JiM :: Head Games

The last thought to go through Skinner's mind was that he couldn't even blame this one on Mulder and that irritated him. Then the irritation was ripped away by the sound of shattering glass and the screech of crumpling metal and something very solid hitting him very fast.

The next thing he noticed was how quiet it was. Cold and dark and wet. He shifted a little and waited for the roar of agony that was sure to follow. He was disconcerted when nothing intensely painful happened. His head and shoulders were leaning against something warm and a hell of a lot softer than whatever he was lying on. He rolled his head a little to test it and his cheek rubbed against something soft; he tried to think of a word for it and finally, the words "camel hair" floated up. He considered them dispassionately for a while before realizing that he was hearing something and that there were hands keeping him from rolling his head again.

"Sir? Can you hear me?" The world snapped back into focus with that voice.

"Yeah, Mulder, I can hear you. What happened?" He tried to open his eyes and realized that there was only blackness before them. His fingers were locked in the soft fabric of Mulder's overcoat even as he said steadily, "I can't see."

There was the gentle touch of fingers on his face, then something damp licking at the skin around his eyes and across his eyelids. "Try it now," Mulder said.

Slowly, Skinner opened his eyes and blinked at the stinging sensation, eyes watering. The world came slowly into focus and he'd never seen anything as beautiful as Mulder's pale and dirty face, rain dripping off it in the reflected light of the single working headlight. Skinner took a deeply grateful breath, then realized that he was lying on the wet pavement beside their wrecked car, head and shoulders cradled in Mulder's lap.

His agent was smiling at him, eyes liquid and full. He wondered if the younger man were crying or if it were merely the autumn rain trickling down his face. The wet handkerchief in Mulder's hand was dyed a nasty shade of gray in the uncertain light and trickles of the same evil shade slipped down from Mulder's temple . Head injury, a 19-year old Marine thought and quickly sat up to call a corpsman for his friend.

Mulder caught him as he passed out again.

When he came to again, Walt Skinner reached up to grab his buddy's arm. "Jimmy—how badly were we hit?" But Jimenez didn't look like himself any more. There was something wrong with his hair—it was too thick. Walt was surprised at how heavy his arm was when he lifted it to touch Jimmy's hair. He ran his strangely clumsy fingers through what should have been Jimmy's crisp black hair, kept perfect with bay rum and gun oil. But it was too soft, too straight and he made a confused sound and his buddy gathered him a little closer and said soothing things that made no sense. His hand was caught and held tightly and he closed his eyes, knowing that Jimmy, or whichever buddy it was, would keep watch until evac came.

He was cold, so cold. Wet. Someone was talking to him, slapping his face, ordering him to stay awake. Damn Jimenez, always slapping him. Maybe it was a Mexican thing, but he was getting damned tired of it. Every time, that shit-eating grin and the smack upside his head, or a slap on the cheek.

"Come on, Iron Man, let's go see what Charlie left us today," and off they'd go, looking for land mines and booby traps. One more smack and he was gonna deck Jimmy. He never did understand why the other man had to hit him all the time; he touched him so differently in the dark…Walt edged away from that thought quickly.

There was another light slap on his cheek and he backhanded Jimmy, grinning a little when he caught his tormentor sharply on the cheekbone.

"Shit, Skinner, calm down! You need to stay awake until I can get you to a hospital!"

"Mulder?" He blinked at the younger man and wondered why water was dripping into his face. Car accident. He remembered now. An autumn storm, a winding road, wet leaves piled up at the curve. He'd been driving.

The world started to gray out again and he moved restlessly, trying to hold on for a little longer.

"Where's Jimmy?" Walt asked, as his buddy shifted and pulled Walt more firmly into his arms, trying to share some body heat as the shivering got worse. "Sir…" the other man began, then said more softly, "Jimmy's gone to get help. Lie still."

After a gauzy time, he felt himself being picked up, strapped to something. There were brighter lights now and he blinked and blinked, but the rain kept running into his eyes and the corpsmen looked odd. So odd, in fact, that he would have sworn one was a woman. Then his buddy was sitting beside him in the ambulance, holding his hand and dripping blood and rain.

"Did I do that to you?" Walt asked, touching Jimmy's split cheek.

"No—that was the dashboard. I think. It might have been my laptop." His buddy laughed, then said, "the rental agency is not gonna refund your security deposit, sir."

