MISSING IN ACTION
                     by Gloria Lancaster

Part of him watched the play of light across the room, the way
the dust motes floated, the slight shimmer of warm air rising
above the live computer terminal.  Part of him listened to the
hum of the computer, the steady throb of the refrigerator, the
utter silence that swallowed up the distant sounds of traffic.
There was nothing else; the phone didn't ring.  Why should it?
There would be no news, he sensed it, intuitively; he would
not call the connection between them telepathy, but that there
was a connection was irrefutable.  He knew when she was in
pain, when she was afraid.  All he sensed now was nothing.  

They'd done it to him again, the bastards.  They'd taken
someone he loved.  First Samantha and now Dana.  Bright,
shining Dana, with that cool enquiring mind, that wise and
innocent sceptic; the only one he trusted and they had taken
her away as well.  

A small, vicious part of him was very glad that Duane Barry
was dead.  He was still tormented by the thought that somehow,
in some way, Duane had maybe hurt her.  Slapped her around,
beaten her, to keep her quiet.  That thought was - unbearable.
It was all unbearable.  

He closed his eyes, even looking at the dust motes was too
much trouble.  

A knock at the door.  He ignored it.  Again.  He still ignored
it, having no interest whatsoever in who was outside.  There
was a small, slick little sound and Mulder froze, hand
reaching automatically for his gun, inside the holster he was
still wearing.  The door swung open to reveal a figure in
silhouette, a man, tall, broad.  Mulder pointed the gun right
at the head, his hand was remarkably steady.  

"This is not quite the way to ask for a raise, Agent Mulder,"
said a calm, even voice.  

Mulder lowered the gun and turned away, staring into the now
darkened room again.  A cold steady trickle of sweat seemed to
be making its way down his spine: the only reason he could
think of for Skinner to come here was with bad news.  Very bad
news.  

"You didn't show up for work today, Agent Mulder," Skinner
said and came in, closing the door behind him.  He walked
forward, taking in the dark shrouded room, the blue glare of
the resting computer screen providing fitful illumination. 
Mulder didn't move or speak.  At last Skinner turned and
looked down at the other man, slouched on the sofa.  "Are you
ill?" he asked with no obvious interest.  

Mulder managed to shake his head; why did this have to happen?
 Why Skinner?  Why now?  "No," said, through bone dry lips,
"no, I'm not ill."

"Where did you go?"

"Back to Skyland Mountain," Mulder said wearily, reaching up
to rub at the tension in the back of his neck.  It had been a
long drive back, with nothing but tangled thoughts for
company. 

"Why?" in that patient, enquiring tone, that distant
unconcerned voice, the voice of an interrogator.  

"To make sure... to see... to look for her."

"Did you find her?"

"No," that almost provoked anger but it faded; he was so
tired, why wouldn't Skinner just leave him alone?  "I'll be
back at work tomorrow, I'm sorry."  Even to his own ears, he
sounded defeated.  

"I'm glad to hear it, Agent Mulder.  The X files have been
re-opened you know, there's work to be done."

Mulder shook his head.  There was always work to do.  What
difference did it make?  There was a muffled sound and Mulder
watched in some amazement as Assistant Director Skinner sat
down on the coffee table, right square in front of him,
leaning forward, elbows on knees.  

"You," Skinner stated, some irritation starting to show now,
"look terrible."

Mulder looked his amusement at that; "I feel terrible, sir." 
Why that should matter to Skinner was incomprehensible. 
"Sorry, sir," he said, with something like his own old manner,
"I'll be cleaned up in time for duty."  

Sinner ignored this; "Have you eaten anything today?"  Mulder
shook his head, bemused.  "Have you been drinking?  Or taken
anything?"  Again, no.  "You know, sometimes I think you
agents are more trouble than a house full of children would
be," and Skinner stood up, towering over the other man.  It
was an intimidating trick, particularly as Skinner didn't seem
to realise how powerful it could be.  Mulder had noticed it
before; that unconscious arrogance, the simple physical
presence of someone strong and unaware of his strength.  

