Subject: Tempus Fugit - M/Sk slash NC-17
From: CassandraXF@yahoo.com (Kassandra)
Date: Sun, 11 Jan 1998 04:00:23 GMT

Disclaimer:  The boys aren't mine, but since they never get to have any real
fun....I won't bend or break them much.

Now, I was asked for this story--I guess you could say I'm somebody's pet
writer, they point, and I heel.  At any rate, it's the entire story of the
Christmas Eve encounter in All I Want For Christmas, and a little more, and I
was just scolded because I didn't post it, and only put it on my web page.  Now,
I'll probably get scolded for posting it, you just can't please all the people
all the time, I guess.

If you are under 18, run away, run away.....

Tempus Fugit 

July, 1987 - A small town in upstate New York 

Skinner slowed from a steady jog to a walk, wiping his forehead.  A small 
town park, another unfamiliar place, all part of the job.  It was getting dark, 
but hadn't cooled off much, he was glad of the faint breeze that rustled the 
trees in the park.  

If he were a woman, he wouldn't dare jog at night in this park, not now.  Not 
given the reason he was here.  The FBI's latest Wunderkind profiler had 
come up and done his job, and it was his task to assist local police in 
following that profile.

He'd heard of the kid, one of Patterson's handpicked profilers--Spooky they 
called him.  Spooky he was, if you believed all the reports.  He wasn't sure 
he did.

Up ahead, he saw a lanky form leaning against a tree, a bottle lifted to drink.

He kept his pace steady, kept an eye on the figure.  Running shorts, no 
shirt, it seemed the other guy was feeling the heat, too.

But he wondered about another runner, this late.  In this park.  Where a 
girl's body had been found last week.  

Slowing further, he studied the other man, just visible in the glow of the 
streetlight.  Slender, not much more than a kid, really, surely no older than 
twenty.  If that.  Dark hair, cut in the weed-whacked look so popular now.  
As Skinner neared, the younger man lowered the bottle, nodded.

"Hot night."  Skinner nodded back.

"Yeah."  Straightening, the other looked directly at Skinner.  "It's supposed 
to rain later, cool things off a bit."

Long, lean body, the face--not pretty.  But somehow  beautiful in a way that 
was neither feminine nor masculine.  Androgynous.  And Skinner's stomach 
tightened in a way he'd not felt in more than a decade.  Since before he'd 
met Sharon.  Full sensual mouth, sleepy eyes....and then a smile that blew 
the rest away, innocent and boyish. "That'll make it nice and humid."  

"Yeah, more like the south than upstate New York."  Another boyish grin, 
but those eyes held his just a little too long before darting away.

"You visiting?":  Somehow, they'd fallen into step beside each other.  
Skinner was too aware of bare skin, of the lean body next to him.   The tight, 
runner's ass moving under the thin shorts.  

Too aware of the heaviness in his groin.  The dryness of his mouth.  

"Yeah, I'm catching a flight out tomorrow."  A sigh.  "I like towns like this.  
They remind me of where I grew up, in Massachusetts.  They ought to be 
safe, people shouldn't have to worry about monsters in the dark."

It jarred Skinner from the haze of pheromones.  "Yeah, they shouldn't."  
Perversely, he didn't want to admit to his occupation, was putting it off.  
Didn't want to scare the kid off....what the hell was he thinking?  Christ, he 
was married, he hadn't done anything as reckless as what he was 
considering since before he'd met her.

Another long look from the younger man fogged his resolution.  Full lower 
lip, bedroom eyes, and that boyish, diffident grin, so at odds with that 
sensuality.   Eye contact that established they were both thinking the same 
thing.

"I'm staying up there at the Cascade," the other offered, another brief grin.  

Hardly surprising, this place wasn't big enough to rate a Holiday Inn, let 
alone Ramada or any of the other chains.  "So am I."

A flicker of interest and the other fumbled at his waist, pulled out a key with 
a grin.  "Room 122."

Another jolt, this one down to the base of Skinner's spine.  Proximity and 
desire, he thought vaguely and felt the smile curve his mouth.  "123."

