11 Apr 1998


Disclaimer:  This is a work of speculative fiction intended for the enjoyment
of fans. The characters belong to CC and 1013 Prod and no copyright
infringement is intended. Do not read if m/m sex offends you or you are not
a legal adult.

Summary: Mulder and Skinner, the first time; a locked boxcar, it's cold and
dark, there's some chocolate -- what more needs to be said? 

Note: This is a PWP - it has no redeeming virtues - it does not advance the
plot, doesn't explain anybody's secrets nor plumb anyone's soul.  I'm rather
proud of that, actually.

Thanks: To Leila, beta-reader and chief chivvier.

Archive: Ok to MSSS

Feedback welcomed at: JiMPage363@aol.com
***
"Last Train to Clarksville"
By JiM

          "You know, Mulder, this is not how I had planned to spend my
weekend," Skinner said.

          "You mean you didn't want to be locked in a freezing boxcar with me,
heading for some remote northern site?"  Mulder asked, grinning wryly. 
"I'm  very hurt, sir."

          "Right now, I'm finding it very easy to deal with the idea of you
being very hurt, Agent Mulder," Skinner said grimly.

          "You'll have to take a number, sir.  Once Scully finds out..."

          "Once Scully finds out about this, *we're*  both going to be in big
trouble, Mulder."  

          "She has a gun, sir, and she's not afraid to use it," Mulder agreed
sadly. 

          Skinner sighed, then with an air of resignation that would have put
Robinson Crusoe to shame, he slid down the wall of the boxcar and sat
down.
 With his elbows resting on his drawn up knees, the A.D. made an
incongruous picture, the cuffs of his elegantly tailored suit and overcoat
straining as they rode up his muscled forearms.  Put him in camo and give
him an M-16 and Mulder could see the young Marine who had nearly died
in a far-off jungle, sitting just like that, waiting for the next attack.

          Mulder stood for a while longer, stubbornly resisting the constant
swaying and bucking of the train and the pounding in his head, before
giving  up and sitting down beside Skinner.  

          "This isn't exactly how I envisioned this going," he offered after a
moment, watching his breath steam in the dim light flickering through
cracks in the walls. 

          "Oh good. That's a relief, Agent Mulder.  I'd hate to think 

that
this was *planned*."

          "I still don't know what got into Hecht, sir.  Usually, he's a lot,
well, a lot less...unstable.  Frohike warned me he was jumpy, but I didn't
think he'd do something like this."

          "*Frohike* thought this guy was acting strangely and that didn't
suggest anything to you, Agent Mulder?"  

          Skinner pressed his thumbs into the bridge of his nose, digging them
into the edges of his eye sockets, vainly trying to stop his blossoming
headache.  He knew he was developing what he called a "Mulder migraine".
Occasionally, when it developed fiery red streaks behind his eyelids, he
called it a "Scully migraine", but this was definitely a "Mulder migraine" -
tenacious, unforgiving and seemingly intent on making him suffer.
 
          Well, if his head hurt, it gave him some small, vicious satisfaction
to know that Mulder's must be splitting.  After all, it was Mulder whom
Hecht had knocked over the head with his heavy Mag light before dumping
his unresisting body in this boxcar.  When Skinner had found him, just
coming around, the autumn sun had already been low in the sky, making it
difficult to see if Mulder had a concussion.  He had been so focused on
helping his agent that he never even heard his attacker return until it had
been too late.  The door of the boxcar had slid home with a mocking crash,
the sound of the padlock gratingly loud in the cold evening air.

          Shouting had done no good, even when Mulder had staggered to his
feet and tried coaxing Hecht into releasing them.  There had been no reply.
Then, in the fading light, the two of them had searched the car to try to find
some way out.  No joy there, either.  Skinner had almost resigned himself to
the embarrassment of sitting there for a few hours and waiting until the
night watchman discovered them when the train had begun to move.

          Of course it had, Skinner thought sourly.  What is it with Mulder,
anyway?  The man attracts bad luck like some people attract bees.  Just
being in the same zip code was enough to insure that you got stung.