Mulder watched in stunned bafflement as Skinner shrugged out
of his raincoat and tossed it aside onto a chair.  "Where's
the..., ah, through here, right?" and he was gone.  Mulder
listened to him moving around in the kitchen, a few muffled
swear words and one or two slams as cupboards were opened and
closed.  

Skinner came back and held out a cup.  "Drink it."  This was
the voice of his superior officer, the voice of someone who
expected to be obeyed.  

Mulder took the cup automatically then sniffed, pulling a
disgusted face.  "What is it?"  he asked, suspiciously.  

"Not poisoned, or drugged to make you tell me the secret
formula," and if Mulder hadn't known better, he would say
Skinner was laughing at him, "its warm milk laced with rum and
honey."

"I don't have any rum," Mulder pointed out and sipped
obediently; it seemed easier that way.  

"What do you think I carry in my raincoat pocket?" Skinner
asked mildly.  "Apart from my thirty eight and my badge?"

"You go around with a hip flask prepared to give your agents
hot toddies?  Now, that's weird," Mulder said.  It actually
tasted rather good, maybe a bit too sweet but warming.  

"Only the agents who need it," Skinner replied equably.  "And
you do."  He resumed his seat on the coffee table and regarded
Mulder closely; the blue light from the computer screen
glinted on his spectacles, making him seem more inscrutable
than ever.  "Drink it, Mulder, drink it all and then get
cleaned up and get some sleep."

"That an order?" Mulder felt a little mulish now, the
weirdness of the situation giving way to irritation and some
embarrassment.  Skinner intimidated him sometimes, downright
frightened him sometimes to be honest and this was so out of
character, for both of them, Mulder was unprepared to deal
with it.  

"Do I have to make it an order?" there was that teasing tone
again and very faintly, the beginnings of a smile. This is
really getting weird, Mulder told himself, sipping some more
of the sweet, thick liquid.  Skinner doesn't smile.  Ever. 
Not even at Dana, and everyone smiles at Dana.  That thought
brought the memory and the pain back like a stab wound. 

Skinner seemed to sense the change because his expression
faded and he removed his glasses carefully, setting them down
and rubbing at the bridge of his nose with thumb and
forefinger.  His face became still and controlled again, the
face Mulder knew.  "Do you blame yourself?" Skinner asked,
unexpectedly, "for Samantha, I mean, being abducted instead of
you?"  

Mulder plain stared at him, mouth slightly open in shock.  

"Its a common enough reaction, or so I've read.  Grief. 
Guilt, pain, anger, resentment.  All that stuff."

"You read?  Read what?"  Mulder replied, a little frantically.
This was getting too close, too personal.  

"I got some books about abduction experiences," Skinner said,
"it seemed only sensible to find out about it."

Part of Mulder was repelled by the cold efficiency of the man,
and part recognised the good sense of it.  "I don't blame
myself," he said, perhaps a little too vehemently.  

Skinner raised an eyebrow.  "And now Agent Scully too," he
went on, "it would be perfectly understandable if you were to
feel responsible.  And angry that once again, you were left
behind.  Always the bridesmaid, eh Mulder, never the bride?"

This was incredible; Skinner was baiting him, taunting him
with some of his most personal, private emotions.  "You are
out of line, sir," Mulder grated, feeling a slow burning anger
fill him, felt his fists clench and his jaw tighten.  

"Yes, I am," Skinner replied promptly, "and so are you.  What
happened was not your fault, Mulder.  Are you listening to me?
Not your fault."

"I..." Mulder started, feeling overwhelmed by his response,
nerves shredded by the rollercoaster of this weird situation;
anger, pain, a fluttering weakness that threatened breakdown,
still some residual distrust of Skinner and his motives; it
all tangled and tumbled in his brain, making him feel slightly
sick, slightly dizzy.  "Did you put something in the milk?" he
accused and flinched back from the grim, humourless spasm that
crossed Skinner's face.  

"Only rum and honey, Agent Mulder.  The rest you're doing to
yourself, you can't blame me."

"I feel - sick," Mulder said, accusingly.