"There's no such thing as coincidence."  That shy grin again, a little hopeful, 
a little apprehensive.

Dry-mouthed, Skinner swallowed as his entire body reacted, spitted on a 
shaft of lust so pure it evaporated thought, guilt, reflection.
"Synchronicity," he managed, just barely able to get the word out. 

They were lucky to get to the motel in time.

************************************************************************
*
Christmas Eve, 1997 - Washington DC

The bar was typical, the air filled with smoke and the smell of beer, of harder 
vintages.  Christmas Eve and false conviviality, it was almost required, this 
brief foray into intra-agency bonding with men--and a few women--that he 
seldom spoke to for the rest of the year.

Skinner was bored.  He was just glad Blevins was dead, he didn't have to 
have a drink with Blevins and pretend to like or respect him.  God, that was 
cold, but he felt no shame, only a vast weariness.

Harry Bennett was telling the same story he told every year, the case in 
Montana with the bastard who had shot the two BLM guys, allegedly in self-
defense.

Skinner knew it by heart, he tuned it out and surveyed the bar for his own 
people, finding a few here and there in corners, leaning over tables in 
earnest conversation.  And of course, over in the far corner, leaning against 
the bar, his most troublesome and high maintenance subordinate, Fox 
Mulder. 

Standing alone.  Idly picking through the basket of popcorn in front of him, 
and slugging back beer.  Skinner had counted at least four earlier in the 
evening, this was either five or six.

If he remembered right, Scully had flown out to visit her brother, a family 
Christmas, belated celebration of her remission and recovery.  Which left 
Mulder, already isolated, alone during the most depressing season of the 
year.

It tugged at something inside him, something he'd kept suppressed for a 
long, long time.  Not pity.  Not compassion.  Maybe empathy and a weird 
affection for the man who habitually rushed in where angels would fear to 
tread.

That thought curved his mouth a bit, he turned and clapped Harry Bennett 
on the shoulder, good fellowship.  "Time for me to head home," he told the 
group at large.  "Before the road gets blurry."

Jack Larkin chuckled.  "Wouldn't do to have an AD arrested for DWI."

"Yeah, I think murder and attempted murder was enough for my record," he 
agreed drily, occasioning a lot of looks that were variously sheepish, 
alarmed, and amused.  "You guys keep that in mind."

A chorus of farewells and he moved toward the door, catching Mulder's 
almost wistful glance.

It turned him toward the bar when he hadn't intended it.  Putting his hand on 
Mulder's shoulder, he leaned forward.  "I hope you're planning on taking a 
cab."

"Eventually."  Mulder's mouth twitched.  "Buy you a drink, sir?"

"I've already had enough.  And now that I mention it, so have you."  Skinner 
kept his voice light.  "Come on, I'll give you a lift home."

"Alexandria isn't exactly on your way home, sir."

"Consider it a Christmas bonus, Agent Mulder."  Mock growl, but he wasn't 
sure if Mulder realized that's all it was.  

Mulder shrugged, tossed back the last of the beer.  "Thanks, Phil," he told 
the bartender and picked up his coat, currently occupying the barstool 
beside him.  

Phil lifted a hand, already occupied with some other victim of Christmas 
conviviality.

Shouldering into his own coat, Skinner eyed Mulder.  No more depressed 
than usual, he rather thought, despite the holiday and the events that had 
preceded it.  He would have liked to ask Mulder if he was going to his 
mother's, but the question felt egregiously personal.

They didn't ask each other personal questions.  They didn't play racquetball 
together.  They didn't talk about football. 

He growled and Mulder snapped and that was, except for extraordinary 
situations, about the sum of their communication style.

But Mulder followed him out into the winter night peaceably enough, at least 
until they reached Skinner's car.  Not entirely without protest.  "Sir, I can 
take a cab, you don't have to--oh, shit!"

The sidewalk was slick, with his usual luck, Mulder had hit a spot, flailing 
arms in an effort to keep his balance and Skinner fell against the passenger 
side of the car, his arms full of a very chagrined Mulder.