The words made no sense to Walt, so he closed his eyes for a moment to try to sort it out.

The nurse bustled in at 8 am while he was wondering if he could get Mulder and Scully to investigate his breakfast. The lime jello was looking far too much like something he'd once seen in an evidence bag on Mulder's desk. And who the hell expected him to eat jello for breakfast?

The nurse took his temperature and blood pressure, made satisfied little notes on his chart, then said brightly,

"Eat up, Mr. Skinner. The doctor is releasing you in an hour. We're just doing the paperwork now. You wouldn't want to start the weekend without a good breakfast, would you?"

He honestly tried not to growl at her. But he had been in this tiny rural hospital for two days, his head splitting, and he was bored to tears. His concussion and resultant headache made it too difficult to read and the hospital cable service apparently provided only religious stations or music videos. He was half-convinced that he would walk out of there as a Bible thumper or a heavy metal headbanger.

Mulder had been there when he finally awakened, with the good news that he had survived the car accident and was being held for observation after being brought in with hypothermia, shock and a midline concussion. Mulder himself had been released the morning after the accident and had taken care of notifying the office and wrestling with the car rental agency and reporting to the police. He had appeared every few hours, bruised and apologetic, watching his boss with soulful, sad eyes, saying little. The scratches and bruises on his face and hands were a silent reproach to Skinner. When he had started to look greenish and pale, Skinner had ordered him to find a hotel room and get some sleep.

Skinner had spent most of the next day wondering why he had ever thought that a law enforcement conference in New Hampshire at the tail end of foliage season would be a relaxing change of pace from office politics and the weird mythic world that Mulder seemed to careen through. He had arranged for three slots at the conference and had wanted to take his favorite agents, partly as a reward for their high solve-rate and to offer them the chance to build the networks that career-advancement required. Scully had begged off at the last moment, staying home to nurse her mother through a serious bout of pneumonia.

So he and Mulder had gone together. Skinner had been surprised by how much he had enjoyed the four days they had spent together. Out of the office, Mulder's dry humor and crisp social commentary were a hell of a lot more entertaining than they had ever seemed with a desktop between them. On his best behavior in public, Mulder had been charming and brilliant, cordial and courteous to agents and colleagues from other agencies. Skinner had tried not to show his surprise, but he knew that Mulder had caught on when he said with a smirk,

"Just because I don't play the game doesn't mean I can't, sir," and Skinner knew that the whole performance was for his benefit. Perhaps it was Mulder's way of thanking him.

It did neither of them any harm and they had left the conference in high spirits. Mulder had suggested stopping for the night, especially as the mild Indian summer weather was washed away in a cold autumn gale that blew in that afternoon. Skinner had insisted on continuing, wanting to catch the last evening flight out of Manchester and get back to D.C. And so they had wound up on that dark, wet stretch of rural highway and he had spent the end of the week in the Conway General Hospital wishing they'd amputate his head.

They hadn't and the throbbing was down to manageable levels when Mulder came to pick him up. Skinner endured the indignity of being wheeled out of the hospital silently. Mulder had conjured another rental car from somewhere and drove down rain-slick highways without speaking. After watching ten miles of soaking tree skeletons and tensing at every curve in the road, Skinner asked,

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the bed and breakfast I checked us into."

When Skinner opened his mouth, Mulder hastily said, "It was the only thing open, sir. Everything else is booked tight with leaf-peepers. Besides, there's not a lot of choice up here. But it's clean, inexpensive and the food is terrific."

"How long will it take us to check out?" Skinner asked tightly, wondering if it were even close to time to take another pain killer.

"Sorry, sir. The doctor gave me pretty strict instructions. She said you can't fly for at least 24 hours. And there isn't a single flight out of Manchester on Sunday, so we're stuck here though the weekend. I called in and let Scully and your assistant know."

Mulder seemed indecently cheerful at the prospect and Skinner wanted to snarl, but he couldn't reasonably argue with Mulder's arrangements. The other man kept a prudent silence for the rest of the drive.

Mulder's bed and breakfast turned out to be a two hundred year old inn full of antiques, shabby oriental carpets and an air of homey comfort that was oddly soothing. The innkeepers were a soft-spoken and friendly couple, sympathetic and eager to do anything they could for him. At the mere hint of his disastrous hospital breakfast, he found himself in the empty oak-paneled dining room, sitting across from Mulder and drinking deep draughts of excellent coffee. Delicious domestic smells came floating out of the kitchen.