"Go ahead, it's your carpet, not mine," Skinner was brutal,
amused.  "You've not eaten anything all day?  Maybe I did put
a tad too much rum in there," it was that teasing tone back
again, the one Mulder found he absolutely hated, "and that jar
of honey looked way old - does honey get bad?  I don't know,"
and with that disturbing strength, Skinner hoisted Mulder to
his feet, grabbing lapels and heaving.  "But you can't sit
here for ever, Agent Mulder."

Mulder swayed, a little disoriented by the swiftness of
Skinner's actions.  He steadied himself, catching hold of
Skinner's hands automatically, blinking to try and clear his
head.  The sickness faded, just a little, leaving a weak,
wretched trembling behind.  "She was - is, is, the only one I
trusted... trust," he started to say, then ran out of words. 
Skinner wouldn't understand, no one would understand.  Maybe
even he didn't understand.  "I'm just so tired," he said,
trying to explain.  

"I know," the reply was gentle, almost compassionate, and
filled with knowledge.  "I know - so tired you can't sleep, so
tired you can't think straight anymore, so tired it takes
everything you've got just to put one foot in front of the
other, get through one more minute of it.  I know," and with
no embarrassment, Skinner put his arms around Mulder's
shoulders and drew him close, "I know."

This was strange, it shouldn't be happening and yet it was;
and the bliss of being able to rest, just for a second, while
someone else bore the weight, for just that second to let
someone else be in control, was almost tormentingly sweet.  

"Let it go, Agent Mulder," Skinner said, still in that sweet,
gentle voice, "and that's an order from one of the few people
you take orders from, just let it go."  The embrace tightened,
firm and inescapable; it was impersonal in a way, and Mulder
felt the strength there too, that this was not open for
discussion and that Skinner had no intention of listening
anyway.  

It was - nice - to rest like this, to know it would not be
seen as weakness.  Skinner was strong, a rock to cling to, a
fortress to hide behind, to forget it all just for a moment
and rest his forehead on Skinner's shoulder, to be held in
this overpowering but simple way, the way a father would hold
his son.

"Come along Agent Mulder," Skinner said, the words were soft
but a trifle impatient, "just come along with me," and he was
released a little, guided towards the bedroom, Skinner's arm
still secure around his shoulder, supporting him.  He let
himself be set down on the edge of the bed, and raised one
hand to cover his eyes as the bedside lamp was switched on.  

"Headache?" Skinner asked.

"No," Mulder replied, thickly, feeling desperately ashamed of
the weakness that threatened to spill the tears down his face.
He never cried, hadn't cried in years.  This was humiliating. 
"I'll be ok now, sir," he tried to recover himself, "it's kind
of you to take the trouble... " and woefully, Mulder heard his
own words start to crack, break under the strain of trying to
keep it all inside.  He stopped and took a very deep breath,
his throat so tight it was an actual pain.  

"It will choke you, if you don't let it out," Skinner said,
academically, "and it's not kind of me at all."  The bed
dipped as Skinner sat down and with that unnerving strength
and competence, took hold of Mulder again, firmer than before,
compelling Mulder's head to rest on his shoulder, drawing
Mulder's reluctant arm around him.  "We all need a little
demonstration of security every now and again, Agent Mulder,
even you.  And after all, that is my job."

Mulder almost smiled at that - job description of the
Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations:
tucking up recalcitrant agents with a goodnight cuddle.  "I'm
not usually so - pathetic," Mulder had to defend himself,
still ashamed to be like this, here, with Skinner of all
people, his Boss, for God's sakes.  

"No, I know you're not.  But this isn't usual. I know you and
Scully are close," Skinner shifted Mulder's weight just a
little, getting comfortable.

"We weren't lovers," Mulder said, sensing the implication even
as he appreciated both the embrace and Skinner's tactful use
of the present tense.  

"Oh, I know that too.  I would never have thought you were -
men and women can be friends, and it can be the best kind of
friendship there is.  You like Scully - so do I.  And I
imagine you think of Samantha as maybe being that way, if
she'd grown up?  Bright and clever and strong?  And lovely?"