It was impossible not to laugh outright, Mulder's expression was so 
horrified, so embarrassed.  "It's okay, I've got you."  And the laughter 
bubbled up again as Mulder straightened, got his feet under him, muttered 
apologies under his breath.

Clearly mortified.  "It's okay, Mulder." Laughter still rode under his voice.  
"It's better than giving me a right cross to the jaw again."

Another embarrassed mutter.

He unlocked the door and opened it, went carefully around the back of the 
car to the driver's side, still chuckling under his breath, quelling it as he
slid behind the wheel.  The poor bastard was sitting there, still chagrined, no 
point in rubbing it in.

"I guess I did have enough."  Finally.  Quietly.

"Well, the ice didn't help."  Skinner offered it as a gift, trying to get Mulder
to let himself off the hook, glanced sidelong to see Mulder gazing out the 
passenger side window.  Sighed inwardly and started the car.

They didn't make conversation on the way to Mulder's apartment.  At first, 
he wondered if Mulder had fallen asleep, but when he looked over, he saw 
that unhappy profile.  It tugged at his gut again, he tried to ignore it.

But when they pulled up to the curb, Mulder sighed, turned to look at him.  
"Buy you a cup of coffee at least?"

Well, it wouldn't hurt, and he was reluctant to turn Mulder down again.  "I'll 
even take two."

Brief flicker of a smile, the smile so few were allowed to see.  It took him 
back a decade or more, a rush of memory and sensation he'd locked up 
tight in the underpart of his mind.  Shaken, he busied himself locking up the 
car until he had it safely pushed under again, then followed Mulder up the 
walk.

Mulder was talking again, conversational tidbits about the origin of 
Christmas traditions, the pagan origin of the celebration, the fact that 
shepherds would not have been out in the middle of December in ancient 
Judea--Skinner just let him roll, enjoying it, watching Mulder's expressions 
shift, quicksilver emotion.

Dammit, the man was aging well.  Not even a few flecks of silver, and nearly 
forty, and that hairline didn't appear to be moving backward anytime soon.  
Decorative indeed.

The years hadn't coarsened, only added maturity.  Skinner could still 
remember too well that whippet slender man, looking a good handful of 
years younger than his actual age, too young to be doing what he excelled 
at.   Innocence lost, but hope still riding underneath the weariness.

Mulder's voice just kept on in the apartment, coat and keys dropped on the 
couch, hands moving unerringly to coffee filters, canister....

Leaning against the doorjamb, Skinner watched, amused, listening to 
hyperactivity in action, watching it.  Finally moved forward and took the 
scoop away from Mulder before they both ended up with heart arrhythmia 
from the amount of coffee in the filter.  

"Sit," he told Mulder, guiding him to a chair, hardly able to keep from 
laughing, even now.  Pushed down on Mulder's shoulders and saw his 
expression shift, a sadness and disappointment so acute that it tightened 
Skinner's throat.

"I don't need any more hair on my chest, and nothing will put it back on my 
head," he told Mulder and saw the emotions shift again, back to simple 
pleasure, a happiness that seemed long overdue.

But out of his mouth, "It's all that testosterone, sir."

Startled, Skinner grinned, then let the laughter in his chest break free, 
ended by sliding the filter into the slot and hitting the button before he
leaned back and just laughed and laughed, unable to tell if Mulder's words or
that horrified expression were funnier.

"Easy, Mulder," he finally gasped, leaning forward to put his hands back on 
Mulder's shoulders again.  Face about an inch from Mulder's.  "I'm not that 
over-sensitive, Mulder, I started losing my hair in my early twenties."

Dark eyes, wide, pupils dilated.  But Mulder's mouth twitched, as if relieved--
twitched and then brushed his own, a tentative, diffident kiss.

It threw him back into the past with such force that he found it hard to 
breathe.  No kisses back then.  He was too....fuck it, he was too conflicted.  

"Oh, God, sir, I'm sorry, I don't know--"  Babbling apologies and that look of 
horror again.

