Mulder craned his neck to have a good look around without actually snooping. "I never really had a chance to take a look the last time I was here."

"What with one thing and another..." Walter murmured.

"The hour, ratboy, you topless..."

Walter sighed. "Do you want a drink, Mulder?"

"What have you got?"

"Wine, beer, coffee, apple juice, and I think--" he bent to look in the refrigerator. "Uh-huh. Sunny Delight."

"*You* have Sunny Delight? This is a revelation."

"It's not mine."

"I get that all the time. I'll go with the apple juice, I think."

Walter stood. "If you have a story about Sunny Delight, I don't want to hear it."

He smiled. "It's a good one."

"I don't care. If I ask, it's going to be some weird cult that embalms their dead in it, or an exsanguinated corpse that was full of it, or some other sick bullshit that you probably make up as you go along."

"Only outside of work, Walter. My usual sick bullshit is absolutely true."

He handed Mulder his glass. "You want the tour?"

Walter didn't know what to do about the tension that had crept into him on the drive home. Mulder had taken his own car, but he'd felt his presence, all the same. This was out of control, already. He had pushed all impure thoughts of the man out of his head months before, and had never given it another moment until tonight. One look in Mulder's eyes and he was trapped. He had gone from a solitary meal to this, in no time at all. And Mulder was playing Don Juan Triumphant to the hilt. If he had been flirting quietly before, he was shameless now, encouraged presumably by the certainty that Walter would not harm him for it. But it had been a very long time since Walter had been involved with another man. In his heart he knew things could not have changed all that much, but his nervousness stayed with him.

He led Mulder through the kitchen, the two bathrooms, the living room and the study, showed him all the appropriate knick knacks and made all the appropriate comments. It wasn't until they reached the bedroom that Mulder showed any real interest. Walter understood completely. It was strange to be pointing out the view or explaining a painting when they had such a specific purpose in coming to his home.

Mulder peered inside, but did not enter the room. "I don't see any shackles."

"Disappointed, Mulder?"

He smiled, lazily. "I've always gone for silk scarves in situations like that. Less chafing," he said.

"I keep all my b&d stuff under the bed," Walter said, all innocence.

"Your uh... what?"

He crossed the room and knelt by the bed, making a show of poking around underneath. "You know. Ball gags, ball harness, butt plugs... Sharon got all the best stuff in the divorce settlement."

Mulder choked on his apple juice. "I think it's time for our first 'relationship' discussion."

Walter frowned. "No good?"

"No." He gave Walter an uneasy smile. Trying to be diplomatic. "Let me-- uh-- let's see what you have under there." He crouched down on the floor and peered under Walter's bed. "You bastard."

Walter began to laugh. "The look on your face--"

"Cut it out." He couldn't. He just laughed harder. Mulder stretched his arm under the bed and came back with the only thing there: The Gipsy Kings' Greatest Hits on cassette. "You got a thing for 'Volare', Walter?"

"That song will wreck you," he said.

"Depends on your definition of the word."

Mulder was inches away from him. Every sense was completely focused on him. Walter was drowning in him. He leaned closer, and closer still, his eyes never leaving the younger man's. His breathing was shallow. Everything he wanted, everything he was, all of it narrowed down to nothing more complicated than the possession of that mouth.

"Last chance," he said, in a voice he barely recognized.

Mulder cupped his face in both hands and pulled him in, welding his mouth to Walter's with a need nothing in his manner had betrayed. He opened his mouth on a moan and Walter thrust his tongue inside. He buried his hands in Mulder's hair and gave himself up to sensation. Mulder's own hands were hard at work divesting the AD of his clothing, feverishly tearing off one item after another. Walter collapsed on top of him. Both men moaned when their groins met.

Walter rocked his hips slowly, experimentally, his mouth fastened firmly to the agent's throat. The man was emitting the most amazing sounds, somewhere between entreaty and accusation. Walter took his time undressing him, pausing at each new exposure to stroke and to tease. Once Mulder's chest was completely revealed, Walter settled on a new assault. He began at the younger man's neck, kissing his was down to his nipples, lingering there. He bit him gently. Mulder arched beneath him, and he smiled to himself.

"Sensitive?"

"Just a bit," he gasped. Walter tried the other one, and Mulder's hands gripped his head, holding him there. Definitely sensitive. The AD nipped at him, licked the marks, and continued on his path until he reached the waistband of Mulder's slacks. The agent sighed.

"We should really take this to the bed," Walter said. Mulder's eyes opened into slits, his look unfocused. "Come on," Walter urged. "You ever have rug burn on your back?"

Mulder blinked. He stood, slowly. As soon as Walter rose to stand beside him, he wrapped his arms around the AD's neck and kissed him, hard. He ran his hands along Walter's back, scraping his nails along his skin on the downslide. Walter moaned into his mouth, his hands fumbling over Mulder's belt. He slid his tongue around the shell of Mulder's ear at the same moment the agent began to stroke his cock. Walter bucked helplessly into his hands. Mulder laughed softly.

"Sensitive?"

"Bastard." He slipped Mulder's pants off his hips, only to reveal a pair of blue silk boxers with an orange goldfish pattern. He smirked. "I take it you weren't expecting to get lucky tonight."

Mulder sat on the edge of Walter's bed and pulled off his socks. "You're supposed to be too blinded with passion to make fun of my underwear."

"Sorry."

"Did I say anything about those Fruit Of The Looms?" He pointed disdainfully at Walter's pile of discarded clothing.

"You'd prefer I wore a G-string? Or something with sequins, maybe?"

"Hey, if it's good enough for Hoover--" Walter shoved him on his back and settled on top of him. "You're very aggressive, all of a sudden." The agent rocked his hips, his erection colliding with Walter's. The AD kissed him hotly, and they began a gentle rhythm, tongues and hips thrusting in tandem.

"How do you want to do this?" Walter rasped.

Mulder gave him a loopy grin. "Any way you want. I can't argue."

"This is a historic moment."

"Everybody's a comedian."

Walter sat up and reached across to his nightstand. He fumbled around a bit and finally came up with what he was looking for. He squirted some of the lubricant into his hands and warmed it up.

"Is that Astroglide?"

"Yeah. Why?" He parted Mulder's ass cheeks and tested his opening. Mulder was very tight. He stifled a groan.

"I've always thought it sounded like something from Star Trek."

Walter slid a finger inside the younger man. The agent arched his back, moaning softly. Walter was mesmerized by the expression on his face. He added a second finger, sliding them in and out, very slowly. "Must have been an out-take," he murmured.

"Ohh... what?"

"Star Trek," he said. He began stroking Mulder's cock with his free hand. "Kirk and Sulu, maybe."

"Please," the agent moaned.

"What? Kirk and Chekhov?"

"*No.* Oh God..."

Walter took his hand away. He bent over the younger man and took his cock into his mouth. Mulder let out an agonized moan.

"*Don't.* Oh God, I can't, *please...*" Walter released him. He collapsed into the mattress. The AD knelt between Mulder's legs and pulled them over his shoulders.

"Wait," Mulder said.

"What?"

"Maybe we shouldn't."

"*What?*"

"Just kidding."

He gave Mulder an incredulous look. "You're out to drive me crazy any way you can, aren't you?"

Mulder wriggled his hips by way of reply, his ass bumping against Walter's cock. The AD pushed inside him slowly, savoring that first moment, his senses rioting. Sunk all the way inside, it took everything he had not to just thrust mindlessly, heedless of the pleasure of the man before him. And he wanted Mulder's pleasure almost as much as his own.

"Okay?"

"That's... not the word I would have chosen."

Walter grinned and began to move inside his agent, slowly picking up speed until he and Mulder had hit upon a good rhythm. Mulder met him thrust for thrust, moaning almost constantly now, alternately begging and commanding his boss, his hands clutching uselessly at the sheets. Walter began stroking Mulder's cock in time with his thrusts, moving faster now, driven by his pleasure. Mulder bucked against him, again and again, and it felt so good, he was so close... his orgasm struck him by surprise, his hips slamming into Mulder as he let out an ecstatic shout. Mulder came just as Walter's climax was ending, his entire body stiffening. For once in his life, possibly the only time, he didn't make a sound.