It was no good, he couldn't help himself, couldn't stop if
someone pointed a gun to his head; his face was wet, the water
pouring down his cheeks unheeded.  It was true, all of it,
every word.  That - if she were still here - Samantha would
have been like Scully, as good, as kind, as honest. 
Everything a brother could ever want his sister to be.  Mulder
gave a muffled sob, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep
the betraying sound inside, feeling his chest expand with the
pressure of suppressing it, feeling his shoulders start to
heave, his stomach cramp with it.  

There was only one place to go, one place to crawl into, the
dark haven of Skinner's shoulder, the warm refuge of Skinner's
neck, Skinner's arms around him, stroking his back, his
shoulders, one hand coming up to cradle his head nearer,
stroking through his hair, warm and heavy and comforting. 
"There, Fox, there," it was said with a world of understanding
and Mulder sobbed, once, hard and solid inside his chest, the
use of his name giving him some sort of permission, no more
Agent Mulder, just Fox.  The sobbing grew stronger,
unpractised and clumsy, dragged up from deep places inside
him, the places were old pains lie.  

He cried silently, like a man who has forgotten how, the
release of it, the weight of years falling away, leaving him
weak and empty, only held together by the warm strong arms
that held him, so close and so gentle, the arms that made him
feel safe.  

He grew quiet then, feeling himself relax from almost
unbearable tension towards oblivion.  Skinner's hand stroked
through his hair still, very softly, the caress soothing,
almost hypnotic.  Mulder raised his head at last, his eyes
still bleary.  "I'm sorry, I got your shirt all wet," he said,
realising how silly that sounded as he said it.  

"I don't mind," and that was a real smile, Mulder thought,
dazzled, that's what a real smile looks like on Skinner's
face, that warmth, that certain understanding.  It was so
natural, like breathing; Mulder felt his face get hot, the
handsome severe features of the other man, his hazel clear
eyes, the flexible smiling mouth, all this drew him, forward,
closer and closer, to brush his lips there, at the corner of
Skinner's mouth, feeling his own mouth dry and rough at the
touch, seeking a further touch then, moving slightly to kiss
Skinner full on the mouth, a slight pout, hesitant, needing.  

The hand stroking through his hair stopped; Skinner seemed
frozen in place, neither retreating nor advancing, simply -
waiting.  Mulder looked at him, saw the cautious surprise
there in his eyes but no rejection, no disgust.  No
condemntation.  Mulder placed his hand against the side of
Skinner's face, knowing again the smooth strong softness of a
man's skin.  He rubbed, very gently, at the jawline, feeling
the faint rasp of whiskers against his finger tips.  Their
eyes locked, both caught by the moment between them, the
strangeness of it.  

It was too much; Mulder's fractured desire for this, his
sternly denied attraction to his boss were swept away by the
physical reality of actually touching him: it was juvenile to
have a crush on your superior officer, quite quite juvenile -
and quite quite unavoidable.  Does he know, Mulder thought
hazily, does he have any idea what he does to me?  Why my
voice is always just a little shaky when I'm talking to him? 
Why I can't ever quite meet his eye, and can't ever quite look
anywhere else?  Does he know about that time I let myself have
a fantasy about him touching me?  

Mulder closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his lips
against Skinner's mouth, harder than before, his lips open and
damp against the other man, pushing at him, kissing, pleading
for a response.  He gave a short, muffled groan and kissed
Skinner again.  

Skinner's hands moved, slowly, to Mulder's head, both hands
cradling the back of his skull, drawing him near, keeping
their mouths close together.  He opened his mouth slightly, to
allow Mulder access, tongue meeting tongue as Mulder licked
forward, very sensuously, across Skinner's lower lip, stroking
over and over, very slowly, deeper and deeper with each
stroke.  

I'm kissing my boss, Mulder realised, dazed, thrilled and a
little frightened, that strong scary man who looks so grim all
the time, I'm kissing him and he's starting to kiss me; and
God, but he's good at that, good at taking charge.  