Skinner reached up and took off his glasses, gazing into those dark eyes.  
"Shut up, Mulder."  Affectionately.  Remembering heat and sweat and skin 
that tasted of salt.  Tucked his glasses into his inside jacket pocket, still 
wearing his own coat, leaned forward and took Mulder's mouth almost 
brutally, tongue pushing past Mulder's lips, tasting him, learning the crooked 
edge of a tooth, the ridged surface of the roof of Mulder's mouth, the hot 
silkiness of the inside of Mulder's cheek.

The chair toppled, he caught Mulder, sank to the floor anyway.

Lost.  Enveloped in heat and sensation he'd forgotten.  Even in the middle of 
December, both of them wearing far too much clothing.

He swept his hand up under Mulder's suit jacket, yanked the tail of Mulder's 
shirt out and let his fingers find warm skin.  Almost smooth, Mulder wasn't 
as hairy as he was, pebbled texture of a nipple, Mulder arched under him, 
making indescribably delicious sounds, kissing him back frantically.

Stretched out over him, the wicked, lovely length of him, Skinner slid his 
other hand up the back of the shirt, Mulder was going to be lucky if there 
were buttons left on it, a little voice muttered in his ear, and he agreed.
Hot, oh, God, so hot, he pressed his hips down against Mulder's, felt the
arousal that matched his own, heard those sounds again, broke free of Mulder's 
mouth, nipped and licked along Mulder's jaw and suddenly, in the middle of 
this, realized that he was in very, very deep trouble.

Pushing himself back up, he leaned back against the kitchen cabinets, 
heard the coffee maker doing the coffee thing and tried to catch his breath.

Mulder lay flat on his back, looking like a gaffed fish.  Gasping for breath.  
Hands flung out in entreaty, fingers curling and uncurling.  

Jesus, what was he doing, Mulder was definitely a little drunk, he was taking 
advantage of a subordinate, a subordinate, moreoever, who had troubles of 
his own and didn't need any more.  "This might not be such a good idea," he 
managed, but Christ, just looking at Mulder made his cock twitch.  Made it 
hard to breathe.

"Bastard."  It was a weak voice, a plaintive voice, a sad little voice for a man

nearing forty.

It undid his brief flare of good intentions.  Reaching out, he clasped the 
nearest hand, tugged Mulder toward him.  Mulder came without protest, hell, 
he looked delirious, climbed right into Skinner's lap and they kissed again, 
both of them fumbling with clothing.

He managed not to tear the buttons off Mulder's shirt.  Tried to bend his 
head to attend to those nipples, but Mulder kept making these little whining 
sounds and sliding down, working at Skinner's shirt and belt.

It would have been funny, but right now, it just fueled the fire.  Those 
sounds.  Working by feel, since Mulder was licking down his chest, he 
managed to get Mulder's belt undone, fumbled the waistband and zipper 
open and reached inside.  Christ, hot and swollen and his thumb found a 
trace of slickness at the tip, the skin was satiny against his fingertips, the 
head almost velvety soft and he yanked Mulder up against his chest to kiss 
him again, one hand sliding down the back of the loosened trousers to cup 
Mulder's ass.

More than ten years....Jesus, how had he managed to suppress this desire, 
this memory?  Mulder was like a brushfire, burning out of control, hungry 
and consuming, and it set him afire, he probed, felt the dry, puckered ring of 
muscle and remembered sensation again, visceral and raw, the hot, tight 
grip of Mulder's flesh around his cock....

Mulder gasped, breaking free from the kiss.  "Um.  There's olive oil."

Olive oil.  Slippery and--what the hell was he thinking?  "That's all?"  A
little incredulous.

Mulder blinked at him, heavy-lidded.  "There's lube in the bedroom."  Husky 
voice, not more than a whisper.

His cock throbbed.  "Get up."  Urgently.  He tumbled Mulder off his lap and 
pulled himself upright on the edge of the counter, yanked Mulder up 
ungraciously and pulled him close again, sealing their mouths together for 
an instant before tugging him along down the hallway.

