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Walter Skinner was waiting for him.
Fox Mulder could tell.
Even though Skinner was standing with a group of agents. Mulder could tell from the way Skinner’s gaze wasn’t centered. Mulder had been at the center of that dark gaze enough to know when it was focused, and Skinner wasn’t focused on the people around him. He was watching. Waiting. Mulder knew from the way Skinner's head was turned as if he was just half listening to the conversation swirling around him.
Waiting for him. Mulder knew…from the way Skinner's gaze focused on him, tracked him, as he came around the corner and started down the hall. From the way Skinner detached himself from the group the moment he saw Mulder.
Skinner frowned as he strode down the hallway, long legs eating up the distance.
Mulder grimaced, then smiled, then frowned, unable to decide which way to shift his muscles to cover the nervous apprehension that tickled the pit of his stomach. He went only part of the way down the hallway, stopping at a long row of windows and allowing Skinner to close the distance between them. He hid his undecided face by staring at the view of the top of the parking garage outside the window.
He pushed the edges of his jacket back and rested his hands on his hips casually, pretending that he didn’t feel the radiant heat of Skinner’s presence as his boss stopped behind him. That he couldn’t sense the smoldering power. Like sunlight on water, the nervousness and anticipation that rippled through his stomach every time he faced the man.
Skinner glanced back at the cluster of agents as he circled Mulder, stopped to face him. "The rumor mill says you met with Blevins," he said without preamble.
Mulder didn’t know what he been expecting, but that wasn’t it. Skinner’s voice was low, conspiratorial, but it had that clipped, blunt, I’m-about-ten-seconds-from-being-really-pissed-off quality that Mulder had come to recognize. And avoid.
He shrugged, surprised. Just a touch of annoyance bit into the calm he was wearing like a badge, like a shield, from his talk with Scully. It had felt so good, deciding what to do, feeling comfortable with the decision, knowing that Scully understood even if she didn’t completely agree. Knowing that she was trusting his intuition. He didn’t appreciate Skinner nipping at the edges of his tranquility. "I wasn’t aware you followed the *rumor mill,* Sir."
He squinted, trying to see Skinner’s expression against the bright backlight of the afternoon sun, frowning when he realized that Skinner had maneuvered until his back was to the window. Without even realizing it, Mulder had completed almost an 180-degree turn in response to Skinner’s movement, the two of them shifting like dancers without music. Like light on water.
Was it something Skinner did unconsciously…always putting himself so that his face was in shadow and the person he was confronting was blinded by the bright light? When Skinner was bearing down on him, wings spread until he was taking up the room, light glowing off the spotless white shirts, Mulder was always reminded of the pictures of angels he’d seen as a child, terrible and beautiful creatures limned in golden light. But was this angel swooping down to save him or condemn him?
He took a step back, wanting some breathing space. "What is that? Some kind of bad cop thing, always putting your back to the light?"
Skinner glared at him. At least, he thought Skinner glared at him. That aggressive thrust of jaw went with a glare, even if Mulder couldn’t quite see the expression.
Regardless, Skinner ignored his comment. Closed the breathing space with a step. "After I heard about the meeting, I couldn’t find you…" He left it hanging, obviously expecting an explanation.
"I wasn’t aware that I was checking in with you today, Sir," Mulder said silkily, keeping his tone light enough that he couldn’t be reprimanded for insolence, tight enough to say that where he went was his own business. Tight enough to satisfy his own irritation at Skinner for spoiling his mood and for looming there in the light, soaking up the shadows and the oxygen.
"Agent Mulder—!" Just as Skinner bristled, the convergence of agents down the hall broke up, and he cut off his words, nodding as several of the men and women went past.
With Skinner’s attention diverted, Mulder edged around. Forcing Skinner to turn with him or allow him to sidle out of his sight. Turning until he was the one with his back to the window, and Skinner’s face was illuminated.
Skinner blinked against the light, his pupils drawing down to tight little pinpricks of black. He scowled, obviously not at all amused by the dance.