          Earlier in the day, while wrapping up a case, a suspect had made a
break for it.  Scully and Mulder had recaptured him, but at the cost of a
sprained ankle for Scully that had sent her home early. Then Skinner had
been on his way out when he had seen Mulder in the garage, fruitlessly
poking around under his own car hood.  He had offered him a lift, unwisely,
as it turned out.  Mulder was on his way to meet an informant, one of his
vast network of paranoid-lunatic-conspiracy junkies.  Somehow, he had
conned Skinner into the quick side trip to the Alexandria train yards.

          Which explained why Skinner was now sitting in a locked box-car,
freezing his ass off, head pounding and bound for...who knew?  He
sincerely hoped that this was not one of those cars that gets uncoupled on a
deserted siding and left for six months.

          Looking over at his most irritating and effective agent, Skinner saw
him rub his face, then hunch his shoulders and rub his arms briskly.  Which
was when the A.D. realized that Mulder wasn't wearing his coat.  He must
have changed out of his suit after a workout at the gym; when Skinner had
met him, he had been wearing jeans and a sweater and a leather jacket.  

          "Where's your coat, Agent Mulder?"

          The agent's grin flashed whitely in the gloom.  "You sound just like
my mother."

          "I doubt your mother is a baritone, Mulder.  Where's your coat?"

          "In the car," Mulder said defensively.  "And, before you ask, my
 cell-phone is in the pocket."

          "Of course it is, " Skinner said tiredly.  "Actually, I knew that.
I expected that."

          "I've got my gun, though."  

          "Well, that makes a nice change."  Skinner couldn't help it, he began
to chuckle. The sound was unwilling, creaking, as if he hadn't done it  in a
while, but it was unmistakably the sound of human laughter.  Mulder's 
disconcerted stare did nothing to stem the tide, which threatened to
degenerate into undignified and helpless giggling.

          "Oh, Mulder, with a host of mutants, Senate subcommittees,
assassins, alien shape changers, killer telepaths and the Beltway to choose
from, we're likely to freeze to death in a boxcar, locked in by a paranoid
computer hacker with zits and a brand-new theory on the Kennedy
assassination. You don't find even the slightest bit of black humor in this
situation?"

          Mulder's lips quirked a little.  "There *is* a certain weird humor to
it..." he admitted.  "It would probably be a lot funnier if my head wasn't
pounding.  When I catch up with the little asshole, I'm going to pound him
into microchips.  And I'm freezing," he added plaintively, teeth clicking a
little as he shivered.

          Skinner abruptly stopped laughing as he remembered that he hadn't
been able to see if Mulder did indeed have a concussion.  At very least, he
was probably a bit shocky.  The cold would do nothing to help that.

          "Mulder.  Come here," he ordered.

          The agent was wary. "Why? Scully will be very angry if she doesn't
get first crack at me Monday morning," he warned.

          Skinner sighed.  "Just get over here, Mulder."  As he heard Mulder
roll to his hands and knees, Skinner said, "We've got to get you warm. I
don't want you passing out with a concussion."  He stretched his legs out
and patted the floor between his knees.  "Sit here." He unbuttoned his
overcoat.

          "Sir?"  Mulder knelt in front of him, embarrassment warring with
confusion.  When he didn't move, Skinner reached out, pushed the agent
around until his back was to him, then he pulled the younger man down to
sit between his legs, back firmly up against his boss' broad chest.  Then he
pulled the open edges of his coat as far around Mulder as he could, before
settling his arms loosely across Mulder's chest.

          The agent sat stiffly for a few moments, shivering and tense, before
he subsided gratefully against the hard warmth.  Skinner could feel the
shudders that racked him; Mulder's body felt cold to him, even through their
clothing.  Skinner  tightened his grip a little, unconsciously trying to soothe
that trembling.

          It got darker and darker.  Mulder's shivering grew less. Eventually,
he spoke.

          "Where'd you learn this maneuver?  Boy Scout handbook?"

          "Marine Survival Guide.  Better now?"

          "Some.  Who knew you were such a warm and caring guy, sir?" 
Mulder teased.