He'd never been in Mulder's bedroom, of course, but the apartment wasn't 
that large.  He plastered Mulder against the wall while ascertaining that the 
first door was the bathroom, pushed the jacket and shirt off Mulder's 
shoulders and took a nipple between his teeth delicately, worrying it and 
then soothing it with his tongue.

God, those sounds were driving him crazy.  Growling, he attended to the 
other nipple, let Mulder free him of coat and suit jacket and tie before 
yanking him farther down the hall.

This time, Mulder pushed him against the wall, just outside the bedroom 
door.  Mulder's hands inside his trousers, inside his underwear and he 
growled again, pulled Mulder close against him, nipping and licking Mulder's 
throat, biting the crook of shoulder and neck gently.

He heard a shoe drop.  Then a second one.  It pleased him, he shimmied 
the trousers and boxers down, put his own foot down on them to let Mulder 
step free.  Completely naked, hot against his chest, Christ, he wasn't going 
to make it to the bedroom if Mulder didn't stop rubbing against him.

Another few stumbling steps, he maneuvered Mulder down on the bed by 
simply tipping him backwards.  Stripped himself free of clothing and shoes 
and then fell on him, feeding on him, ravaging with tongue and lips and 
fingertips until Mulder squirmed free, rolled atop him and slid down.

"Oh, Jesus."  His voice was entreating as Mulder's mouth closed over him, 
hot and wet and oh, God, he'd forgotten how good this could be, how good 
Mulder had been....

************************************************************************
****
July, 1987

At the hotel, the young man looked at Skinner, unlocked his door with a 
wary, diffident look. 

Too far gone to be politic or play the game, Skinner shoved him through it, 
slammed it behind them and leaned back, pushing down on bare shoulders 
until the other man knelt before him, hands already at his waistband, freeing 
him.

He was already half-hard, his cock lifting to meet those full lips, they closed 
around him and he groaned, tilted his head back and pushed his hips 
forward, trying not to thrust too hard.  

A tongue flicked at the tip, probed the opening and soothed it, swirled 
around the swollen head and then slid down, as his cock slid more deeply 
in.  

Oh, God, his fingers tangled in thick, dark hair, he arched back, everything 
but this obliterated from his mind.

Everything but more of the same.

Abruptly, he pushed the dark head away, tugged the kid up and pushed him 
toward the bed.  Lust was playing tricks on him, his actions took on a strobe 
effect:  blink and they were both naked, blink and they were on the bed, 
feeding on each other, the thickness in his own mouth tasting of salt sweat and 
semen.  

No jungle heat now, the room was cool, the air conditioner humming merrily 
in the corner, the only heat under and against him,  hard to tell where his 
pleasure ended and where the other's began....

Strobe flash and there was lube, a condom and he was easing himself into 
tight heat, hearing the whimpering from beneath him, thrusting in hard to the 
root and then losing his mind...

Holding the lean body against his chest, his fingers tightening around the 
other man's cock, stroking it mercilessly, feeling himself clasped and 
gripped, almost unbearably until he couldn't stop the noises he made, until 
slippery heat pulsed out over his fingers, until he simply exploded....

And then the heat and strobe were gone, he was lying on his side, still 
deeply held, his arm over the slender waist.   Guilt struck, a sledge hammer 
of images, Sharon's face, the memory of her tucked up against him, like 
this, the youth of the man he'd just fucked.  The fact that they didn't know 
each other's names, and they'd just fucked like maniacs....

"I hope to Christ you're over twenty-one," he muttered, trying not to sound 
like an asshole about it.

Shaky chuckle.  "Twenty-six."

"What a relief."  Pulling back, he was relieved to see the condom hadn't 
broken.  

The kid rolled over on his back, stroked his own chest, smiled again, but it 
wasn't diffident, it was wry.  "I don't look that young."

"Yes, you do."  Stripping the condom off, Skinner sat up, swung his legs 
over the side of the bed.

The other man just watched him, serene expression.  "Thanks."