Mulder would have been amused by it if his growing disquiet in his stomach hadn’t been shifting from shimmer to shadow. If he hadn’t been concentrating on catching Skinner like that, with his attention elsewhere. "Blevins said he has evidence that you’re the mole," he said very quietly, very clearly.
Skinner went still and pale, the normally healthy glow of his complexion fading to sickly and yellow. His expression slid from annoyed to carefully, studiously neutral. "Did he--? Did he show you this evidence?"
And there it went, sucked away, any hope of calm. Of regaining the peacefulness that had come from talking to Scully, from the sense of rightness at their decisions. Blacked out like someone had reached up and snapped off the light. Scully didn’t trust Skinner. And Blevins said he had evidence against him. Mulder was the only one holding out for Skinner’s trustiworthiness, and now Skinner himself was erasing it.
"Did he--?" Skinner repeated, then stopped mid-sentence, looked up, stepped back, as a woman came out of an office several feet down the hall. He waited until she turned the corner before he finished his question. "What did he show you?" No anger in the deep voice. Just a growing urgency. Just…fear.
Mulder recognized it for what it was because it sounded like the sensation that was eating the lining of his stomach. Hoping for innocence or guilt to cross a face that gave away not even a smile was a ridiculous expectation.
But Mulder realized that’s what he’d been doing. Standing there wanting something that would tell him his trust wasn’t misplaced. Hoping the next words out of Skinner’s mouth, the next expression, would tell him Skinner was a friend. Would tell him his intuition was right. Something that would erase that last little niggling doubt. Quiet the little voice that was whispering, Scully doesn’t trust him. What if you’re the one who’s wrong? He hated it, that nasty little whisper. The growing hot/cold darkness in the pit of his stomach, the fear that Scully might be right.
The fear underlying Skinner’s toneless words was the twitch he’d been looking for…but it wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear.
"That was a mistake," he said, leaning towards Skinner, lowering his voice as if he was about to give up a secret. "Until now, I thought they were wrong. Now…"
Skinner shifted into motion, swinging his head, his shoulders. That thing he did with his body when he was annoyed, when his agitation level was inching up. Starting to turn, but not quite turning away. "What are you talking about, Agent Mulder?" he snapped.
"Scully. Blevins. I was the only one holding out for your innocence. Next time, sneer a little when you say ‘evidence.’ And next time, try not to sound like somebody just put a sharp knife next to your balls." He struggled to keep his expression neutral and knew he failed miserably.
Now Skinner really did turn away. Wheeled away, mouth twisting with the disgust that had been missing from his question.
While his back was turned, Mulder walked away. Heart thumping with a stabbing, off tempo beat. Trying to the keep the anger and hurt from burning in his face.
One of these days, he’d learn to trust Scully’s instinct. Someday, he’d learn that the person who proclaimed friendship loudest was usually the one with the knife tucked up his sleeve.
"Agent Mulder, I’m not finished."
Skinner’s voice, low but angry, raked at him. He gestured behind him as he stalked away. Signaling dismissal. Signing 'go away.' One day, he would figure out why it hurt so badly that Scully was right about Skinner and he was wrong.
Skinner caught up with him, grabbed his arm.
He twitched away. Heat enveloped his elbow. Five spots of fire marking where Skinner’s fingertips had touched him. The burning connected, somehow, to his lungs, to his ability to breath.
"Mulder!" Skinner reached for him again, backed off as another agent came out into the hallway. As the man looked at them quizzically, Skinner dropped his hand.
The moment the man turned his back, Skinner grabbed Mulder again. This time with a grip that would require a fight to break. So much power, uncontrollable strength.
Anger prickled along Mulder's scalp, sliding down beneath his collar. He dug in his heels, muscles bunching to fight, but before he could twist into position, Skinner snatched open a door and shoved him through it. Released him as he stumbled into darkness.
Mulder wheeled, heart ratcheting like a jackhammer in his chest, able to see only the hulking outline of Skinner disappear into darkness as the door closed. The snick of a lock reached through the roar of his breathing.