          "Don't push it, Mulder.  From this position, I can snap your neck in
two seconds," Skinner was surprised to hear himself teasing back, flexing
his arms.  Mulder's laugh rippled in the darkness, then he said,  "Wish I'd
eaten lunch.  Or breakfast, for that matter."

          Skinner sighed theatrically, then said,  "If you ever reveal what I
am about to show you to another living soul...", then he winced as cold air
rushed in as he shifted, reaching into his overcoat pocket.  He pulled out a
large Cadbury's Fruit & Nut chocolate bar, clumsily unwrapped one end and
broke off a chunk.  He pushed it into Mulder's fumbling hand, then took a
piece for himself.  When Mulder tasted it, he chuckled, the vibrations
thrumming into Skinner's chest.

          You have a secret chocolate habit, sir? I'm shocked. I usually have to
plunder Scully's desk when I want a fix.  Now I know who to come to when
my  regular supplier goes dry."

          "Do I mock your weakness for sunflower seeds, Agent Mulder?"
Skinner asked in a stentorian rumble, then handed him another piece. 

          Skinner sat back to savor the sensation of the chocolate melting 
across
his tongue.  Ever since he was a kid, he had loved this particular candy. His
grandfather had brought it for him, slipping it to him with exaggerated
stealth to keep his mother from discovering it. Long years since  his
grandfather had died, but Walter kept buying it, hiding it, enjoying the
moments when he could once again feel close to his grandfather with a boy's
uncomplicated pleasure.  

          He was surprised when he heard himself  telling Mulder all about it,
in between bites of chocolate, the clacking of the rails providing a rhythmic
counterpoint to his words.  Mulder responded with a funny tale from his
own childhood and they traded stories, holding off the dark with nothing
more than friendly words.

          The wooden floor was cold against his ass and his legs were cramping
but Skinner found that he had no real urge to shift position.  The worst of
the cold was held at bay by the man he held in his arms.  He thought he
ought to be concerned at how comfortable this seemed, then decided he'd
worry about it later.  

          They were quiet for a time, a thoughtful, contemplative silence that
Walter hadn't enjoyed with anyone else in a long time.  The shivering had
stopped.  Mulder had relaxed against him even more now, and if Skinner
didn't know better, he would swear the man was cuddling up to him.  The
younger agent's head was resting on Skinner's shoulder, face turned slightly
toward him.  The swaying of the train rocked Mulder gently in Skinner's
arms.  His hair brushed against Skinner's lips.

           It smelled good, a sharp, sweet smell, at odds with the diesel and
dust smell of the box car.  With a slight start, Skinner realized that it felt
good, too, crisp and soft, the lightest caress on his jaw and lips.  How long
had it been since he had simply sat close to someone, touched someone?  
He tried to think and became lost in memories.

          Time passed.  His headache receded some.  The countryside the train
was traveling through was dark and empty.  There was no light to bear 
witness to any folly.  

          Mulder hadn't spoken in so long that Skinner was certain that he was
asleep.  The train went around a long bend, heeling over just enough to shift
the two men; Mulder's head was somehow now held firmly beneath
Skinner's chin.  When Skinner flexed his neck, trying to work the kinks out
of it, his cheek came back automatically to rest against Mulder's hair.  A
very slight motion and Skinner's lips brushed across Mulder's forehead.  

           He was bemused.  How good it felt to touch someone gently, no
pressure, no expectations. Just to sit here in the dark, and give some 
friendly kisses to someone who seemed as lost and lonely as he was,
comforted a small, frozen part of himself.  So long since he had been able to
be kind to someone like this.  He pressed his lips against Mulder's cool
forehead again, this time leaving his mouth there, nuzzling lightly.  

           Mulder shifted suddenly in his arms and Skinner froze.  My God,
what was he doing? Then Mulder made a contented little murmuring noise
and slid an arm around the A.D.'s neck before subsiding with a sigh.  There
was now no question in Skinner's mind that Mulder was snuggling up to
him.  He was also forced to be objective and recognize the fact that he
*was* cuddling his subordinate.  In the dark.  In a boxcar bound for
nowhere.  Only Mulder, he thought, would get me into a situation like this. 
Only Mulder, he thought, then stilled. There was a truth prowling around
here in the dark, circling them, and he didn't think he wanted to meet it
head-on right now.  Better to go back to that warm and friendly thoughtless
place of animal comfort and touch.