It was Skinner's turn to smile wryly.  "My pleasure."  He ignored the 
queasiness of regret.  "You okay?"

Brief smile again.  "Fine.  I'll be able to sleep now."

Considering that, Skinner nodded.  It was a feeling he remembered.  
Glancing around, he saw his shorts, retrieved them and put them on.  Sat 
down on the bed and put on his shoes, too aware of the stranger at his 
back, of broken vows and promises, of his own weaknesses and failures.

"Thanks anyway."  Drowsy voice now and the kid leaned up on both elbows.

Glancing over his shoulder, Skinner managed a smile.  "Like I said, my 
pleasure."  Rising, he considered the etiquette required of men who only 
knew each other in the carnal sense.  "Have a good trip tomorrow."

"Thanks."  Sleepy smile, heavy lidded and Skinner turned for the door.

Paused before opening it, before going through.  And leaving the kid behind.

************************************************************************
****
Christmas Eve, 1997

Forcing Mulder back up, Skinner tipped him over again, back onto the bed.  
Tasted and licked and nipped his way down to the jutting shaft, took it into 
his mouth, all the while fumbling for the bedside table.  99.9 percent of the 
general public kept sex supplies in the bedside table, his fingers closed 
around a small plastic bottle, he put in on the bed, reached back and 
fumbled until he found a small square packet, thank God Mulder had 
enough sense to separate the damned things.

He paused in his attentions to Mulder's cock just long enough to rip the 
package with his teeth, freed his hands up to manage to get the goddamned 
thing on, and then flipped the lid of the bottle up.

Cool slickness on his fingers, he let it warm there before probing, worked 
one finger carefully in--Christ, so tight, he wondered how long it had been 
since Mulder had done this, had the brief heady fantasy that he had been 
the last man to fuck Mulder.  It inflamed him, he worked another finger in to 
the accompaniment of those demented noises that kept issuing from 
Mulder's throat.....

He'd forgotten just how hot those noises were.  How they'd driven him.  
Nipping the inside of Mulder's thigh, he guided himself in, pushed forward 
carefully.

He wasn't quite the asshole he'd been ten years earlier, and he'd developed 
more care for other people.  For Mulder.  But Mulder's legs wrapped around 
him, pulled him in....and Mulder made this gassy sort of shriek that froze 
him, he tried to pull back, there was a staccato rapping on the ceiling above.

"Jesus, I'm sorry," he kept trying to pull back, Mulder wasn't having any of it,

"Christ, did I hurt you?"

"Don't you dare fucking stop," Mulder gasped, hooking his feet in the small 
of Skinner's back.  "I'll get my goddamned gun, don't you fucking dare...."

Exasperated, "I really don't want to hurt you, dammit."  He shifted, Mulder 
shifted, making wordless sounds of complaint and suddenly, hilariously, the 
bed was no longer under them, they rolled off together, still more or less 
joined, and he barely managed to keep from landing on Mulder, who tilted 
his head back and began to laugh, semi-hysterically.

For no good reason, it inflamed him again, he leaned over Mulder and 
thrust, oh, Christ, all the way in and Mulder's laughter turned to something 
else, to gasps that contained semi-articulated words, words he couldn't 
quite make out, but which struck him as encouraging.

Pulling Mulder toward him, he sank back on his heels, Mulder's hips on his 
thighs, folded his fingers around Mulder's rampant sex and stroked.  Not 
mercilessly, but thoroughly, using his thumb on the underside of the swollen 
glans.

Mulder's legs settled over his shoulders, he leaned forward used his other 
hand to tease Mulder's nipples, watching the other man's face shift and 
change with each wave of pleasure.  Not that he needed to see it, he could 
feel it in the almost unbearable tightness of Mulder's flesh, the contractions 
of of pleasure that waxed and waned each time he touched, each time he 
stroked Mulder in his fist.

"Come for me," he growled, "Christ, I want you to come for me, I want to see 
your face."