The light came on, a yellow bulb shaded by white metal, hanging from a twisted cord. He forced himself to concentrate on the man standing in front of him, blocking his view of the door, but he couldn’t help glancing around.
They were in a closet. A small janitorial closet. Brooms and a big floor-polishing machine in one corner. Towels and gloves and dust cloths stacked on a shelf. A gray space, as dusty as his throat and lit by a tired, bare bulb. And like the hallway, made even smaller by the man who was in it with him.
Despite the thunder of his pulse, his sense of humor reasserted itself for the first time in days. The cloak and dagger that was his life had reached a new high. He was facing his angry boss, possible traitor to his quest, in a broom closet. It was too funny to be frightening. Too bizarre to be taken seriously. "We’re going to have a meeting in a closet?"
Skinner ignored the remark. "Scully thinks I’m dirty?" The careful control in his voice gave away how much he was fighting for control. He shifted, turning his body, fists clenched.
Mulder dragged his attention back to Skinner. Back to the tight, not quite hidden emotion in his eyes. He’d watched Skinner long enough to know the tricks he played with his body. The way he intimidated people with his size, turning his shoulders so that he seemed to be filling up the room. What was he trying to cover up now? Vulnerability? Or guilt?
He remembered Skinner, asking, 'Does Agent Scully think I’m guilty?' He remembered Skinner saying helplessly, 'I didn’t take my own advice.' Saying 'Remember who your friends are.' He remembered why he trusted Skinner in the first place, all he’d done for Scully, for him… And why that little hotspot of doubt was digging at his faith. He turned his shoulders, squaring off against his boss, refusing to be intimidated. "The DOD guy who was watching me. He was making calls through the PBX operator to a Bureau extension. Scully traced it to you."
Skinner shook his head. "My extension?"
"130."
"That’s your evidence? That could be anyone at executive level. That’s a routing extension." Skinner leaned on him. "What else?" Belligerent and daring him, taunting him, to produce better evidence.
"Blevins said if I named you, it would probably exonerate me." He wanted to be convinced, wanted to see Skinner as innocent, as his friend, but the moment the words came out, he’d knew he’d made a mistake.
Skinner’s face changed, flashed from belligerence to rage. His voice went dangerously soft and still. "You’re going to sacrifice me? To save yourself." Raw betrayal.
Skinner took a step toward him, menace in the set of his shoulders.
Mulder couldn’t help himself. He’d never hesitated to square off against the bigger man when Skinner was angry. But this…this was something he’d never seen. More than anger. He stepped back, needing more than breathing room this time. Needing running room. Coming up against the shelves. The sharp edges of wooden shelves cut into shoulder and spine and thigh. "No. Wait…"
There didn’t seem to be any space left in the small room. What was happening? Skinner had his gaze trapped. Caught as if some kind of magnetic field had sprung up between them. "I…"
Skinner pressed so close that Mulder could feel his body heat. The bigger man was eating up all the oxygen, making it impossible to formulate a coherent thought.
"What will it take, Mulder...," Skinner whispered, and his voice was like a small flame about to leap out of control. The sudden, soft rush of a bonfire igniting. "...to have your trust?"
Skinner moved in on him. Breathing as if he, too, was having trouble finding air. "What kind of proof do you need?"
His pupils were dilated, just the barest circle of deep brown visible against black. Fists coming up. "What will it take, to keep you from doubting me? Sacrificing me?"
Mulder twitched, muscles bunching. "Wait…"
Skinner grabbed him by his coat, the way he had in the hospital, double handfuls of his jacket. Yanked him forward. "What will it take?" He didn’t yell, but the bonfire was there, roaring in his voice.
The question whispered across Mulder’s face, burned his lips. He opened his mouth to gasp, inhaling the heat and the words, turning his face up, and Skinner kissed him.
Mulder could hardly claim it was unexpected, the way he’d tilted his head back and licked his lips, offering his mouth and his fear, but it was. So unexpected and so frightening and so welcome, the punishing, hot pressure against his mouth. Skinner’s tongue rasped across his lips. Licking away his fear, as suddenly as it had come.