*** *** ***

The following morning, Walter was in the act of straightening his tie when Mulder's cell phone rang. He turned just in time to see the agent lurch out of his bed and snatch the phone off his nightstand.

"Mulder." Walter watched him execute a feline stretch. He looked down at his fully clothed body with some regret. "I'm not sure where I am, Scully. The last thing I remember is somebody clubbing me over the head at the corner store. Could be an abandoned mine shaft. Could be the bottom of a well." The agent sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "It's only..." he glanced at the clock. "Okay, it *is* kind of late. I slept in."

Walter handed him a cup of coffee and set about trying not to appear to be eavesdropping.

"I'll pick you up in half an hour." Mulder folded the phone and sipped his coffee. "Scully has a flat," he said.

"You'll never make it in half an hour, Mulder."

"Hah! I'm king of the five-minute primp."

"That would explain some of your hairstyles."

"Jealousy. That's all I get out of you."

Walter leaned against the wall and watched Mulder scramble for his clothing. "It's a scientifically proven fact that men with hair loss problems have higher levels of testosterone." He looked pointedly at Mulder's lavishly covered scalp.

"It's so like you to prey on a man when he's naked and sleepy and pressed for time."

The AD gave him a look. "Are you still okay with this, Mulder?"

He blinked at the shift in topic, but recovered quickly, all things considered. He crossed the room to Walter and kissed him very persuasively. "More than okay. You?"

"Still fairly okay."

"Good. Then help me find my underwear. I really gotta go."

end

 

---

 

From mladner@agt.net Mon Jan 27 12:40:00 1997
CLASSIFICATION: SRH (Mulder/Skinner) NC-17
SUMMARY:Mulder spills his guts to Scully, he and Walter have another odd conversation at the same restaurant, and more cheesy occurrences ensue as the relationship nicely progresses.
Hello. I didn't write this. I'm posting it for my friend, who due to fiscal realities was forced to close his internet account a while back. Death threats should be sent directly to the RCMP. All other comments to him can be mailed to me to be forwarded at mladner@agt.net.
THE STANDARD DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and the characters of Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and Dana Scully are all the property of Fox Television and Ten Thirteen Productions. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made from their use.
WARNINGS AND WHAT-NOT ALL: This story contains some fairly tame scenes of consentual sex between two men. If this sort of thing offends you, you should be hitting that "back" button right about now. This story also contains several usages of naughty words and potentially libelous remarks about Denny's and Billy Ocean. If that offends you, I can't help you out there, either, except to say you need to take a second look at your pantry and your record collection.

---

Denny's Cycle II - I Stop At IHOP
by Ethan Nelson

"Mulder, do you think I'm attractive?"

His head shot up from what he was reading to stare at Scully across her desk. "I, uh... what?"

She smirked at him. "Have you heard *anything* I've said in the last five minutes?"

"Heard but not processed." He stretched in his chair. Looked at the wall clock. By his estimate, he had not looked up from his papers for about three hours. His back protested the cruelty of it all, and Scully, apparently, had taken advantage of his distraction to ask him God alone knew what.

"Let me give you the rundown," she said, crossing to him. "You admitted you have unholy yearnings for farm animals, that you thought that Cindy Crawford movie was fine cinema, and that you like to rub yourself with peanut butter."

"Even without paying attention, I got two out of three right," he grinned. Hah. Let her try and figure it out. She paled a little and stepped back. Mulder rose from his seat and took full advantage of his height, looming over her with a sinister scowl. "And yes," he said, "I do find you attractive. *Very* attractive."

"Mulder," she squeaked, backing away further.

"Scully. Can I have one question?"

"Okay."

"Do you prefer chunky or smooth?"

She emitted a sound that was suspiciously squeal-like and socked him in the gut. He oofed and stepped back. "What's up with you lately?" She asked him.

He raised an eyebrow. "You mean right now, or in general?"

"Henderson was right about you, Mulder. You *are* a pig."

Mulder put a hand over his heart and faked a stagger. "Mortally insulted!"

"Are you going to answer my question?"

He sat on the edge of his desk and regarded her. How much could he tell her? How much could he get away with leaving out? He decided to hedge. "What do you find alarming about my behavior, Scully? Taken in context, that is."

She sighed and sipped her coffee. "It's not alarming. Just... weird. For you. You've been almost... cheerful."

"You think I'm dour, most of the time?"

"Well, I wouldn't describe you as gleeful, that's for sure. I mean, it's none of my business, I know that--"

"You're my best friend, Scully. It's your business."

She shot him a look. "If it really is something to do with farm animals, you can save it, okay?"

"I met someone," he told her. He felt so shy with her suddenly. But this was Scully, for Christ's sake. He had told her things a lot stranger than this and she had barely blinked. Granted, sometimes it seemed she had more empty beer bottles around the apartment than others, but there was no reason to assume that was *his* fault.

"When? Oh my God, Mulder, it isn't that waitress in Ponoka, is it?"

"No! No." He took a breath. "It isn't somebody I *met,* really. Somebody I already knew." Why was he dragging this out?

The spark of challenge was in her eyes. "Agent Desmond, in forensics?"

He frowned. "Who the hell is that?"

"Agent Corman?"

"It's Skinner."

Scully's first laugh erupted from her like a hiccup, helplessly. The laughter that followed was almost hysterical in volume, and she couldn't stop, tears streaming down her face faster than she could wipe them away. In seconds, she was doubled over, howling. Mulder stared at her. Have I ever seen her laugh more than once? Have I ever seen her laugh *once?* He raked his hands through his hair.

"I'm not feeling a lot of support here, Scully."

After a moment she managed to compose herself enough to look at him. "The worst part is I know you aren't kidding." She hugged him. Mulder stiffened, just for a second, before hugging her back, tightly. "It's just like you to do something like this, Mulder," she said into his chest. "You're always trying to sabotage yourself. You might as well have had an affair with the president."

"It doesn't feel like sabotage," he said, quietly.

She craned her neck to look at him. "Well, I can't refute the evidence. You're happy. Probably it only scares me because I've never seen it before."

"Like when Spock was infected by the alien flower pods and fell in love with that chick in the ugly jumpsuit."

"Uh... sure. How is Skinner with this?"

"He's okay. He seemed okay."

She pulled out of his arms. "When did this happen?"

Busted. "The night before you had the flat tire," he said, meekly.

"That was over a week ago!"

"Well..."

"I can't believe you've been hanging on to this for ten days, Mulder."

"You didn't notice until today that anything had changed."

"Yes I did, I just hadn't planned on saying anything. Have you been with Skinner since then?"

"No. I mean, we didn't have any meetings last week, and then you and I went to Madison, and then he had to fly to Boston..."

"Have you talked about this?"

"No."

Scully let out a breath and combed her hair back from her face. "So help me God, Mulder, if he hurts you..."

"That'd be quite an exciting end to your colorful career, Agent Scully." He grabbed her coat. "Don't worry about me. Worry about where I'm taking you for lunch."

"I can't eat any more Grand Slam Breakfasts, Mulder. I have a doctor's note."

*** *** ***

Fox Mulder felt a strange rush of pleasure when he leapt off the diving board and into the bureau swimming pool. No matter how many times he did it, he still felt that same sense of euphoria, that same lack of control that was the only one he enjoyed. His body hit the water and he was submerged, surrounded on all sides by warmth and silence. It was an uncommon enough experience that he tried to milk it for all it was worth.