Mulder snuggled closer, squirming just a little, more to feel
Skinner's arms tighten around him than from any desire to be
set free.  Skinner was kissing him now, very deeply, a long
slow exploration of tongue and lips and mouth, tasting,
experimental at first, then with a certain contained
arrogance.  Oh, it had been so long since Mulder had admitted
how much he wanted this, had denied himself the equal powerful
touch of another man and now, here, like this, so vulnerable,
feeling raw and exposed and battered, the strength of that
needing was exquisite.  Mulder felt himself falling backwards
to lie on the bed, taking Skinner down with him, the weight of
Skinner above him delicious and arousing.  He wrapped his arms
around the broad spread of Skinner's shoulders, feeling the
power there, the flex of muscles and bones.  

Then there was a delicate, almost featherlight touch at his
throat, where he had loosened his tie hours ago, light
fingertips touching him there, then sliding round to caress
his neck inside his shirt collar, feeling for the pulse then
moving on to touch the bare silky skin of his earlobe.  It was
shattering; scarcely felt and enflaming all at once, such a
simple touch to provoke such an extreme response.  They were
still kissing, long and deep kisses that filled Mulder with
slow building fire, almost lazy with the growing desire he
felt, fighting his exhaustion, hardening his body.  

"Aw," he breathed at last, as their mouths parted, "Aw please,
I'm..." but there were no other words to say, Skinner's face
serious and concentrated above him, looking down at him,
almost evaluating, weighing consequences and actions - a slow
and deliberate look that surged the colour to Mulder's face,
and made his breath come short: he felt wanton, shameless and
incendiary before that look, the look of a long denied man, a
hungry man.  A man.  

"Now's the time, Fox," the words came out very low, and Mulder
could feel the vibration through his body, into his blood,
kicking a heat that pooled into his stomach, higher and
higher.  "It can stop now," the words were stated calmly, as
certain facts.  "It will be as if it never happened."  

Mulder gazed at the dark eyes above him; he'd never seen eyes
that were so beautiful, bright and yet so dark at the same
time.  "It can't stop now," Mulder corrected, daring to run
his hand down Skinner's side, relishing the feel of the crisp
blinding white linen shirt, curving round the hip to the swell
of buttocks.  "It can't," he repeated, flexing his fingers
against that perfect roundness.  

He was kissed then, deeper than before, fiercely, an almost
savage plundering, Skinner's lips hard against him, almost
bruising in their force.  Mulder moaned at the onslaught,
needy, hurt little sounds escaping him, as Skinner began to
undo his shirt buttons with slow determination.  The glory of
it, his sheer helplessness before this was unbearably
arousing, the brush of steady hands against his bared chest
hardening his nipples at once before the hot steady gaze as
Skinner drew back a little to look at him, lying there,
sprawled and dazed, breathless.  Mulder struggled to sit up,
to let Skinner complete his task, to shed his clothes and bare
himself before that patient, heating glance.

It felt incredibly brazen, almost shameless to do this; to
undo his belt and then unzip his trousers, all the time aware
that Skinner was watching every single movement, waiting,
watching and waiting.  Mulder felt his whole body grow hot,
his skin flush with a slight sheen of sweat; he wanted this
like he wanted air, to be naked for this man, as naked in body
as he was in mind, to bare himself totally, to feel that
hot-cold shiver all over, to open himself entirely before
Skinner's wise, powerful gaze.  He squirmed, freeing his body
from his clothes, shaking his head as Skinner motioned to help
him.  "I have to do this myself, I want to... let me show
myself to you," he managed, having to lick his lips to get the
words out.  Skinner's face grew very still and concentrated
and he nodded, once.  

Mulder lay back, naked, feeling his own nakedness in a unique
way, Skinner fully clothed, the contrast unbearable and wildly
arousing.  Skinner was looking at his face, then trailed his
gaze lower, over chest and abdomen and then groin.  Mulder was
growing hard, his cock filling with heat and blood, and he
touched himself, holding his flesh, cupping it, stroking
slightly.  Skinner reached forward then, one warm and very
steady hand coming to cover Mulder's hand, setting a slow
stroking pace.  It was so wonderful, and so much better than
any of his fantasies - Mulder's eyes closed with the pleasure,
feeling the warmth of Skinner's hand move all over him,
rubbing very gently across his belly, then up to his chest,
covering first one nipple then the other, making him feel warm
all over, as languid as a cat being stroked.  