Mulder sighed, and a little voice inside his head sighed with him, Finally.
He didn’t even know what it meant, but his awareness spun lazily, crazily, out of control. Sensations dropped onto him, into him, one by one, like slow, leisurely raindrops. Lips. Tongue. Minty toothpaste. Skin bristly with the beginnings of an afternoon beard. Salt, male scent, thick and heady. Cloth twisted in his fingers. Teeth, nipping at his bottom lip. Tongue. Soft, little mewling sounds of need and pleasure, escalating as he tightened his grip on Skinner’s coat and arched up against the heat of his body. And he realized the sounds were coming out of his own throat.
Skinner responded, twisting his hands deeper in his jacket, pulling him tighter. Almost dragging his feet off the floor. Pulling him forward until they were hip to hip, chest to chest. Cock to cock. Curving, hot, insistent pressure. Luxuriant weight against his erection.
Skinner said something into his mouth as he rocked against him. Something he didn’t understand, except for the sound of it. The low, growling animal sound of it.
He tried to pull away to hear. But Skinner wouldn’t stop kissing him, murmuring to him and kissing him until he couldn’t breathe, until he was melting. His bones liquefying and slipping out of his skin. Until all that was holding him up was Skinner's grip on his jacket.
As if he knew, as if he wanted to see Mulder slide into a boneless puddle, Skinner released his coat, then caught him before he could fall by sliding strong fingers into his hair, threading through his hair, cupping his head. Holding him up by just the pressure on his skull. Mouth moving more insistently, threatening to devour him, to crush him.
Mulder twisted his head, wrenched his mouth away. Gasping for air. Breathing in the scents of warm skin and their clothing and his own excitement. "Wait, I need—" he gasped, but that was all he could get out, and it was just as well, because he didn’t know what he needed. To trust Skinner? To believe in him? I need…
Skinner didn’t want to let him go. His grip tightened on Mulder's head, thumbs digging into his face, trying to draw his mouth back around.
He obeyed the pressure, allowing his head to be turned, until he was gazing into Skinner’s eyes. Until he saw something he’d never thought to see there. Heat and passion and madness. Arousal stronger than his own, already burning far past his own.
He wanted it, the desire. Wanted Skinner wanting him. And knowing it, knowing he wanted Skinner whether he was friend or foe, innocent or guilty, was a surprise, a shock. It hit him hard, right in the center of his chest, a blow both warm and jarring. Faith didn’t matter. Doubt didn’t matter. He smiled. Grimly, utterly delighted. Overwhelmed. He reached greedily for Skinner’s hips, steadying himself, dragging Skinner tighter against him.
Skinner turned his face away, hiding his frenzy. Buried his face in Mulder's neck and bit him.
Mulder arched, like a cat stretching toward a stroking hand, rubbed his cock against Skinner’s, hating the thickness of clothing that kept them apart. "Oh, god…" Tight, breathless laughter. Exhilaration twining along his nerves, dancing over his skin. Body clamoring for more contact. He reached for Skinner’s belt, for his own.
Skinner growled, low warning deep in his throat and caught him by his jacket again. Turned Mulder roughly in his arms, forcing him as he tried to protest and wriggle free. Shoved him the length of the small room and up against the back wall.
He stopped struggling as Skinner’s mouth fastened onto his neck. As his head was tilted back to expose his throat. Teeth on his throat, scraping and tearing at the tender flesh. Hard cock pressed against his ass now, rubbing against him. Pressing him into the wall. And the whole time, that animal purr rumbling through Skinner’s mouth into him.
Mulder tried to arch back and couldn’t. He groaned, frustrated and aroused at being crushed by Skinner’s weight, then chopped the sound back before it could grow too loud.. He was blanketed by the bigger man. Incredible heat against his back. Cold, rough wall against his chest. Skinner moving harder against him with an insistent rhythmic intent that he welcomed, even as the absurdity, the danger, of it speared him. "We’re not--"
Skinner’s weight backed off him. Hands came down his body, cutting off his air. Trapping his protest. Slid into his groin. One hand worked his cock through his trousers; the other stripped at his belt and his zipper.