Mulder tossed his head from side to side, hands digging into the sides of 
Skinner's thighs.  "Ogodogodogod, fuck me, oh, god, just fuck me."

"I'm sure as hell not whistling Dixie," Skinner told him and hissed as Mulder 
clamped down even more tightly.  "Oh, Jesus, that's so goddamned good."

No more words from Mulder, the fingers gripped tighter, Mulder's eyes 
closed, Mulder's face was effortful, taut with sex and pleasure and--Skinner 
closed his own eyes, felt orgasm approach like a bolt of lightning, a surge of 
electricity that started at the base of his spine, travel through his balls and 
Mulder made a muffled sort of shriek and exploded in his fist, hot and wet 
and oh, Jesus, he was coming and Mulder was coming and it was fucking 
incredible enough that he thought he might stop breathing.....

Until he was leaning over Mulder, a hand on each side of Mulder's rib cage, 
looking down into the most naked and vulnerable expression he'd ever seen 
on the man's face.

"Wow."  It seemed inadequate, but it was all he could summon up.  
Somehow, he managed to get them both onto the bed again, dispose of the 
condom and pull the comforter over both of them before they froze to death 
in post-coital lassitude.

Mulder was warm against his side, so quiet that Skinner closed his own 
eyes and dozed for a bit.  Hell, he'd been up since five, he'd had a couple of 
scotchs, and he'd just fucked his brains out.  Sliding his arm over Mulder's 
waist, he rubbed his palm over Mulder's belly.  Sighed and let himself drift 
for a bit, content to soak in the warmth and--whatever else had just 
happened between them.

Dozed until Mulder shifted under his arm, rolling over to face him.  Opening 
his eyes, he found Mulder's expression disquieting, somehow.  Leaning 
forward the inch or so, he nipped at the swollen lower lip.  "I'm hungry."

Mulder blinked.  "Hungry?"

"Hungry," he told Mulder firmly and rolled over to regard the bedside table.  
Yes, there was  a phone.  "What's the number of the nearest pizza place?"

Another blink.  "It's number three on the speed dial."  Husky voice, a faint 
thread of suprise woven through it.

Picking up the telephone, he pressed the speed dial.  "What do you want on 
it?"

"I'm not picky."  Mulder's tone shifted to bemused.  "Whatever sounds good 
to you."

He ordered a pizza with everything, reckoning they could each pick off what 
didn't appeal.   After hanging up the phone, he leaned back against the 
pillow and studied Mulder.  "You okay?"

"I'm fine."  Mulder chuckled suddenly.  "I never realized how worried you 
could get over my personal well being."

Skinner shifted, reached out and touched Mulder's lower lip.  "Yeah, well, I 
thought I was doing you some permanent damage."  Drily.  And then, unable 
to resist, he kissed that mouth, long and hard.  Leaned back and sighed.  
"I've been wanting to do that for ten years."

Mulder's expression shifted, he turned his face into the other pillow.  "Mm."  
Noncommittal sort of sound.

Driven to it, Skinner poked him in the ribs.  "Don't tell me you don't 
remember, not with that eidetic memory."

No reply for a moment.  Then, almost sulkily.  "I'm not the one with memory 
problems."

Ah.  Skinner sighed.  Traced the curve of Mulder's ear with a fingertip.  
"Yeah.  I didn't handle that well.  I didn't know how else to handle it."

Abruptly, Mulder leaned forward and kissed him back.  "S'okay.  Neither did 
I."  Generously.  "I figured my career was in the toilet when Barris 
introduced you."

"I thought I was going to have a heart attack," Skinner admitted, amused 
and touched at the same time.

"Really?"  Mulder leaned up, resting his head on his hand.  "You seemed 
pretty cool about it."

Cool.  No, Skinner thought, he hadn't felt cool....

************************************************************************
********
July, 1987

The promised rain hadn't come, which was a mixed blessing.  Putting his 
sunglasses on, Skinner stepped out into the heat, already punishing and not 
even eight am.  

