From: KassXF Date: 2 May 1999 21:20:08 GMT Subject: ....Beggars Would Ride, M/Sk, 1/1 R Standard Disclaimer Category: M/Sk Rating: R ....Beggars Would Ride by KassXF@aol.com Three weeks. Three weeks since Walter Skinner had taken a step off the edge of the cliff, like the Fool of the Tarot. He hadn't really had any deep seated regrets until this particular moment. With a 302 on his desk, and an expectant Mulder seated across from him, he wondered suddenly what the hell he was doing. "Demonic possession in Arizona?" Wondering if demons could explain his recent behavior. Scully looked pained. "Alleged demonic possession, yes, sir. However..." Skinner shut her words out, studied Mulder, who managed to at least give the appearance of attention, nodding occasionally. Thought about it and decided to sign the 302. In his current moment of doubt, it seemed one way to get Mulder out of town, to let the pheromones or full moon frenzy or whatever it was die down. Without a word, he scribbled approval and shoved the papers back toward Mulder, who reached for them, evidently quite cheerful. What the hell *had* he been doing, Skinner wondered and pulled another folder to him. Scully rose, Mulder stayed seated, suddenly pensive. "Is there something else, Agent Mulder?" Brusquely. Mulder flushed slightly. "No, thank you, sir." He nodded, opened the folder, determinedly not looking as the two made their way to the door and through it. When it had closed, he put down his pen and took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose. What had he been doing? He'd been having an affair with one of his direct reports, an agent who was, moreover, male. And as if that weren't bad enough, it was Fox 'Spooky' Mulder. Worst of all, he'd been enjoying himself. He brooded over that for a while, finally got up to refill his coffee cup for lack of any definitive explanation as to this aberrational behavior. But even coffee didn't explain it. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------- The week passed rather more slowly than Skinner would have liked, given his state of mind. The restlessness that had led him over the cliff still simmered beneath his conscious mind, but he resolved to end the situation with Mulder forthrightly and honestly, as kindly as possible. It wasn't as though he were some Victorian maiden done wrong, he'd walked in with his eyes open, he'd taken the lead. It wasn't Mulder's fault. It was his. It was time to set things back the way they ought to be, the way they were right. He resolutely managed to avoid logging on to check his private email throughout the week. On Thursday night, around ten, his telephone rang; he reached for it, and froze, let the machine pick it up and heard Mulder's voice. "Uh, hi. Just thought I'd try and catch you, things are going a little slower than I expected." There was something indefinable in Mulder's voice, some blend of weariness and emotion that he couldn't decipher--or didn't want to try. He drew back his hand; it was the coward's way out, but he didn't want to explain himself over the telephone, not long distance. Prudence, maybe, not cowardice. He pushed the thought of Mulder's voice from his mind and managed to make it through the rest of the week without further disruption to his resolve. But on Saturday afternoon, he returned from the office to find another message from Mulder. "Hi." Muted. "I thought I'd let you know that we made it back, the local police have the perp and the case is closed. Thanks." That was all. It made him uneasy. He needed to deal with this, to get things back to normal. He needed to face Mulder with it and get it over with. Nevertheless, despite this realization, it took him until nearly nine-thirty to reach Mulder's apartment door. Mulder answered after a few moments, wearing a t-shirt and sweats, hair rumpled and face flushed with, apparently, sleep. "Oh." Blankly. "Hi." He blinked and stood aside, let Skinner in and led the way back to the livingroom. "Hi." Abruptly, Skinner was uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, I woke you up." The man looked vulnerable, worn, but indisputably himself. It stirred something inside him. Mulder stood near the couch, arms folded, shoulders straight. "No, that's fine, I haven't been sleeping well." Muted still, but there was a wariness in Mulder's stance, as if he were braced for...for what Skinner had come to tell him. It made him ashamed. Mulder wasn't going to press him, Mulder was just going to