He gasped, arching back to give Skinner more room to work him, to manipulate him. He thrust forward towards the knowing fingers as they slid inside his clothes.
"We’re not going to do this here." Half question/half crazed laughter with no real protest. Knowing they were because there was no way he was going to stop Skinner. No way he even wanted to.
"It’s probably the only room in the building that’s not bugged," Skinner growled in his ear and shoved Mulder's trousers and shorts down and his shirt up. As if he didn’t care whether the room was bugged or not.
Mulder jerked. Did Skinner know there were bugs? Did he know where they were? Then bare, hot hands were on his skin, and he didn’t care anymore. One hand pushed up under his shirt to his nipple, the other dipped down to his balls. Both squeezed.
The downward spiral of pleasure along his nerves vaulted into freefall. Sensation buffeted him. Rushing so fast that he could only grasp at one thing, begin to feel it, enjoy it, before it was snatched away and another sensation took its place. Hands cupping his cock, his balls. Cold air down his ass and thighs as Skinner edged away from him. And before he could protest or shiver, hot, bare skin against him. Warming him. Burning him. Naked cock against his naked ass. Hands stroking his buttocks. Fingers stroking along the crease. Teeth, biting him through his shirt. Fingers dancing away. Returning to delve deeper. Tongue slithering along his earlobe.
Somebody was making those strange little sounds again, and again, it was his voice, clamoring and mewling. He reached for the wall, clinging to it for support. Because they were going to do this. Here and now, and he wanted it. Ached for it. Was burning for it.
He was burning up under the weight and pressure of his coat and shirt, wishing he could be rid of the barrier of it, preventing him from feeling Skinner against his back. He scrabbled at his tie, trying to loosen it, to get air. Just a little air, to cool the heat.
Skinner’s tongue danced along his neck where he’d dragged his collar away, and then his teeth traced the same path, and Mulder knew it wasn’t the coat that was going to burn him up.
He dragged at the wallpaper with his nails. Gray vinyl with a rough woven texture that scraped against his forehead and his cock. Gray and course and industrial. Such a contrast to the soft warmth of the fingers that stroked his spine, that found the bundle of nerves in the small of his back that tickled and tingled and made him come up on tiptoe.
Skinner rested the heel of his hand there, lightly, pressing him into stillness as a finger slipped down. Wet and slick now. Saliva? Lubricant? "Will you trust me?" Finger pressing at him. Voice pressing at him. "Will you?" Pressing roughly and circling and coaxing until no amount of pressure could have kept him still.
Mulder gasped and twisted. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He wanted to say it, but Skinner’s hands were robbing him of speech. His body answered for him. Loosening. Opening. The finger slipped inside him. Burned.
Skinner hissed and pushed in a second finger, ignoring his initial croon of pain. Pushing him past it, breathing, "Yes," in his ear when his body dilated.
Mulder groaned in counterpoint and bucked. So hot, so ready. He writhed, moaning encouragement as his body accepted being stretched and stroked, riding the pleasure and the pain with equal fervor. Arching back against the invasion. Wanting with a sudden, overwhelming ache, quick movement and rougher, deeper penetration.
Skinner leaned into him, pressed his face close. "You move pretty good for a dead man."
The words were muffled against his neck, gruff with passion, and if there was any anger left in the rough voice, Mulder couldn’t hear it. It was the second time Skinner had said that to him, but this time, it sounded so different. As different as night and day, the difference between accusing anger and suppressed laughter.
Laughter. It was not a sound he associated with Skinner. It was enthralling. It stripped away what little control he had left. "Half dead," he growled, and he arched, thrusting his ass back, inviting the penetration that Skinner was promising. "Fuck me." Demanding it.
Skinner shuddered against him. Steadied him, hands on his hips. Replaced his fingers with a thicker pressure. Leaning his forehead against Mulder’s ear, leaning them both into the wall, Skinner moaned softly as he pushed.