          Then he felt cold fingers lightly stroking the back of his neck and
his mouth went dry.  Mulder's knowledgeable fingers were warming up
quickly, searching out the tense muscles, tracing them up onto his skull,
teasing them into relaxing.  Skinner dropped his chin down, to allow those
strong fingers better access, and pillowed his cheek on Mulder's sweet-
scented hair again. Bit by bit, Skinner realized that his Mulder migraine was
easing off to a dim grumble.  Well, there was a certain justice to that -
Mulder caused it, so Mulder should help relieve it.  

          "Feels good, " he murmured, afraid that words would break the spell.
Mulder suddenly shifted his legs, crooking his knees over Walter's thigh, so
that he was now sitting perpendicular to the other man.  The hand that had
been trapped against Skinner's body now shifted up to work on his neck as
well.  Skinner gave a pleased groan and leaned his forehead against
Mulder's cheek.  He could feel Mulder's breath on his face, warm and
chocolate-scented.  Without thinking, he drew his own legs up, sitting
nearly cross legged to allow him to hold Mulder closer within the circle of
his body.  

          He began running his hands up and down Mulder's back, trying to
keep him warm, now that he was without the protection of Skinner's
overcoat. Long,  firm muscles rippled under his hands, delighting him
strangely.

          "Mulder - what are we doing?" he whispered.

          "Whistling in the dark?"  

          Skinner snorted and those warm fingers stopped their spider-walk
down his spine.

          Mulder's voice went on, teasing now.  "You know how to whistle,
don't you?  You just put your lips together...umph!"

          Recovering quickly, Mulder kissed the way he did everything else in
his life, with a single-minded concentration that locked out everything else
in the universe, made it extraneous.  Suddenly, Skinner was no longer tired,
or cold, or hungry, or afraid.  He was on fire.  

          There in the dark, the world had narrowed down to sensations - the
feel of Mulder's hard body in his arms, pressed against his chest,  the slip
of warm lips on his, the slide of a cunning tongue coaxing his own out to
play, breath quickening, the dark, sweet taste of Mulder's mouth.  And
dimly, beneath it all, held at a distance, was the sound of the rails singing
beneath them.  The lonely moan of the train whistle pressed them closer
together, needing to hold someone, something in the darkness.  

          Mulder wriggled in his arms and Skinner knew that he wanted to be
touched.  So he let his hands wander, carding his fingers through Mulder's
thick hair, trailing them down the elegant curve of his neck, thumb lingering
on his ear, stroking the peach fuzz of the lobe, delighted with its innocent
warmth.  He let his open palm glide across Mulder's chest, feeling the
smooth planes of muscle beneath the thin sweater. His hand shaped the
curve of Mulder's hip, then cupped his buttock, squeezing gently, the warm
resilience an unexpected pleasure.  His adventurous hand stopped on the
steel strength of Mulder's thigh, taut beneath his fingers.

          Mulder pulled his mouth away to gasp, "Please!"  He shifted again,
leaning back, trusting Skinner to hold him up, begging for his touch.  After
another endless moment's hesitation, Skinner's hand curved to the inside of
Mulder's thigh, then slowly slipped up to lightly graze the hot bulge in his
jeans.  Mulder pressed up against Skinner's hand, mutely pleading.

          Feeling dazed and hot, Skinner cradled Mulder, one arm holding him
tightly while the other hand fumbled with the snap and zipper of the
younger agent's jeans.  Mulder's hands were tracing maniacal patterns down
his arms, up his throat, dragging his head down to be consumed in another
mind-stealing kiss.  He swallowed Mulder's gasp when his questing hand
closed around Mulder's straining shaft and drew it out into the cold air.

          He remembered the feel of a man's penis in his hand. So many years
ago, the hot jungle groping, silent and desperate under trees, the only sounds
the harsh breathing of frightened men and the constant patter of rain on the
leaves.  