It wasn't until he had already jumped again that he saw Walter enter the room. Mulder's swan dive segued clumsily into a cannonball and he hit the water with a humiliating splash. It didn't feel all that great. But his thoughts weren't on his skin. It was the AD's skin that had captured his attention. Walter was wearing a swimsuit almost as revealing as Mulder's. That body, that gorgeous, honed, gleaming body, was revealed to him almost in entirety, and was now burned into his brain. Oh, *man.* He was a goner. He kicked his way to the surface and came up coughing.

"Agent Mulder, are you all right?"

Mulder sluiced water from his face so he could properly ogle the man who was bent over the pool. "Yes, sir. I'm fine. You startled me, is all."

Walter extended a hand. "Let me help you out."

"No, that's okay. Thanks, anyway. I think I'll just lap for a while."

He raised a brow. "In the diving pool?"

Son of a bitch. The man was just as heartless on a personal level as he was professionally. He had to know why Mulder was so reluctant to get out of the pool in front of him. His swimsuit didn't afford him much in the way of modesty, and ordinarily he had no problem with that, but at times like these... "No competition for lane space."

"If that last dive was any indication, I'm not surprised people avoid you." He glared at the older man. Walter knelt beside him. "You know, Agent Mulder, you don't have to hide from me. Not that you could, in that thing," he smirked, gesturing at Mulder's Speedo. "I'm just glad Agent Desmond isn't here, or she'd be on you like rednecks at an Elvis sighting."

"Who the hell is Agent Desmond?" He said, for the second time that day.

Walter straightened. Mulder could see from his very stance that the man felt he had finally gotten the last word in one of their encounters, without question. Mulder quickly hauled himself out of the pool and came to stand in front of his boss, a wicked smile on his face. Walter glanced down at the heavy bulge in Mulder's trunks. The agent's smile never faltered.

"*Now* look what you've done," he accused, letting out a disappointed sigh.

"I'd apologize, but..."

"Yes?"

The AD glared at him, frustrated. He licked his lips. "Have dinner with me tonight."

"Dinner?"

"I wouldn't want to make any overtures, operating under... assumptions."

"Very diplomatic of you." He made a show of looking around. "Are there cameras in this joint?"

"No."

"Kiss me."

He looked startled. "What?"

"Go on. If you make me make the first move all the time, I'm going to get a complex."

"Someone could walk in."

"So what? You've got a gun."

"Mulder..."

He moved forward, standing so close now that their bodies rubbed together torturously. Walter's breath was coming out of him in shallow bursts. Mulder wrapped his arms around the AD's waist and pulled their hips into full contact. He barely stifled his moan. "Just a little one. It's been almost two weeks. I was beginning to think you'd decided to spurn me."

Walter laughed. "The way you parade around my office, practically begging me to grab your ass?"

"You surprise me," he said, running angel kisses along Walter's neck. "What would Scully say?"

"Stop it," he said, sounding unconvinced.

Mulder licked his ear. He shuddered. "One kiss. Then you can do whatever you want."

"You always have to give things the most suggestive spin possible, don't you?"

"It makes up for my lackluster love life." He began rocking his hips almost imperceptibly, back and forth, still sucking and licking at Walter's ear. The older man groaned softly. Mulder smiled.

"You'll stop?"

"I'll never ask anything of you again, as long as I live."

"Some promise from someone as reckless as you."

"Kiss me, Walter. Please?"

The AD buried his hands in Mulder's hair and tugged gently, until their mouths were less than an inch apart. Mulder could smell the mingled coffee and muffins on Walter's breath. He could almost taste the man already. But he didn't so much as twitch as he waited. Suddenly Walter descended on him, his tongue thrusting roughly into Mulder's mouth. The agent moaned helplessly, swept away on sensation. He kept his arms locked around Walter's waist, rocking his hips against his lover's a little more openly now, mimicking a more intimate act. He could feel Walter's own hips bucking against him, and all traces of worry left him. It was okay. This was okay. More than okay, actually. Walter pulled back as suddenly as he'd come, and Mulder released him without complaint.

"Where did you want to go for dinner?" Mulder asked.

The AD smirked. "How about our place?"

"Our place?"

"We can't go anywhere popular, and I don't feel like going out of town tonight. And I can't cook. You?"

"Nothing that doesn't say Swanson or Chef Boyardee on the package."

"All right. Our place it is."

"How romantic," Mulder said. "If I *was* involved with the elusive Agent Desmond, she'd dump me for taking her to a Denny's. I probably couldn't even get away with Sizzler."

Walter sighed. "In another time..."

"Another sexual orientation..."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Better you and Denny's than ŒBattlestar Orgasmica' and a bag of Doritos."

"That's probably supposed to be flattering, isn't it?"

"Agent Desmond dumps me again."

*** *** ***

Their Denny's outlet was considerably more crowded that evening than it had been the last time Mulder and Skinner had eaten there, its occupancy bolstered mostly by the hour. No-one paid them particular attention as they entered the restaurant. The place was peopled mainly by businessmen, salesmen, and teenagers who would rather be eating something that might someday kill them than while away an evening at home with the folks.

The pair were seated quickly. Neither of them had spoken on the drive over, and neither spoke now. The hostess placed them in a booth in the center of the restaurant's non-smoking section. Only a narrow strip of acrylic separated them from the squabbling teenaged couple beside them. Mulder examined his menu for as long as he could. It was at times like this that he most cursed his eidetic memory. Not when he would rather forget a scene or a few carelessly spoken words, but when he needed an excuse to piss around, and it was obvious to everyone that no such excuse existed. He knew every item on the menu by rote, every variation, every special. Finally he could stand the silence no longer.

"I told Scully about us," he said, peering at Walter over his menu.

The AD dropped his own menu, looking up sharply. Mulder watched, fascinated, as his lover's mind worked to formulate a response that wouldn't have the younger man out the door in a hot second. It was quite a show. "You trust her?"

"More than anyone."

Walter nodded and reopened his menu. Mulder waited. "Of course," the AD finally said, "You trusted Mr. X, too."

"Yep."

"And Jeremiah Smith."

Mulder met his eyes. He wasn't smiling. "There are people you trust because you have to, and you only trust them so far--"

"You even trusted Krycek for a while, didn't you?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Walter, how can you compare Scully to Krycek?" Mulder raked his hands through his hair. "As I was saying, there are people you have to trust, and then there are people you trust because you can. You feel it. You *know* it."

The AD put his menu down again. "I trust you, Mulder. Not because I have to."

Mulder smiled at him. Nailed him with his eyes and savored the answering spark he received. "Scully isn't much for breathless gossip. If anything, she'd be calling me up in the dead of night to talk about reliable prophylactics."

"Remind me not to answer your phone."

He relaxed, unbent a bit. He hadn't been sure how Walter would react to what he'd done. But above all, Mulder was an intensely paranoid man, a man whose mind worked out every possible outcome of a situation almost before the situation arose. He knew he could have kept this from Scully for a while, but he knew just as well that she would have found him out eventually, probably in the worst possible way, and that she would have shot him somewhere important when it happened.

"I trust you too, Walter." He smirked. "For what it's worth." He gestured at Walter's menu "What do you think?"

"I'm leaning toward the country fried steak."

"It's a little-known fact that Elvis Presley enjoyed something called Fool's Gold Loaf."

"I don't want to hear this, Mulder."

"I think you *need* to. His cook would carve out the middle of a loaf of French bread, and fill it with peanut butter, jelly, and something like a *pound* of bacon." Walter's expression was priceless. The man had done a tour in Vietnam, he'd worked in Violent Crimes for the FBI, and he spent his days looking at crime scene photographs from all manner of heinous shit. None of these things had ever inspired the thoroughly nauseated expression he wore now. He was about to reply when the waitress appeared.

"You boys ready to order?"

"I'll have the Eggs Benedict, with white toast, please."

Walter swallowed. "Caesar salad, thank-you." He glared at Mulder but said nothing, obviously saving his choice remarks for the departure of the waitress. "Do you think I need to lose some weight?"