Mulder gasped. Not enough preparation. Too big. Too fast, and it hurt. But not enough to overcome the pleasure. The overwhelming, burning pleasure of being penetrated. The joy of hearing Skinner’s voice, as he sank into him.
On one side, his face was cold, cheek pressed against the rough vinyl wallpaper. On the other, warmed by Skinner’s breath. By the harsh sounds of pleasure caressing his cheek. By his own name, whispered tightly, and Skinner’s rasped confession, "Oh, god, it’s good to finally be in you."
Finally. Had he said it aloud before? The implication of that huskily spoken 'finally' echoed his earlier thought so exactly it took his breath away. He took a deep, shaky breath, hummed his agreement, his approval. He wanted to know how long Skinner meant by 'finally,' but he couldn’t find the words to ask.
And he couldn’t begin to voice how good it felt to have Skinner in him. How much it mattered that it was Skinner, filling him, holding him. Resting against him. How little it mattered that he had doubts. He managed to moan only, "Yes. Good."
Skinner groaned. Started to move, head still resting against his face. A slow, chafing rhythm.
Too slow. Too careful. He hissed, "Harder." Pushed back against Skinner’s cock the way he’d rocked against his hand. "Harder. Come on."
Skinner groaned again and gave him what he wanted. Thrusting into him, rough and fast, so hard his face was crushed against the unforgiving surface of the wall.
He whimpered, digging at the wall as if he would climb it. Whimper becoming a gasp becoming a moan. Pleasure strummed his nerves, singing in rhythm to his voice.
"Sh-h-h. Sh-h-h." Skinner leaned into him, smashing him into the wall. Fucking him into the wall. "No noise." Thrusts slowing as his hand come up, fingertips resting for a moment against Mulder's lips, trailing down his throat.
A mix of crazed laughter and soft sob hiccuped out of Mulder. "If anybody’s listening…" he gasped, "I think you bouncing my head off this wall has already given us away."
Skinner pressed his face into his shoulder. Shaking without sound.
Laughter? Twice in one day? Mulder couldn’t tell, and when he tried to twist to see, Skinner gasped and the pressure inside him was a quicksilver blossom of fire. Sudden tension and rippling, gleaming sensation. As blinding as the bright light Skinner used as a shield.
Mulder twisted again, sending pleasure like lightning, jagged and sharp, raging through his body. Laughter forgotten. "It’s an outside wall," he growled. "Fuck me. Fuck me hard."
Skinner grabbed his hips, trying to stop him. Hissed a warning. "Don’t. I can’t. I can’t." His hands came up, covered Mulder's, fingers twining with his. Holding him pinned. Skinner turned his head, searching blindly for Mulder’s mouth. "I can’t hold back."
Whispered, throaty confession, breathed past his lips. It was too much. Walter Skinner, in him. Pushed to the edge and trembling. Too much.
He moaned. Gripped Skinner’s fingers tighter and twisted. Arching up against the wall. Almost painful, like sandpaper, the textured vinyl against his cock. Like honey, the cock moving in him, thick and sweet and slow. The voice, insinuating itself into his blood, gifting him with laughter and passion and light.
Skinner disentangled one hand, reached down, cupping his cock. Shielding him, stroking him with his palm. So soft after the rough wall, insistent and greedy velvet.
Mulder shuddered. Shifted his stance, pushing away from the wall and bracing, because he could feel it. The pleasure, starting to crest. Coming at him from everywhere.
Skinner’s hand, bringing him off. Skinner’s cock, moving in him. Skinner’s voice whispering, "Like this?"
Tempo of the thrusts speeding. Starting to grind into him. But it didn’t matter anymore if it was fast or slow, or rough or sweet. It was enough. It was too much.
"I going to—" he gasped. "Now. Oh, now!"
The pressure boiled over. Sweet and hot, climbing his spine. Spangling out into his nerves. Pleasure washing over him.
Skinner cried out, a muffled shout, and he echoed it.
Mulder could feel him, coming inside him. A different, swelling pressure. Warmth. Fingers gripping his hard enough to hurt. Driving him higher.