fade, to back off. "Bad case?" A Mulder shrug. "Interesting case, bad enough." Still that wariness. "Look," Mulder said suddenly, looking away. "I'm not stupid, I, ah, got the message." Quietly. It made his chest ache. Before he could gather his thoughts, repair the logic, he heard himself say, "What message?" Mulder's head turned back, Mulder's expression was cautious. They stared at each other for a moment and Skinner's resolve mutated into something else, something subversive and tasty and entirely attractive. Something that had nothing to do with good sense or judgement or wisdom. The logical reasons he had so carefully woven began to fray. His subversive side had engineered a face to face meeting, he suddenly realized, because face to face, his logic was revealed to be nothing more than fear. The object of his fear and desire stood there, arms still folded around himself as if protecting his heart. Rumpled, eyes and mouth puffy with sleep or sleeplessness, those damnably tempting eyes shadowed in the lamplight. Before he could move toward Mulder, Mulder sat down, still gazing at him in confusion. He paused, started to sit down himself, in the armchair, narrowly avoiding a small plastic sack. Retrieving it, he held it out to Mulder, who looked embarrassed, waved it away. "What?" "It's just something stupid I got for you." Muttered. He blinked, swallowed hard suddenly, and looked inside the bag. Began to grin. "What *is* this?" Mulder finally unfolded his arms, rubbed his chin. "It's a tequila lollipop." Muttered again. "Worm and all." A tequila lollipop. Time sideslipped, he was sitting in his office watching Mulder draw strange geometric shapes on his pad, it slipped back and he was sitting in Mulder's apartment looking at a lollipop with a small worm in it. Laughter swept logic and reason and all good judgement away, he belly laughed, leaning back in the arm chair. "Oh, this is great." Tentative smile and Mulder relaxed a little. He wiped his eyes, leaned forward again. "So, tell me about the demonic possession." The smile vanished again. "Well, it wasn't, of course. But it was a weird neurological condition related to Tourette's. Scully documented it in her report." The disappearing smile, he thought, a little baffled--then, "I didn't come here to get your report." Gently. And the smile that took shape under his own nose felt good, felt free. "I came here because I missed you." Mulder didn't exactly leap into his arms. He simply sat, gazing at Skinner. "You didn't answer my emails." Quietly. "I've been busy." A lie in a good cause, he decided. "I didn't even check my private email this week." Still that wary gaze. "Okay." He'd done this. It hurt to realize that. To realize that Mulder had taken the risk of approaching him to begin with, and he'd certainly pounced on that in a hurry--and that he'd let goddamned Christless fear rule his life again. "I missed you," he said again, very softly. The wariness melted into diffidence. "Yeah, me too." Almost inaudible. It took a moment, but he moved, then, moved to sit beside Mulder on the couch. He put his hand on the back of Mulder's neck, that smooth skin, short, velvety hair--Christ, putting an end to this would have been the insanity, not keeping on with it--leaned closer and kissed Mulder's temple lightly. Faint smell of soap and shampoo, and Mulder's face turned toward him. Light kiss, gentle kiss, then another, more deeply and he tasted toothpaste. Silky hair under his fingertips, smooth cheek, Mulder had shaved, which struck him as oddly poignant, given Mulder's mood on his arrival. Drawing back, he stroked a thumb over Mulder's eyebrow. "So what's the trouble sleeping?" A Mulder shrug, this one embarrassed. "It happens." That diffident expression again. "Sleeping on the couch," Skinner murmured. "There's not enough room for both of us and you look tired." That much was truth. Flushed from sleep or not, Mulder did. Mulder gazed at him. Nodded after a moment, but not before Skinner had heard the faintest indrawn breath. "Okay." Mildly. He was having an affair with one of his direct reports, an agent who was, moreover, male. Fox 'Spooky' Mulder. And he was enjoying himself. He was alive for the first time in what seemed more than mere decades, in what seemed to be several different lifetimes. Maybe reincarnation, rather than demons, could explain it. He'd damned near thrown it away. He wasn't, he thought, following Mulder back to the bedroom, going to make that mistake again.