Mulder checked his watch, then drew a pill bottle out of his jeans pocket. He shook one small yellow tablet out and handed it to Skinner, who took it gratefully. A short stack of pancakes and three cups of coffee later, Skinner finally noticed Mulder watching him, eyebrow cocked speculatively.

"What?"

"Who's Jimmy?"

Skinner could feel himself freezing up, knew the expression on his own face had to be causing the odd look on Mulder's face. Jimmy. Javier Jimenez. He hadn't thought about Jimmy in years.

"Why do you ask?"

"You called for him while you were delirious. You kept talking to him."

Oh Christ. His throat was very dry when he said,

"Did I…what did I say?"

Mulder shook his head, silently reassuring, as if he knew what Skinner really wanted to ask. "You mostly kept trying to call for a corpsman and asking how the mission had gone. Viet Nam flashback?"

He nodded and poured himself another cup of coffee, not looking at Mulder, silently willing him to change the subject. No luck, he still hadn't developed telepathy. Mulder asked again,

"So—who's Jimmy?"

Jesus, it had to be a gift Mulder had, for asking the most impossible questions with a kind of ruthless gentleness that demanded an answer. But which one to give him?

Javier Jimenez had been someone whose sisters had called him "Flaco" and whose father never spoke his name at all. A tough-talking Texicano kid who had volunteered at 18 and lied to the Marine recruiter about his bruises and his cracked ribs. A mean drunk who cheated at poker, picked fights with men three times his size and prayed the rosary every Sunday. An ordinance rat who could dismantle any mine ever made and who loved the elegance of destruction and who gave a blow job that rivaled any Saigon sing-song girl's $20 performance. A junkyard dog who spit and snarled and lied and held on tight, so tight, when the shells kept exploding all around them in the dark. The half-breed son of a Texas cattleman and a Mexican vintner's daughter who would suck off the sons of his father's white friends, meeting them in alleys and garages and closets. He had loved knowing that he could destroy those smug little white boys, those Eagle Scouts and 4H members and altar boys whose Varsity jackets whispered against his rough cheeks as he slid down their straining bodies.

"Jimmy was…" Skinner started, then stopped.

A whiff of the bay rum and the gun oil he used to slick his blue-black curls back, cordite and cigarettes, beer and sweat. Whispers and slaps and swears and punches thrown over nothing. Clever fingers twisting wires together, untangling masses of explosives, unbuttoning Skinner's pants. Dark, dust brown skin, white white teeth flashing up at him in the gloom before he bent his head…

"Jimmy was a buddy in the Corps. We were in-country together nearly a year. Javier Jimenez." When Mulder's gently interested expression didn't change, his patented interrogation face, Skinner continued. "He was the only Mexican in our unit and half the guys couldn't pronounce his name anyway, so we just called him 'Jimmy'. He could defuse anything; I once saw him deactivate a land mine using a wad of chewing gum and a twig." Skinner felt himself grinning at the memory. He didn't know that Mulder was suddenly able to see one PFC Walt Skinner, aged 19, very clearly for just a moment. Then Skinner's expression darkened as he remembered the rest.

"Where is he now?" Mulder asked quietly.

"He died."

---

Not long after that, the muscle relaxants kicked in, making the whole world seem fuzzy and remote. Mulder helped him upstairs, an impersonal arm wrapped around his waist. The room was at the end of a long corridor of crimson carpeting. Mulder let him in, then helped him to sit down on one of two queen-sized beds. Skinner lay down, cursing the fact that he was moving like an old man. Christ, he felt like one. His head ached and his neck and shoulder muscles had been wrenched in the accident. A long diagonal bruise ran from his left shoulder down to his right hip and added its own muted throb to his symphony of physical woe.

The room was decorated in pleasant, cool shades of blue. The gloomy rain-light pouring through the windows and glass doors only calmed, it did not depress him. After two days of televangelists, headbangers and lime jello, Walter Skinner was prepared to live in harmony with just about any other decor. But this was—nice. Calming. Comforting, to hear the rain dripping off the eaves, the quiet sounds of Mulder moving around the room, feeling him slipping off Skinner's shoes. Soothing, the rustling of the down comforter being spread over him. Nice, the gentle hand that removed his glasses, then brushed over his cheek for a moment. His last coherent thoughts before sleeping were that he was wasted as hell and that it was good to feel safe again, that someone he trusted was watching over him.