His orgasm boiled over. Semen spurted out of him, onto the wall and Skinner’s fingers, and he had to close his eyes because that really was too much. Too much, his own orgasm and Skinner’s hand, moving on his cock. And the incredible, keening pleasure, bright, bright light spilling into his belly.
Skinner plastered against him, shuddering out his orgasm. Trembling as he rode out his own. For just a moment, together. In the same blissful place.
Skinner moaned against his shoulder, hot, humid breath seeping through his clothes. His thrusts slowed to little pushes. Trying to insinuate himself deeper.
Mulder pushed back, wanting him deeper. Wanting all of him. All of him. More, and he realized he was moaning it, 'More, more,' and Skinner was whispering, 'Yes,' in response, moving for him again. Rocking in him as the spasms took him again. Making him shudder and groan.
Until finally, the next clench of his muscles was easier. More bearable. And the next. And the next. Until without Skinner against him, he would have fallen. Would have slid down the wall and crumpled there. Shivering and spent on the cold, gray floor as he became aware of the roaring in his ears and fresh air burning into his lungs.
Skinner was leaning into his back, holding him up. Hot, boneless, welcome weight. Sweet, hot breath against his ear, like his own, slowly becoming more even.
Mulder's shoulder and his face and their hands, still entwined, were pressed into the rough surface. "Oh, god…" he whispered softly. Overwhelmed. Overcome.
Skinner’s head moved against him, nodding as if he agreed, as if he understood the sentiment. He straightened slowly, pulled away.
Cold air slipped down Mulder’s back, across his ass, his cock. Sudden slick emptiness.
The fingers clasped with his were the last connection to be broken. Slipping away, dragging gently across his cheek, dipping to touch his throat, as if they were reluctant to go.
He interpreted it as reluctance, because he wanted it to be. He stayed against the wall, too drained to move.
Skinner reached for the pile of paper towels on the nearby shelf. Dry, brown paper crackled in the sudden quiet as he cleaned himself. Metallic jingle of his belt as he fixed his clothing. "You’ll be late for the hearing."
Mulder moved, at last, tiredly. Suddenly aware of how long he’d been on his feet. How long since he’d slept. How long since he'd felt the sleepy, boneless weight of good sex.
As he reached for the towels, Skinner was suddenly there, against him again.
He said gruffly, "I’ll do it," and pushed Mulder's hands away. Stroked him with the rough paper, wiping away the traces of their passion, from him and the wall. Skinner held him against his chest he rearranged his clothes, their hands bumping together, faces touching.
Mulder shivered as Skinner tucked his shirt into place. He laughed softly. "I’ve been undressed before, but I don’t think anybody’s ever dressed me."
Skinner’s expression, what he could see of it from the side, was carefully neutral. But his hands weren’t. His hands were gentle and intimate and warm, smoothing Mulder's shirt down and his trousers up, fastening them.
Skinner stroked his cheekbone, touching a place no bigger than a quarter with just his thumb. A gentle circular caress, over and over, and his face didn’t really seem so much neutral as quiet. Relaxed. Satiated.
Warm, soft pad of Skinner’s thumb, stroking his cheekbone gently, massaging it, and Mulder started to shiver. A cool, shivery tingling all over his skin. Between his legs. He sighed.
Skinner held him as he shook. Let the slow, tender circling of his hands grow larger and larger, stroking his face, mapping Mulder's chest and his belly and his ribs and his softened cock.
Skinner pressed his lips to his ear and whispered, so softly Mulder almost didn’t understand. Wasn’t sure he had understood, except the words were so familiar.
Then Skinner pulled away, barely opening the door as he cautiously let himself out.
Left Mulder standing there alone in the small, gray room. Left him with only the echo of hands memorizing his body and a sad, sweet, ambiguous whisper teasing his mind.
Remember who you can trust.
He reached up and touched the spot on his cheekbone that simmered and tingled as if Skinner’s thumb had drawn blood up to the surface. Imprinted on his face was the woven texture of the wallpaper.
The End