Mulder frowned, taking a good look at his lover, considering. The man was in impeccable shape. And he was *toned,* something Mulder had never been all that sticky about, but he had found a new appreciation for it now that he was allowed to touch. Just thinking about Walter's nude body was enough to make him squirm these days. It had certainly added a new dimension the the AD's tirades. "Uh..." his voice was barely there. "No. No, you look okay."

"Then why do you put so much effort into destroying my appetite?"

He grinned. "Personal enjoyment."

"I figured as much." He sipped his iced tea. "This is the first time I've had you to myself since..."

"That Fateful Night?"

"Did you honestly think I intended to *spurn* you?"

"It crossed my mind. Right around the time you called me a self-obsessed, egomaniacal goose-chaser."

Walter winced. "One of my finer moments."

"You were upset," Mulder said affably. "Anybody else would have forgotten about it by now."

"There had to be a drawback to this."

"Just the one, hm?"

"I hadn't counted on my jealousy."

That was interesting. "I can be kind of flirtatious," he admitted.

"And you're the same prickly bastard you always were."

Mulder snorted. "Don't tell me you were hoping to tame me."

"The idea hadn't occurred to me." He met the agent's eyes. "Now, however, it has a certain appeal."

"Forget it, Walter. I'm not falling for this twice."

"What?"

"Alzheimer's coming a little early for you? Think back. Your bedroom. Your supposed b&d paraphernalia. 'Volare.'"

"Still a fantastic song."

"Right up there with 'Copa Cabana' and Billy Ocean's entire career."

"There is no poetry in your soul, Mulder."

"Yeah, well, there ain't no taste in yours." He rubbed his neck a little. He would rather have let Walter do it, all things considered. The man had good hands. "What do you want to do, Walter?" He purred it. "You want to tie me up? Spank me with a whiffle racket? Eat papaya from my orifices?"

He raised a brow. "Spank you with a whiffle racket, Mulder?"

"You don't think there are people in the world who dig that?"

"If I've met one, I didn't know about it."

"It's an underground community," he assured the AD. "Some of the nicest people you could ever hope to meet--"

"Stop right there." His voice was harsh.

Mulder frowned. "What's the matter?"

"When you come into my office and tell me about how a number of strange disappearances are actually linked to a warren of cave-dwelling mutant nightcrawlers, I listen, do I not?"

"Uh, yes. You're very accommodating, actually."

"Right. When you take up the better part of my afternoon rambling on endlessly about the demonic possession of common household appliances, I lend you my time."

"I had three witnesses on that one, Walter."

"I don't care if you have photographs of Jesus Christ, Marilyn Monroe, and the Amazing Bat Baby together at a cocktail party, Mulder, I do *not* want to talk about people who like to be spanked with whiffle rackets."

"All you had to do was say so, Walter." Mulder dug into his eggs like a starving man. Mid-chew, he shot his lover a devious look. "Walter?"

"What?"

"You want to hear what they do with the whiffle balls?"

*** *** ***

Mulder was a little anxious about admitting Walter into his apartment. The AD had seen it before, but just about every time he had dropped by, he had had his gun drawn before he even crossed the threshold. This was new terrain for the both of them.

"I think I've got some Hawaiian Punch left over, if you're interested."

"One day you're going to have to abandon your childhood, Mulder."

"I already did. You think my mother is going to let me drink shit like that?"

Walter reclined on Mulder's sofa and gave him a look. "You blame your mother for your poor dietary habits?"

"Absolutely. I eat Lucky Charms because she always stuck us with Weetabix. I drink Hawaiian Punch because the most subversive thing she gave us was Kool Aid."

"And you have approximately--" he looked around-- "Seven empty Doritos bags lying around because she fed you... what? Liver and onions?"

"With brussels sprouts as the major vegetable."

"If I'd known you came from an abusive background, I would have been more careful of you. You really should have said something sooner."

He faked a pout. "I always thought it was implied by my actions."

"Hardly. You carry yourself like a spoiled cretin, most of the time."

"Ah, the faint echo of Agent Desmond."

"The message she leaves on your machine after that whole Sizzler thing."

"That sounds about right." Mulder sat down beside him on the sofa, careful to sit close, but not close enough to touch. "Eventually, you understand, we're going to have to try to get through a conversation without pawing each other. If we want this to work."

"I thought we were doing that now." Mulder said nothing. "Or were you hoping I would paw you?"

"It couldn't hurt..." He rolled his shoulders invitingly. "I know I would really appreciate it."

The AD pushed Mulder forward and began slowly kneading his shoulders. Mulder had been right about his hands. They were gentle, forceful, but never rough. It was the touch of someone who was doing it as much for his own enjoyment as for the recipient's. Mulder leaned into his touch with a sigh. He felt so languid, so... impressionable. Forget about mind control, he thought. Another few minutes of this and he would be telling Walter anything he wanted to know. He would make things up if he had to. Walter looked at his watch. "I can only stay for another five or ten minutes," he said, his hands venturing into Mulder's hair, stroking his scalp.

"Wha... why?"

"National Geographic looked pretty good."

"Oh Christ, Walter, I'll tape it for you if you want. I'll buy you a subscription."

His hands slid down Mulder's spine to commence a heartless manipulation of his lower back. He groaned helplessly. "I'm getting the impression that this is enjoyable to you," Walter said.

"Take my shirt off," Mulder said.

"You want it off, you take it off. I'm only one man."

"Don't sell yourself short, Walter," he murmured, his hands going to work on the buttons of his shirt. "Those are not the hands of the same man who's always waving his finger in my face and shouting obscenities at me."

"They certainly are," he said. He took advantage of a downward sweep to tug Mulder's shirt from his shoulders. "That's why you like me so much."

"Get over yourself. I'm just using you for-- ooh, God..." Walter had positioned him in such a way as to give himself free access to his back, and was now running kisses across it. Nipping some spots, licking others, he left Mulder's skin awash in sensation. They had all night. They had all weekend, if he played it right. And innumerable weekends thereafter. Still...

"I want to do everything, right now," Mulder said. "Do you feel that?" Walter's hands abandoned his back and slid around him to stroke his erection through his slacks. His hips came up off the sofa to meet them, and he was quiet at last, unable to say a thing. The AD manoevered himself now so that he sat behind Mulder, his own hips brought flush with Mulder's ass. Every push forward brought the agent into exquisite contact with his lover's hands; every pull back was rewarded with a moan or a sigh when his ass connected with Walter's groin.

"I feel it," Walter said, finally. "If I didn't think I'd die trying..."

Mulder didn't waste his breath encouraging his lover to remove his pants for him. He fumbled with his belt, unwilling to relinquish Walter's touch even for a second. He resented the necessity to concentrate on anything else. But things could progress no further unless he did so. He pulled away and stood, shakily, stepping out of his slacks. Walter remained where he was, watching Mulder with smoldering eyes.

"If you think I'm going to undress you after everything you just put me through, think again." The AD stood and crossed the room to him, still silent. "Are you having a stroke?"

"I've noticed," Walter said, beginning to strip, "that the only time you ever shut up is--"

"When I'm caught up in the throes of my primal passion?"

He blinked. "Until just now, I thought that shelf of Harlequin romances I saw in your office must belong to Scully."

Mulder smirked. "Maybe you'd like to explain how you recognized them on sight." He dipped his head, running wet kisses along Walter's chest, working on his slacks as he did so. "What do you call it, Walter?"

"What do I call what?"

Mulder looked up. Walter's head had fallen back. His eyes were closed. "Given your extensive bodice-ripping background, " he murmured, slipping a hand inside Walter's briefs, "you probably know any number of terms for it. I've always thought 'pulsating manhood' was the best."

His eyes snapped open. "And you think *I* have no taste."

The agent sank to his knees, taking Walter's briefs along with him. "*Blue* Fruit O' The Looms tonight. What a rebel."

He sighed. "What's more important to you, Mulder? My underwear or my body?"