Skinner's warm weight settled down beside him, covering him
and the shocking thrill of it, the rough caress of cloth
against his own nakedness made Mulder hiss with pleasure, his
teeth clenching tight at the contrast.  He pushed up a little,
against the weight, wanting that friction all over his skin,
to rub himself against Skinner - it was a shocking, almost
depraved longing; himself naked and pleading, Skinner still
fully clothed, controlling and strong.  So strong; as
Skinner's mouth descended to his again, as he was kissed,
thoroughly, with expertise and some skill, kissed so hard and
so often his mouth felt sore, ravished with the touch, his
lips pouting and swollen, tender and tense with the strain. 
He was making noises now, mewling, wanting little noises
inside, small moans of appreciation, of need.  

Mulder pushed up again, flexing his hips upwards, the brush of
his erect, exposed cock against the hard bulk inside Skinner's
trousers almost a pain.  Mulder could feel Skinner flex back,
pushing down as Mulder pushed up, and felt a dark thrill of
triumph at that sign of arousal, felt it again as Skinner's
breath gusted into his ear: "Should I?  Should I do it, Fox,
should I?"

Frantic now, Mulder grabbed at Skinner's head, taking it
between his hands, steadying them so they could look at each
other again.  Mulder couldn't say the words, words were not
necessary, not when his face, his eyes all pleaded for the
moment.  He reached down to the front of Skinner's trousers,
fumbling at the zip then tugging lower, slipping inside to
feel the warm crispness of linen underwear and something warm,
hard and alive inside, something that leapt to his hand, to
his touch.  His fingers closed around the bulk of it; thick
and hard and getting harder, long and wet at the tip, the
essence of masculinity, the most masculine part of this
totally masculine man.  Mulder's head tipped back, his mouth
opening, throat wide, caught at the image of that flesh, so
erect, so hot and hard and big, inside him, inside his mouth. 
It had been too long, much much too long since he had felt
that possession; long ago and far away but the hunger rushed
back at him now in one overwhelming rush.  

Loosening the constriction of clothing, freeing that growing
flesh, Mulder felt all the heat and blood in his body gather
in one place, getting heavier and heavier as the rest of his
body grew lighter.  When cock skin touched cock skin, Mulder
froze, breath taken from him, unable to speak, to move, unable
to do anything but feel that hot, slick touch, his own juices
mingling with Skinner, his own skin stroking there, heat to
heat.  

Skinner was on top of him, all over, his weight pushing Mulder
down into the softness of the bed, a crushing suffocating
weight that Mulder welcomed, wanted desperately, to feel
covered, safe, smothered in this man's strength and flesh and
heat, the illicit thrill of nakedness against clothing, the
touch of cock against cock.  

Skinner's hand was at his cock again, holding him quite gently
but very firmly too, just holding, his hand flexing slightly
in time with Mulder's pulse, the squeeze growing tighter and
tighter, just perfect, milking a little then, running up and
down, from tip to shaft, hard on the shaft then relaxing then
hard again, subtle touches that robbed Mulder of thought, made
the breath sob in his throat, his face hot, his lungs starting
to reach for air, gasping out words, groans and sighs, 'yes,
oh please yes' over and over, murmurs of helpless delight, the
heat beating at him in waves now, over and over, Skinner so
damn strong, so determined and almost ruthless, chasing
Mulder's pleasure, dragging it from him, until the moans
turned to whimpers, little ragged cries of need, Mulder's
muscles clenching down tight, Mulder's hand there too with
Skinner, tighter, oh please god, just a little tighter,
'please' he heard himself mutter, 'alive, god I'm being burned
alive,' but the words barely gusted on a final breath, as
Skinner took his lips again, drawing his breath from his,
stroking his climax out of him, pulling harder now than ever
before, rubbing Mulder's hardness against Skinner's own hot
cock, the wet blunt tip of Skinner's erection drawing Mulder's
hand, their rhythms joining, pulling fire closer and closer, a
crazy spiral of need, reaching deep into Mulder bones, until
at that last, most impossible moment, he released himself, too
tender to bear even his own touch, to reach for Skinner, to
drag Skinner even closer, to place his lips to Skinner's
cheek, tender despite the almost animal coupling, his eyes
wide with that moment when the fire exploded, out, in gush
after gush, wet, soaking pulses splattering Mulder's stomach,
coating Skinner's stroking hand with unbearable silk sweet
stickiness.  