The door next to his opened, his heart thumped hard once, then settled 
back in a kind of sludgy horror as Special Agent Barris stepped out, 
wrestling a suitbag.  "Come on, Spooky," he said over his shoulder, not 
noticing Skinner, "You don't wanna miss your plane."

"Chill, Barris."  The voice was amused, the owner of the voice stepped out, 
looking sharp-edged enough to cut, a suit that had to be Italian and bore no 
resemblance to the usual Brooks Brothers style affected by scores of other 
FBI agents.  Aviator sunglasses and hair smoothed into something more 
appropriate for a Federal agent and Skinner's pulse literally stopped for a 
moment.

Christ, oh, Christ, he chanted silently, kept his face stony.

Barris nearly blundered into Skinner, but not before Spooky Mulder's head 
turned to regard him through the mirrored lenses, one corner of that full 
mouth curving upward slightly.

"Oh, sir, sorry."  Barris was embarrassed.  "I didn't see you standing there.  
Have you met Agent Mulder, sir?"

He rather thought Mulder froze in place, he was certain he'd seen statues 
with more mobility of expression.

"No," he told Barris coolly, feeling his heart thump out a Sousa like rhythm, 
"I haven't."  Visions of career suicide, divorce court, his life and marriage 
down the tubes.....but he kept his voice official and a bit terse.  "Agent 
Mulder?  I've heard a lot about your work."

Mulder unfroze, nodded.  Both of them hiding behind sunglasses. "Thank 
you, sir."  Evenly.

"This is ASAC Skinner, he's come down to finish up with the police," Barris 
finished the introductions, jumbling words together, "Come on, Mulder, the 
door's unlocked, let me get this in the back and we'll get you to the airport on

time."

Mulder nodded again, hesitated, as if a little confused, then moved around 
Barris' car to the passenger side.  

The visions of self-destruction receded slightly.  He had nothing to worry 
about.  Mulder was hardly going to talk to about it, cruising and picking up a 
stranger--Christ, he was more ashamed of himself now than he had been 
last night.

Through the tinted windshield, he could see Mulder staring out the 
passenger window.

And felt the faintest regret.

************************************************************************
***********
Christmas Eve, 1997

"You were pretty cool yourself."  Skinner said it softly, without blame or 
recrimination.  

"I was stunned."  Mulder's mouth curved, he leaned back on the pillows, 
shifting to his back.  "My brain just locked up.  I didn't say a word to Barris 
all the way to the airport, he went back and told his partner that I was a 
grade a asshole, I got into a snit because he called me Spooky.  What the 
hell, I let it go, it was better than having him wonder why."

"How long does it usually take this place to deliver?"  Skinner shifted the 
subject, not wanting to discuss past idiocies and transgressions.

Mulder sighed.  "About thirty minutes."

"What would you say to a hot shower?"

A slow smile again, one that tugged at his chest and warmed him.  "I'd say, 
hot water was invented by the gods."

"Good theory.  Have you got any evidence to back it up?"  Skinner pushed 
himself upright, found muscles pleasantly sore that hadn't been used quite 
that way in a long, long while.  "Jesus, I'm getting old.  Let's try not to fall
out of bed next time, okay?"

"Next time?"  Mulder's laughter was delighted.  "Well, we could start out on 
the floor."

"We did that this time," Skinner pointed out drily, "And I never did get my 
coffee."

"Your wish is my command," Mulder told him and rolled himself out of bed, 
standing there splendidly naked. "You have but to ask.  Which is it, coffee 
or shower?"

"Shower first," Skinner decided, "And can I get that in writing?"

"It only applies outside the office."

"I guess I'll have to settle for that, then." 

Another delighted smile, the smile he had remembered for ten years, boyish 
and buoyant and a little diffident.  "I'm very compliant."

"I'll have to remember that."

The smile grew.  "No forgetting?"

Skinner rose and moved to stand in front of Mulder.  "Not a chance."  
Tempis fugit, he thought distantly, and reached out to touch Mulder's cheek.  
Sometimes, rarely, it gave you the chance to go back, to make choices 
anew.  

It was a gift he didn't intend to squander.