"You say that like it's a toss-up." He shoved the offending briefs under his sofa. "Why not just ask me if I'd rather go to bed with you or be burned at the stake?" He stroked Walter's thighs, let his hands slide around back to cup his ass.

"I know what you're planning. I wouldn't, if I were you."

"The hell you wouldn't. You're the one with the faulty memory."

"I don't think I can last..."

Mulder took the head of his cock into his mouth, just intending to tease him a little. As soon as Mulder's lips closed around him, Walter surged forward heavily, helplessly, moaning incoherently. Mulder gagged and tried to withdraw, but Walter was having none of it. His next thrust was more shallow, but no less forceful. His hands were clenched painfully in Mulder's hair. The agent tried to relax his throat and sucked experimentally. He was rewarded with an ecstatic moan and something rather less than a death grip on his head.

"Mulder..." The younger man worked his mouth as best he could, bringing teeth and tongue and hands into play in equal measure. Walter's thighs were trembling. he had been right. He wouldn't last long. Mulder stroked his ass, considering, and finally pulled away.

"What the hell did you stop for?"

"I can't stop thinking about that whiffle racket."

"How many times can you lose Agent Desmond in one night?"

"She's so fickle. Come on," he said, getting to his feet. "You still haven't seen *my* b&d paraphernalia."

"I'm actually willing to believe that you have some."

He shot Walter a look. "If anything, I'm more b than d." He led Walter to the bedroom and switched on a light. "Welcome to the Tunnel of Looove."

The AD looked almost insultingly surprised. "This isn't as horrifying as I imagined it."

"Have you been fantasizing about my boudoir, Walter?"

"It had more lava lamps in my imagination." He pulled Mulder back into his arms, kissing him hotly. Mulder explored him with his tongue, sliding one hand between their bodies to stroke Walter's cock.

"I want to get inside you," he said. "So far I forget my own name."

"As often as you sustain head injuries, odds are you would have forgotten it at some point, anyway."

"This is way more fun than a fractured skull."

"Right. And you'd rather be with me than be burned at the stake. Are you making the same connections I am?"

"You're avoiding the issue."

"Which is..?"

"I'm just curious..." he walked Walter backward, toward the bed. "Do you prefer to be topped, or to be the top?"

"I don't have a clear preference."

"Are you saying you'll take it any way you can get it?"

Walter fell back onto the bed, taking Mulder with him. "I'm *saying* that what I want is entirely dependent on my mood at any given time."

Mulder found his tube of Astroglide and squeezed some into his hands. With tremendous care he began to prepare Walter, stretching him gently, doing everything he could think of to ensure the man would soon have nothing more cutting to say than "takes one to know one." He rolled Walter onto his stomach and slid a pillow under his hips. Slowly, so slowly, he thrust his cock inside Walter's welcoming body.

"Not me," he gasped, gripping his lover's hips. "I'll take it any way I can get it."

*** *** ***

He woke the next morning to the unusual but pleasant sensation of Walter wrapped around him. Their legs were entangled, one big arm thrown carelessly across Mulder's stomach, the AD's head resting on his chest. Mulder smiled contentedly. He had never been much for overnighters, but this was okay. Walter didn't yammer on endlessly after sex like some people did. He just passed out, as if that said it all, giving Mulder permission to do the same.

In a lifetime of possibilities, he would never have imagined that he and his boss might have much in common. Without the evidence before him, he might not believe it now. But there it was. Walter was the only person he knew apart from Scully who took him in stride and refused to back down. The idea that he might possibly have something lasting in Walter both frightened and excited him. A friend. A lover. A companion.

Walter stirred, his hand squeezing Mulder's side. "Hm... strange apartment, strange bed, strange man..."

"There's nothing wrong with my apartment."

He gave Mulder a sleepy smile. "I shouldn't let you see me like this."

"I told you before that you don't need to lose weight."

"I'm... languid. I can't properly intimidate you."

"Man, if I had a nickel for every time *I* said that..."

He fumbled for his glasses and slipped them on. "I thought we'd established that you didn't want to be tamed."

"I don't. I can't say I haven't tried it, but..."

"But..."

"I don't see why it has to come down to controller and controlled. I don't want to be mastered, and I don't want to master anyone. I kind of like lover and loved."

"Doer and done to."

"There you go again with the Clive Barker references." He sat up and stretched extravagantly. "I didn't see any of his stuff on your shelves."

"You snooped in my library?"

"You're the one who can sleep through the night, not me."

He frowned. "You slept last night. Didn't you?"

"Yeah. Must have been the novelty."

Walter slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom. "Do you have plans for today?"

"You, me, a bathtub full of tapioca pudding..." He collapsed on the bed, smiling to himself and just generally pleased with life. "Hey, Walter?"

"What?"

"I know you didn't do it for me, but I want to thank you for taking such good care of yourself."

The AD poked his head out the door. "How do *you* know I don't do it for you?"

A grin built slowly on his face. "I don't, actually."

"I'm about to start a shower, Agent Mulder, and you have a duty as a patriotic American to conserve water any way you can."

"I'll say this for you, Walter: as pick-up lines go, you don't fall back on the old standbys."

end

 

---

 

From mladner@agt.net Mon Jan 27 12:40:00 1997
CLASSIFICATION: SRH (Mulder/Skinner) NC-17 SUMMARY: Mulder is injured on a case, which complicates his love life more than he ever would have imagined when he didn't have one, and Skinner, as a consequence, gets a chance to lose the rest of his hair. Denny's Family Restaurants get an image makeover.
Hello. I didn't write this. I'm posting it for my friend, who due to fiscal realities was forced to close his internet account a while back. Death threats should be sent directly to the RCMP. All other comments to him can be mailed to me to be forwarded at mladner@agt.net.
THE STANDARD DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and the characters of Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and Dana Scully are all the property of Fox Television and Ten Thirteen Productions. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made from their use.
WARNINGS AND WHAT-NOT ALL: This story contains some fairly tame scenes of consentual sex between two men. If this sort of thing offends you, you should be hitting that "back" button right about now. This story also contains several usages of naughty words and potentially libelous remarks about Denny's and Wayne Newton. If that offends you, I can't help you out there, either, except to say "What the heck did you read the other two for, then?"
AUTHOR'S NOTE (and it won't hurt my feelings if you don't read it): This is the last part of the Denny's Cycle, all of which were written in a bit over two weeks. Exploded out of me, you might say. If your next remark was "Yep, and it shows in the prose! What a turkey!" I don't want to know about it. I want to thank everybody who wrote to me to tell me how great I am and how much they liked the stories. It really bolstered my confidence and was certainly more appreciated than the sorts of things people say to me in my daily life. Cue Movie Trailer Guy Voice: "The Denny's Cycle is over. The story... is just beginning. Coming soon: It's Not Unusual I: The Baffling Donuts Of Death."

---

Denny's Cycle III - Because Inquiring Minds Want To Know
by Ethan Nelson

Walter Skinner sat forward in his chair and stretched, wearily. It had been a long day, so far, which showed no signs of ending or otherwise easing up on him in any way. He wasn't displeased, exactly, but he was definitely not the epitome of good cheer. The chair in which he sat was not strictly *his,* first of all. Something terrible had happened to *his* chair overnight, the result of some altercation on the part of the cleaning staff which no-one was willing to reveal to him no matter who was the victim of his glare. He would have to wait for a replacement, he learned, and until then he had a loaner from the clerical staff. It was hard, and low, and it had no arm rests. He knew he was being petty. If the worst thing that could befall him was the arrival of a lackluster chair, he was doing very well indeed.

But that had happened before his temp had made a pass at him. He had been innocently looking over some budget projections for the VCU when she had entered his office and shut the door with a portentous thud. He had had time to do no more than give her an inquiring look when she had crossed the room to him and dropped herself into his lap. Too startled to do much more than open his mouth, he did only that. She apparently took it as a signal, and fastened her mouth to his as if she meant to extract his fillings. He had detached her from himself with a wet smack. And he'd had to *propel* her, for the love of Christ.