          He remembered the feeling, but this was something so different.  This
was silk and silver, warm and pulsing for him, leaping to his touch.  He ran
one broad thumb across the head of Mulder's cock, slipping through the
pre-ejaculate gathering there.  Mulder jerked and bit his chin, then moaned
when Skinner stroked up and down his shaft, slowly and methodically, as if
repeating a rote lesson.  The maddening drag of a calloused thumb across
the crown of his cock on each upstroke reduced Mulder to whimpers.

          Feeling ridiculously young and happy, Skinner stopped his hand and
just held Mulder's cock firmly, asking solicitously, "Are you still cold,
Agent Mulder?"

          "NO," the younger man growled.  "Don't stop."

          Skinner let his thumb draw cruel little circles on the drooling head
of Mulder's cock.  "You're sure?  I wouldn't want you to catch cold."

          "Walter!  Do something!"

          Skinner cupped his hand over the head of Mulder's cock and polished
the slick head with his rough palm.  Mulder moaned, then gasped between
gritted teeth,

          "Walter - I still have my gun."

          Skinner's laugh was low and triumphant.  He blindly sought out
Mulder's mouth again and his hand began drawing Mulder on toward
release.  He stroked and pumped, caressed and ringed, changing speed and
pressure, guided always by the moans and whimpers that trickled out from
between their lips.  

          When he felt, rather than heard, Mulder's low, desperate moans
against his chest, he was moved to mercy.  His coup de grace stroke had
Mulder writhing in his lap and coming in moments, unable to make a sound
as warm, silken fluid spilled from him.  Mulder had buried his face in the
curve of Skinner's throat and his panting, hot breath wafted up half-heard
obscenities.

          "You...bastard...oh fuck...oh god...incredible...bastard..."

          Skinner wiped his wet hand on Mulder's jeans, then gently tucked his
limp penis back into his jeans, zipping and buttoning with real regret.
Skinner knew that he was grinning like a madman and was glad of the
darkness. If Mulder had been able to see the incredibly smug look on his
lover's face, he would have shot him, boss or not.

          But now, he, too, felt the gnawing of unfulfilled need.  "Mulder?"
he asked, desperation roughening his voice.  The younger man sat up and
clambered clumsily to his knees, pushing Skinner's long legs out of the way.
Leaning his forehead against Skinner's, he panted, "I ought to just let you
hang," but Skinner heard the grin in his voice.  Mulder kissed him even as
he felt the demon-touch of those hands prowling down his chest, dragging
nails across his nipples, erotically muffled by his shirt.

          Mulder tugged on his belt once, silently instructing Skinner to slide
down until he was nearly flat on the floor.  Mulder's hands were cool as he
unfastened Skinner's slacks and caressed his cock before pushing all of the
binding cloth out of the way.  Holding the thick shaft lightly, Mulder ran his
lips over the crown, allowing his raspy chin to drag lightly across the
sensitive tip.  At Skinner's surprised hiss, he chuckled, "Paybacks are a
bitch, aren't they?"

          Skinner's hands were running lightly, recklessly, over Mulder's
shoulders and head.  He couldn't bring himself to beg, but Mulder could feel
all the words that trembled beneath him.  "I wish I could see you," he
whispered, then took Skinner's cock into his mouth.  His touch was firm and
sure, the strokes of his tongue knowing and skilled.  There was no teasing,
only a steady building toward the explosion that Mulder could feel rumbling
beneath his hands.

          Skinner was somewhere non-verbal, the darkness shot through with
gold and white flashes.  Mulder's touch was both inflaming and reassuring.
Skinner had given himself completely into the agent's hands and there was
nothing to do but feel now.  The wet heat of Mulder's mouth was gentle,
even as it tore him apart.  He came in utter silence, pouring all he felt, all 
he
could not say, into Mulder's mouth.

          Afterward, they lay, still silent, Skinner's hands moving gently 
across
Mulder's head, still pillowed on his stomach.  After a few minutes, Mulder
realized that he was beginning to feel cold again.  With a sigh, he 
refastened Skinner's clothes, then allowed himself to be tugged down into
Skinner's arms.  The A.D. shifted him until Mulder was half-lying on him,
cushioned from the worst of the cold floor, the overcoat tucked around them
both again.  Wrapping his arms around the younger man, he kissed him
softly, tasting himself on the still-moist lips.