Dazed, floating, a feeling beyond exhaustion, Mulder lay and
watched darkness fill his own eyesight.  He had never felt so
drained, so purged of everything; thought, memory, all burned
away by such a simple, complicated thing.  

Skinner was still beside him, warm and heavy and very real,
the first reality he noticed as climax faded from his mind. 
It was suddenly imperative to know, to look: Mulder opened his
eyes and saw Skinner's face, relaxed and open and blank, the
eyes closed, an expression of almost clinical purity on those
handsome, stern features.  He's beautiful like this, Mulder
realised, with total truth.  Men aren't beautiful, but like
this, here, he is nothing but.  Skinner's eyes flickered open,
as if he could sense Mulder watching him - perhaps he can,
Mulder thought, rather scared but still rather excited at
that.  

Driven by that fear, that excitement, Mulder leaned towards
him and kissed him, a wet, tired satisfied kiss.  Skinner's
mouth welcomed him, warm and very dark and wet, a soothing,
overpoweringly gentle possession.  Mulder sighed into
Skinner's open mouth, ah, let this not end, let this go on
forever, forever.  

Their mouths drifted apart and Mulder lay back, feeling his
face reflect his pleasure, weak, spent and relaxed.  He wanted
to speak, to say something but nothing fitted, nothing was
quite right.  

"Do I," and it was Skinner, finding the words, taking control
here but with great kindness, "do I say I'm sorry?  Or ask you
if you are?"

"I'm not," Mulder managed, eyes still closed, body still
stunned by the release of his climax, "You should know - I've
thought about you this way, often," he added, honestly, "I
find your - strength - very arousing."

That was received in silence, but Skinner's hand came to his
cheek, cupping the side of his face, a surprising cherishing
gesture.  Mulder opened his eyes then, to see Skinner leaning
above him, propped up on one elbow, regarding him with an
unfathomable expression.  "I know," Skinner replied, easily. 
"I've always known.  That's part of my job too, to know things
like that," and there was nothing to cause it, but Mulder felt
cold, all at once.  Perhaps Skinner noticed the change; he
kissed Mulder, very sweetly, very soft and gentle; a goodbye
kiss? Mulder wondered, feeling the inevitable parting.  

Skinner drew back: "Get some sleep Agent Mulder, I'll expect
you at your desk by eight tomorrow.  There's work to do."  The
voice of the controller again; not a smile, not even a look to
betray what had happened between them.  Skinner got up,
rearranging his clothing with remarkable grace, not clumsy as
most men are in such situations.  He turned then and regarded
Mulder, lying there, semen slick, still heavy eyed from the
climax, mouth still swollen from their kisses, cheeks blushed
from contact with Skinner's stubble.  Mulder returned the
look, refusing to feel embarrassed; Skinner was a soldier, he
had travelled far and fought battles Mulder could only guess
at.  That one man could want another man would not shock him. 


"Try not to worry too much, Fox," Skinner said, Mulder's gaze
flying to his face at the use of that name, "I can tell you
from long experience, the lost ones usually come back to us,
sooner or later."  Skinner moved, sure and swift, and snapped
off the lamp.  Mulder's eyes stared into the sudden darkness,
and as suddenly he felt the soft, warm brush of lips against
his forehead.  "Get some sleep Agent Mulder," and Mulder lay
back, and listened to the silence of Skinner leaving - not a
stumble or a sound: a man who can see in the dark, Mulder
thought, a man who can see in the dark.  



                          5320 words
                    GL: 14/15 January 1996



 
Gloria Lancaster - Gloria@gloria1.demon.co.uk
Two out of three people wonder where the other one has gone.


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