This alone was not enough to turn his day into a fiasco, of course. That had been achieved with the help of any number of incidents. Agent Pendrell was rumored to be suffering from the clap, and Skinner had already heard seven names as the possible culprit. Nobody mentioned Scully, to his relief. He could only imagine trying to explain that to Mulder. That was another thing. Mulder. Walter spent more time with neighborhood cats than he spent with that man, taking endless late-night walks to combat this restlessness that had settled into him since he and the agent had become involved. If forced at gunpoint to tell someone where Mulder was, the best he could do right at that moment was to say he figured the man was somewhere in the United States. And that was a guess. Mulder had taken Scully to Louisiana four days before to investigate a number of strange deaths among the Cajun community. Walter had not heard from him since. God alone knew where they had gotten off to. Only TWA even knew if they had actually gone to Louisiana. Give a man like Mulder a credit card and a week away from the office and there was no telling what might happen.

So he stood, finally, not content to stretch only his back. He reached up high, heard something crack and didn't want to know what it was. He let out a soft sigh. What with his smoking friend, the bad chicken in the cafeteria, being trapped on the elevator for half an hour with an escaped mental patient who had apparently eaten garlic for breakfast, exploding pens, paper cuts, misdirected phone calls from religious canvassers... there wasn't a hell of a lot else that could happen to him now. And not much that might surprise him if it did. He thought for a moment. He could be downsized. The J. Edgar Hoover building could collapse into an undetected sinkhole beneath the foundation. Bill Gates could buy the government. Hm... at least then they might finally get some new computer equipment in the offices... He smiled faintly. Since he and Mulder had taken this new step in their "acquaintance," he had been with him on a social basis only twice. Even so, Walter was starting to think like him. The next thing he knew he'd be imagining Michael Jackson running for president. He was just working out the visuals on that one when his door swung open again.

"Forgive the intrusion, sir, but Kim wasn't at her desk."

Walter turned around in time to watch Scully and Mulder shamble into his office. Both agents' clothing was liberally coated in grime, blood, and something... else. Both looked completely exhausted. The only thing that distinguished them was that Scully had a cast on her arm. Mulder's was on his leg. Walter felt as though he had been plunged into some kind of surreal universe. He stood there, staring at them both, and they carried themselves for all the world as if they frequently came to him in this state. As if it was second nature to them. Scully was completely composed, as usual. Mulder was unusually quiet.

Walter decided to play along. It might, after all, be nothing more than a hideous hallucination. "Would you mind very much telling me where the hell you two have been all week?"

"Sir, we were in Louisiana. New Orleans."

"The Big Easy," Mulder added.

"Doing what? Celebrating Mardi Gras?"

"Mulder discovered a link between the disappearances. Following a lead led us into the bayou after a man called Carl Delacroix, who had been conducting experiments on the victims under the guise of gris gris."

"The man makes a hell of a gumbo, sir." The words came out of him in the same unearthly rasp as his last. Up til now Walter had attributed it to a bit of a cold, but it didn't sound quite right.

"What's wrong with your voice, Agent Mulder?"

He jabbed Scully with an elbow. "It's residual damage to his larynx, sir. When Mulder was discovered attempting to free one of Delacroix's captives, Mister Delacroix tried to strangle him."

"Of course he did." He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Where were you during this little drama, Agent Scully?"

"Stealing a boat, sir."

"Naturally." He could have guessed that one himself, given time. Tell me, is the elusive Mister Delacroix also responsible for your broken leg, Mulder?"

"That was more of a joint effort, sir."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"Can I get something to drink first, sir?"

"I'll find you something, Mulder," Scully said, getting to her feet. "Diet Coke?"

"Thanks."

"Not so fast, Agent Scully." She froze, halfway to the door. "I know where the vending machines are. You have five minutes, no more, no less." Herback was to him, but he could see Mulder's face clearly. He had some idea of the look she had given her partner.

"How have you been?" Mulder's baiting expression was gone.

He glared at his lover. "Kim is out with stomach flu."

"Didn't you get a temp?"

"I certainly did. Everything was going splendidly until she slipped me the tongue at eleven o'clock this morning."

"Raw animal magnetism," Mulder rasped. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Well, that excuses it. I don't know what I was thinking, asking her to leave."

"You're just selfish, is all."

He raised a brow. "Are you suggesting I dole out my affections to everyone who asks?"

"*Everyone?* What kind of figure am I looking at, here?"

"You wouldn't share me," he said, confidently.

"Well, I wouldn't have agreed before, but if we're talking about a lot of people--"

"Mulder."

"Seriously. I mean, if I'm going to be seeing things like lovestruck necrotizing fasciitis patients on the national telethons whose dying wish is one night with my one and only..."

"*Mulder.*"

"Come on. Wouldn't you like to know you spread a little happiness in the world?"

Walter crossed the room to him and tipped his head back. Two sets of bruises marked his neck, culminating in one large, angry patch over his throat. He frowned, briefly, then gave his lover a nasty smile. "Strangled, hey?"

"Yep."

"Are you running around on me?"

Mulder snorted. "Go ahead, Walter. Flay me with my unsavory past. Use things I told you in confidence against me. Kick me when I'm down." He gave the AD a considering look. "Are you trying to get in touch with your feminine side?"

"Keep it up, Mulder. I may succeed where Delacroix failed."

The agent grinned at him, then leaned back in his chair with an agonized groan. "Man, I'm flogged," he said.

He looked it. Walter scowled. "Whose blood is that?"

Mulder looked down. "Delacroix's, mostly. I think."

"Not yours?"

"No, no, that's the blood on my *leg.*"

"I thought your leg was only broken."

"*Only* broken, hey?" He pulled back what was left of his slacks to reveal a huge white bandage on his thigh. "I think the idea is, if they can't kill me, they can at least make sure I never walk again."

"Mulder..."

"Can't go chasing off into the forest in a wheelchair, can I?"

"I don't know," Walter said, absently. "The motorized ones have those big tires."

"You sure aren't going to be my sympathetic ear, are you?"

"What the hell were you thinking?" He almost shouted it. "You dump Scully to go on getaway vehicle detail while you tackle some dismembering psychopath by yourself! What did you have with you, Mulder? Your fucking flashlight?"

"It's a Mag Lite, sir. They're made with titanium."

"This isn't Batman, Mulder! You don't have any armor, and these people can't be cured or killed by the end of the issue! We don't send you out in pairs so you can make sure to spread the carnage out over the largest possible area! Jesus Christ! Did you think about it at all? Did you know there wasn't a second man in the bayou waiting for Scully? Did you know there wasn't someone else waiting for you?"

"You haven't even read my report yet. How do you know I didn't follow bureau procedure to the letter?"

"Sell that bridge to somebody else, Mulder. I've bought enough of your bullshit to last me a lifetime."

"I'm all right, Walter. That's what you want to know, isn't it?"

Walter turned his back to the agent, crossed to his window to look outside. *Washington has the highest murder rate in the country,* he thought. *It isn't good enough for this man that he could killed at home easily enough. He has to try to get himself killed as violently as possible, by someone who can make sure the body is never found. At this rate, that person may be me.* He sighed. "I didn't know where you were."

"Neither did I, for a while," he smirked. "I can take care of myself."

"I know that." He rubbed his neck, roughly. He was feeling the beginnings of what he knew would become a colossal headache. "If I hadn't already had the most horrendous day I've seen in years--"

"I'd be dead already."

"So perceptive."

"You ever done it with a guy in a cast?"

Walter spun around, a suitable retort at the ready, at the exact moment Scully returned with Mulder's drink. "Diet Coke," she said.

"Thank-you, Scully. You're a good woman."

He shot Walter a look, what he was beginning to see as a Mulder Look, flirtatious, mocking, challenging.