          "You OK?  How's your head?"

          "Who cares? That was ...unreal."

          "Thanks," Skinner said awkwardly.

         "I'm thirsty," Mulder said after a time, then lay his head down on the
still-heaving chest beneath him, listening to the thunder of Skinner's heart, a
bass line to the rumbling of the rails.  Skinner's large hands moved over
Mulder's back, gently chafing and keeping the parts not covered by the coat
warm.  Silently and separately, they fell asleep.

          The two men were jolted awake by a voice shouting, "Mr. Skinner?
Mr. Mulder? Are you here?"  

          Light was pouring into the boxcar through the cracks in the walls.
Skinner groggily tried to sit up and was prevented by the solid weight of
Mulder slowly swimming to consciousness on his chest. Unceremoniously
dumping his agent off, Skinner sat up and tried to shout.  All that came out
was a dry croak.  He tried again and managed a pitifully weak, "We're
here!"

          There were answering shouts and the two men looked at each other in
relief, which quickly faded to confusion and other emotions less clear-cut.
Mulder looked like hell in the morning light.  Hair full of dust and hay
wisps, a day's growth of beard, lips cracked and dry, dark circles under his
eyes and all Skinner wanted to do was pull him into his arms and croon
ridiculous, meaningless words at him until the shadows left his eyes. Mulder
staggered to his feet with a moan and Skinner's gaze caught the white,
crusty smear of dried semen on his jeans.  Their eyes met for a moment,
stricken and hilarious.

         Then the door of the boxcar slid open and they were blinking in the
harsh glare of a snowy Vermont morning.

         The State troopers that rescued them insisted on taking them to the
nearest hospital to be checked out.  It took the local doctors several hours
to determine that the two men were merely tired, hungry, cold and annoyed
at finding themselves in Clarksville, VT.  Mulder only had a lump on his
head, not a concussion, which was reassuring to Skinner, who guiltily
remembered how he had allowed Mulder to sleep after they had... 

          After drinking several quarts of electrolyte mixture apiece and
demolishing a stack of sandwiches from the hospital cafeteria, they were
feeling half-way human and  politely demanded to leave.  Shrugging, the
doctor discharged them with stern orders to rest and keep warm for the
remainder of the day and delivered them back into the amused care of the
state troopers.

          Somehow, Mulder conned the two kind-hearted troopers into stopping
off at a drugstore for razors and other needfuls.  He was projecting the
impression that he had intended to wind up exactly *here*.  To Skinner, his
behavior was reminiscent of a cat who has missed his jump, stalking off
with  'I meant to do that' radiating from every whisker.  It irritated him that
he found this kind of adolescent posturing *cute* in Mulder. 

          The store was one of those garishly-lit mega-stores that sold
everything from aspirin to x-ray cream, with a definite accent on the
Thanksgiving decorations and paper turkeys.  The sudden, inexplicable
loathing Skinner felt toward the place must have shown on his face.  

          Mulder said only, "I'll go.  Need anything besides shaving gear and
a toothbrush?"  He didn't quite meet the A.D.'s eyes when Skinner shook his
head.  Mulder got out, leaving Skinner to make polite conversation with
their rescuers.

           From them, Skinner determined that Scully was indirectly
responsible for their abrupt rescue.  Unable to reach Mulder, she had begun
the arduous task of tracking him down, teasing out the name of his contact
from the Lone Gunmen and tracking Skinner's empty car to the rail yard,
one of Hecht's favorite meeting places. After that, it had merely been a
matter of notifying 12 separate police forces to search all incoming freight
trains... Skinner felt his headache blossoming in the full horror of the
morning.

          What the hell was taking Mulder so long to get a pack of razors and
some shaving cream?  Skinner realized that he was fuming to cover up other
less appropriate and dignified emotions.  Spotting a pay-phone, he excused
himself and called in to the office. He found himself gritting his teeth as he
heard the suppressed giggles in the voice of his secretary.  This morning,
nothing about last night seemed at all amusing to him.  Kim had arranged
for a rental car to be delivered to them that afternoon, after booking them
into a local motel. 