"If that's settled," Walter said, "Let's hear your report."

*** *** ***

Every time he visited Mulder's apartment, he was struck again by how perfect it was for the man. Aging, ill-lit, and smelling faintly of mildew and not-quite-Pine-Sol, it was exactly the kind of building in which one might conduct shady dealings. And clandestine meetings. The kind in which octogenarians froze to death by accident and alcoholics fell asleep with cigarettes in their mouths, causing tragic gas explosions. The only place that might be more suited to Mulder's basic propensity for perversity would be a trailer park.

He rapped lightly on Mulder's door, a courtesy, really. He would hear it if he was awake. If he was not, Walter didn't want to rouse him. He felt an unreasoning pity for Mulder just then, and anyway, experience had shown him the agent had a less than effervescent demeanor when awakened against his will. He gave Mulder enough time to hobble to the door. This did not occur. Finally, he dug out his lock picks and got to work. This he had done before, albeit under slightly different circumstances.

He found Mulder laying on his side, stretched into what had to be an uncomfortable position, his gun trained on Walter's head as soon as he entered the room. He relaxed immediately. "Thank Christ," he said. "I've seen Girl Scouts who could take me in this condition."

Walter picked up the prescription bottle that sat on the coffee table. "Scully set you up with the good stuff, eh?"

"Any opportunity to make a fool of me."

"I doubt it. You do a fine job of that yourself."

"Did you mug any bag ladies on your way in, Walter?"

"Slim pickings tonight." He took the gun from Mulder. "You should have said something when I knocked."

"What if you'd really been a dismembering psychopath?" He winced, trying to pull himself into a sitting position. "Jesus Christ. You'd think I broke my damn back."

Walter lifted him by the shoulders, as gently as he could. "It wouldn't kill you to accept some help now and again," he said. He sat down next to the agent, and let his head fall back against the wall.

"*Oh, just let yourself in. I'm weak and helpless.*"

"And it hasn't improved your attitude." He tugged off his glasses and began the arduous process of working away his headache. He rarely did this in front of witnesses. People who saw him roughly massaging around his eye sockets quietly avoided him for weeks afterward.

"Coffee," said Mulder.

"What?"

"For headaches. I know it sounds wrong, but it works. Coffee, chocolate..."

"Tylenol..."

"Sex..." He smiled invitingly.

Walter swallowed. "Are you still trying to foist me upon some unsuspecting leper, or are you just feeling masochistic?"

Mulder heaved a gusty sigh. "You know," he said, "You never give much thought to the importance of having two healthy legs until you're in a homosexual relationship with a man whose very smile could inspire you to the slaughter of innocents."

The AD raised a brow. "As your grandpappy used to say?"

"No, with him it was always Jesus this and Jesus that. He was pretty big on the New Testament."

"Who isn't?" Mulder shifted slightly and cupped Walter's head in his hands. "What are you doing?"

"Phrenology," he said with a grin. "You still have some unresolved mother issues--" Walter tried to pull back. "Hold still. Come on, I was only kidding." He placed his hands so the heels were at Walter's temples and the thumbs rested along his forehead. Gently, he stroked his thumbs back and forth, with just the right amount of force. It felt good, but not in the way he'd expected. There was nothing sexual in Mulder's touch, nothing leading. This was meant to be more therapeutic than flirtatious. He worked his way down to Walter's cheekbones and worked the area purposefully, an expression of deep intent transforming his features.

"Anything to cop a feel, eh, Mulder?"

His hands stopped. "When was the last time somebody made your *head* the focus of a good feel?"

"With the possible exception of my grandmother--"

"Don't go there, Walter. *Please.*" He released the AD slowly. "Better?"

"Yes. Thank-you." He kissed his lover softly. "It's only right that you should be responsible for banishing my headaches, since you're the one who creates them, most of the time."

"Do I blame you for authorizing the trip that sent me into the loving arms of Carl Delacroix?"

"You hadn't actually said so, no."

"All right."

He paused. "I thought you'd be at my place."

"You have the better tv," he conceded. "But I would have missed the ambiance." He squirmed around painfully til he was sprawled along the entire length of the sofa, his abused leg hanging off the side, his head resting against Walter's thigh. "I know you like playing free and easy with the lock picks, Walter, but your building has slightly better security than mine."

"You want a key?"

He smirked. "I'd prefer to break in, actually. Lends the affair a little intrigue."

"Christ knows it's deadly dull as it is."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"Always the soul of discretion." Mulder's eyes were closed, his smile almost beatific. Apparently he was content for the moment simply to be still, and quiet, and to refrain from harassing Walter about the latest hell-fiend he'd heard about or the significance of bananas in some movie he'd seen. It was disconcerting, actually. *Must be the painkillers.*

"Walter?"

"What?"

"Have you given any more thought to that cast thing?"

He blinked. "That's what you were thinking about just now?"

"Sure. Why? What were *you* thinking about?"

"How odd it was that you were quiet. Now I'm sorry it crossed my mind."

"How complicated can it be?"

"I'd prefer not to discuss it."

"The only way I can think of, I might cave in your skull in an unguarded moment."

"What did I just say?"

The agent sighed. "Why don't we talk about dinner, then?"

"We'll order in."

"That's no good."

"Why not?"

"*Because,* if you coddle me today, you have to coddle me every day until the cast comes off."

"Right. How many times have you broken that leg, Mulder?"

"This is the third."

"Yet you managed to survive both breaks previous to this without any help." He got up. Paced. Mulder was a devious man, and his head had been far too close to Walter's unfortunately susceptible flesh. And he was fine, great, within inches of escape, when he made the mistake of turning around.

Mulder lay where he'd fallen, his head propped up by a hand now, a lazy, taunting smile on his face. Even with the cast and the bandage on his leg, he resembled nothing so much as a pin-up boy for the local fireman's calendar. His biceps bulged just so, his hips had just the right twist to them, and his eyes... Mulder's eyes, always potent, were saying things their master would never say. But then, he didn't have to.

"You're a miserable bastard, Mulder." The agent swung his legs over the side of the sofa. "Forget it," Walter said. "We're staying here."

"Come on. I'm stir crazy already." He grabbed his crutches and got to his feet in a movement that should have been more graceful than it was. "Are you coming?"

"No."

"That's going to make driving a bitch. I'm kind of woozy."

"Then walk."

Mulder struggled into his jacket, staggering a bit. "I think walking is out, too." He headed for the door anyway. "God damn it," Walter muttered, and followed.

*** *** ***

"As long as we're looking for added excitement in this relationship, why don't we start thinking about a decent restaurant?"

"The cuisine starting to get to you, Walter?"

"A man of my advancing years has to start thinking about his heart," he said with grave dignity.

"One foot in the grave," Mulder said.

"Right."

"What are you, forty-five?"

"Forty-seven."

"Hm. I can see why you want to live your life to the fullest. While you still can, so to speak."

"Mock me if you have to. I would just rather not make a habit of eating things that leave a pool of congealing fat on the plate."

"So try one of the Heart Smart entrees."

He snorted. "A place like this has no business calling anything an entree. Any more than it has offering a house wine."

"You're a food snob."

"No I'm not. I'm a sensible man who feels that if I have to look certain death in the face, it should be something I couldn't have avoided. Cancer. Murder."

"Wayne Newton, live in concert."

"Just eat your..." he glanced at Mulder's plate. "... whatever the hell that is, and be quiet." He poked at his salad. "I might like to have a decent meal again at some point."

"You could do that. I hardly ever see you outside of work."

"That is exactly my point. This place is a blight on an evening with you."

"It's not that bad."

"It sure as hell isn't good. Look at this." He raised his fork, displaying a small, potentially lethal object that had been found among the lettuce leaves. "What *is* this?"

Mulder squinted at it. "I... don't know."

"Yeah, well, I'd bet the cook knows what it is. And I'd bet what he tells you it is is not what you thought it was."