          The A.D. wanted to argue with her arrangements, but the last vestige
of common sense not burned away in last night's madness convinced him
that they were both too tired to start back today.  Tomorrow morning would
have to see them home and back to some vestige of normalcy.

           He was just hanging up when Mulder emerged, blinking in the too-
bright sunlight.  Mulder said nothing, merely handed him one of the small
paper bags he carried, before getting back into the car.

          His silence was almost a physical thing.  Skinner wondered if he
were merely exhausted or terminally embarrassed.  Nothing seemed to be
the right shape or color in the cold light of day.  Certainly, nothing about the
past night had any shape of reality to it. 

           Looking sideways at Mulder, sitting silently beside him in the back
of the patrol car, Skinner tried to trace the features of the man who had
shuddered and cried out with pleasure in his arms.  He couldn't find him
anywhere in the detached stone face Fox Mulder was presenting to the
world.  Fine, if he wanted to behave as if last night hadn't happened, Skinner
was more than willing to play along.  It was probably for the best. 

             The troopers took them to the motel, relatively clean and nearly
deserted now that foliage season was over.  Kim had booked them into
adjoining rooms, standard procedure for agents traveling together.  Now, he
resented it, wanting nothing more than to forget that Fox Mulder even
existed, let alone hear him on the other side of the wall.  Some ungovernable
part of him wanted that other Mulder back, the one who had touched him
with such knowing and loving hands.  Where had that man gone?

           Skinner stripped slowly in the blessed warmth of his motel room,
every muscle aching.  He was almost able to ignore the undeniable signs of
last night's activities still on his skin, dried and itchy.  Running a hand
over his chin, he retrieved the bag Mulder had handed him and spilled the
contents out onto the counter in the bathroom.  Disposable razor, travel-
sized shaving cream, deodorant, toothbrush and paste... and a Fruit & Nut
chocolate bar.  Damn him.

           He ran the shower as hot as he could bear, shaved, then stood 
beneath the stream until it cooled.  There were no thoughts in his head -
anything that entered his mind was quickly suppressed.  The memory of the
curve of Mulder's thigh - the taste of his mouth - the strangled whimper that
had slipped between his teeth -- Skinner's fist slammed against the tiles.
That just added bruised knuckles to the long list of aching body parts and
other indignities visited upon him in the last 24 hours.  He turned off the
water, dried off with jerky, sharp motions, brushed his teeth, then forced
himself into bed.

          He knew himself to be exhausted, felt the need for real, unmoving,
uninterrupted sleep screaming in every muscle - but sleep eluded him.  He
hated being in bed in the middle of the afternoon.  His numb brain could
only conjure up images of Mulder in the dark - the heat of him, the arc of
his ass, the sound of his laughter.  Skinner's tortured growl almost drowned
out the soft knock on the connecting door.  He sat up with a sigh and put on
his glasses, the bedclothes pooling in his lap.

          "Come!" he barked, then winced at his own phrasing.

          A freshly-showered-and-shaved Mulder, towel wrapped around his
waist, hesitated just inside the room, a nervous smile chasing a frown across
his face.

           "Someone has an over-tired id," he commented after a moment.

           "My id has had a hell of a night, Mulder," Skinner growled.  But
something of the careless lunacy of last night must have still clung to them
both, as a smile began to break through Skinner's forbidding expression.
In a moment, both he and Mulder were laughing until tears ran down their
faces.

          "God, Mulder, is there no end to the trouble you get me into?"
Skinner asked, still gasping.

          "Sorry, sir, I just..." Mulder stopped, frowning again.

          After a short silence, Skinner asked, "Mulder - what do you want?"

          The young man just stared at him, eyes large and bruised-looking in
the dim light filtering through the curtains.  After a time, he said softly,

          "I'm cold, sir."

          It took Skinner a moment to understand, then a surprisingly gentle
smile settled on his face as he held out his arms and waited for Mulder to
slip into them.

          "Don't call me 'sir'."


Finis