The agent leaned back in his seat. "What we need," he said, "is a Mulder/Skinner dictionary."

"What?"

"What you're saying is that Denny's Family Restaurants are, collectively, a festering cesspool from which no good will ever come."

"Right."

"Right. But what you *mean* is that since we never see each other and we have to skulk around like rats when we *do,* the least the fates can do is provide you with a good steak and some glazed carrots."

"And those round potatoes," he murmured.

"Yeah, I like those, too." He looked thoughtful. "Washington is a big city. We shouldn't have to skip town to find a place that isn't being watched."

"What? No sentimentality?"

He smirked. "They never close," he said, ominously. "We can always come back."

"Thank-you. That thought should make my remaining days on earth all the sweeter."

"You have to work on your cynicism, Walter."

"That's a pot/kettle situation if I've ever seen one."

"I'll be right back." He stood shakily and lurched toward the bathrooms, looking for all the world like his broken leg had something to do with his ongoing battle with alcoholism.

Walter eyed the agent's plate. He had some fries left. Only a few of them were noticeably discolored. He stole one and bit into it cautiously, certain he would encounter a fingernail or an eyeball or some toxic waste. He didn't feel faint. His vision wasn't blurred. He could still feel his feet. Gradually the AD began to consider the possibility that he was more biased against Denny's than was absolutely warranted. Not that he would ever approach a meal there without *some* trepidation, but it needn't be a night in Auschwitz unless he made it so with a foolhardy menu selection.

By the time nothing was left of Mulder's fries but the green ones and the ketchup-soaked ones, Walter had begun to wonder where his lover had gotten to. There was an emergency exit near the washrooms, for example. The kitchen was close by, as well. Maybe he had taken Walter's suggestion that they question the cook about the contents of the AD's salad to heart and infiltrated the place. Under any other circumstances he would wait for Mulder to return. But the man was not exactly agile at the moment. He might have slipped on some soap and fallen face down in a urinal.Walter rose and headed for the men's room, his stride purposeful. Theplace was deserted.

"Mulder?"

"I can't believe it took you this long to come and check on me. What if I'd collapsed?" The widest stall door swung open and he poked his head out. "Come here and have a look at this."

"I don't think so."

"Come on." He grabbed Walter's arm and pulled. "What do you think?"

Mulder stood in the handicapped-access stall, which was easily at least three times the size of the others. Equipped with long bars positioned for the use of every possible needy person, it was immediately apparent why the stall had captured Mulder's attention.

"You are a sick, sick man, Mulder." The agent reached behind Walter and pulled the door closed, locking it.

"Absolutely not."

"It's perfect. You know it is."

"What do you want to do for the next six weeks, Mulder? Screw me in every handicapped bathroom in the greater DC area?"

The agent flattened himself against the wall and pulled Walter in. Against everything he was, against inhibition, against *reason,* Walter let him. Let him pull his hips flush with Mulder's, let him suck his earlobe so persuasively... oh *Christ* this is twisted. Mulder had Walter's pants open and his hands inside, stroking his cock expertly, all traces of "wooziness" gone.

"What's the strangest place you ever did it, Walter?"

He thought, as best he could, under the circumstances. "It was the first time I ever had sex with a man," he said, his hands roaming Mulder's chest. He brought his lips close enough that he could feel the heat of the agent's own, but he didn't finish the kiss. "I was still a field agent, then. My partner and I were taken captive and locked in a box car headed for Toronto." He did kiss Mulder then, a long, wet, sensual kiss, sucking the agent's tongue and plundering his mouth with his own. Mulder moaned. "We should trade places. I don't want to strain your leg."

"The hell with my leg." Walter's pants fell to his knees, and Mulder kneaded his ass.

"What about you?" the AD said, sliding down to kneel before him.

"What?"

Walter tugged at the waistband of Mulder's boxers. The agent sighed happily at the feel of the silk sliding down his body. "Your strangest sexual encounter."

"When I was still a profiler, I met this woman, she was-- ohhh, God..." he moaned. Walter sucked and the agent's cock slid deeper into his mouth. Mulder began to thrust back and forth, his eyes tightly shut, head thrown back. Walter fondled his balls before pulling away.

"You want me to stop?"

"No... please..."

"Don't beg. It's demeaning. Just keep talking. *Quietly.*"

"They didn't show us this one in Debate Club."

"I was president of mine."

"I believe you."

He hovered over Mulder's cock. "You were a profiler, she was..."

"Psychic. Not one of those two-bit palm readers, either. She could read thoughts, from five hundred miles-- Christ! Oh..."

Walter raked his teeth alone Mulder's length, nipping gently at the head. "Keep talking."

He took a breath. "Away. Five hundred... miles... Walter..."

"Mulder..."

"Give me a break! Oh..."

"Your choice, Mulder."

"She knew what I liked," he gasped. "I never had... to tell her. She knew just how to do it... too... God..." Walter released him again. "I was talking."

"I know. But I didn't ask you who the strangest person was."

"That's lucky. I'd probably have picked you."

"Watch it."

"Don't stop. I'll talk." The AD sucked at Mulder's head, mercilessly. "Oh... it was at a psychic... fair... in the Village... *Walter...*"

"Go on."

"Shit... she had a long... table... for her exhibition... the tablecloth was long enough to touch... the floor..."

Walter let him go again and stood. "You had sex under a table in the middle of a psychic fair?"

His eyes were glassy. "Yeah."

Walter smirked. "Why didn't you just say so?" He kissed Mulder hotly. "What are we going to do if an honest-to-God handicapped man comes in?"

"If you stop now, I'm going to kill myself."

"I may not have a choice. I don't wander around the city with tubes of lubricant on my person."

Mulder grinned. "I guess that makes *me* the strangest person *you've* ever had sex with." He fumbled around inside his jacket until he found it.

"You planned this, didn't you?"

"Fantasized, hoped, but never planned. Here." He handed the tube to Walter.

"You wouldn't rather..."

"I don't know if I could. Don't you want to?"

"Oh, I want to."

Mulder gripped the access bar and parted his legs. Walter squeezed some lubricant into his hands and slid two fingers into Mulder's ass. The agent pushed against his hand, moaning.

"Shh..." he began thrusting his fingers in and out, slowly, savoring every twitch, every shiver. His own erection was becoming painful, but he only noticed it in an oblique way. Fox Mulder in a flush of passion was quite something to behold.

"*Walter...* I'm not *begging,* exactly..."

Walter settled himself behind his lover and began what had to be the most agonizing, maddening, intensely pleasurable penetration of his life. He knew that as far as the fundamentals went, this was not different from either of their previous encounters. Yet whether it was the location, the position, or the anticipation, this was not the same at all.

He quickly built up a rhythm his balls slapping lightly against Mulder's, his hand stroking Mulder's cock in time with his thrusts. The agent let out a throaty cry when Walter bit his neck, but they were beyond caring if anyone heard them. All there was was sensation, and a certain sense of desperation. Mulder's bracing arm was trembling, almost but not quite overtaxed.

"Faster," he urged.

"I'm no psychic."

Walter was fucking him mindlessly now, caught up in the feel of Mulder's back, and his ass, in his cries and his muscles tightening around the AD's cock as he came hard, nearly heaving himself backward to intensify their contact. Mulder threw his head back.

"Jesus Christ!" He staggered badly, and Walter slipped out of him, shooting along the wall and Mulder's torso.

"What the hell was that about?" he panted.

Mulder yanked his pants up and careened out of the stall, gun drawn. "God damn it!"

Walter arranged himself and stepped out of the stall. "What's going on?"

"I saw somebody. When I fell back. Looking down over the top of the stall."

The AD felt himself whiten. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing he could think of to say had more than one syllable or a Prime Time application.

Mulder raked through his hair. "I haven't told you the good part yet."

"What?"

"I'm not sure, I wasn't paying attention..." he gave Walter a sickly smile.

"What?"

"I think he had a camera."

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