---

It wasn't a dream so much as being back in a memory. Remembering a morning he hadn't thought about in twenty years. But he could see it, smell the jungle and the gunpowder, hear the tapping of the rain on the leaves. And he see Javier Jimenez tearing into his C-rations beside him, could smell Jimmy's bay rum and Juicy Fruit breath and hear his snarling, nasal voice again.

It was the morning after the first night that Jimenez had pinned him up against a tree, dragged out his cock and swallowed him whole. Walt had come silently in the dark, teeth clenched on the strap of his M-16, still slung over his shoulder. Jimmy had drunk him down, suckling and nuzzling at him like a lamb.

They had been on patrol, looking for the snipers who had been dogging them for a week. The night had been shattered by bullets and hoarse shouting and they had fired into the dark, never knowing if they hit their targets. Afterward, in the hideous silence that could hide everything or nothing, he and Jimmy had sat, shoulder to shoulder against that tree, panting and amazed to find themselves still alive. And he had been almost prayerful to feel a living person beside him. Jimmy's mouth on his cock had reminded every atom in him that he was still alive.

After he had come, he had tried to pull Jimmy's face to his, wanting to pour something back, wanting to touch him, taste him. But his buddy had pulled away, muttering something in Spanish. So he had tucked himself away, stood up, shouldered his weapon and they had continued the patrol, saying nothing.

The next morning, he had been unable to look Jimenez in the face. Christ, he had even caught himself blushing when Jimmy's dark eyes brushed over him. Finally, the other man leaned over and hissed,

"What is your problem, man?"

Stung, Skinner had snapped back, "What do you think?"

Jimenez had only shaken his head and laughed, a nasty barking noise in the gloom under the dripping trees. He was eating peaches with his knife.

"Whassa matter, Skinner, one blow job and you fall in love? Want me to get you some flowers, Mariposa?

"Shit," he laughed and spit a mouthful of juice on the ground. "You white boys get all mushy when someone sucks you, don't you?"

"You're a bastard, Jimmy."

And Jimmy had taunted him, those white teeth flashing in the dawn. "Your pretty little cheerleader girlfriend wouldn't even touch it, would she, Mariposa? Just rubbed around and squealed if you even thought about unzipping, huh? Didn't want it to get around that she was a cocksucker?" He gave the word an evil hiss and grinned like a demon before shoveling half a canned peach in between his full lips.

Walt knew himself to be blushing now. His girlfriend had been a cheerleader and she hadn't ever touched him in the dark. His voice was rough with humiliation when he said,

"So why'd you do it then, Jimmy? Aren't you afraid of being called a cocksucker?"

That demon grin again. "Nah. I am one. You pointing fingers, Mariposa? Whatever I did, you liked it."

And Walt Skinner had said quietly, "Yeah, I did."

Jimenez looked away then, suddenly silent, stabbing at the last peach in the can. When he'd finished it, he poured the juice on the ground, tossed the can away, then said,

"Come on, Mariposa. Let's go find the presents Charlie left us." And it was a day like any other.

---

Skinner woke to the soft sound of a door closing. He sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulders and neck, but grateful that it was less than it had been. Mulder was sitting on the other bed typing quickly, his laptop perched on his knees. He looked over the reading glasses perched on his nose and smiled at his boss. "How you feeling?"

"Better," Skinner replied, standing up cautiously. He stretched carefully, checking that everything was still there. His shoulders and ribs were stiff but not too bad.

"Annie brought us afternoon tea," Mulder said and indicated a silver tray on the table beside the door.

Skinner yawned and realized that he had slept most of the afternoon away and that he felt far better than he had for several days. "You know," he said conversationally, padding over to check out the contents of the tea tray, "you don't appreciate the luxury of four hours of uninterrupted sleep until you wind up some place where they want some sample of bodily fluid every time you fall asleep."

Mulder grinned and said, "Why do you think I have Scully patch me up at home?"

He got up and came over to pour himself a cup of tea and snagged a couple of oatmeal scones. He was so close that Skinner, still caught in the frayed edges of his dream-memory, took a deep breath and was surprised when he couldn't catch the tang of Jimmy's sweat and cordite. Instead, his nostrils were filled with Mulder's rich scent, like cedar and granite. Without thinking, he leaned closer, trying to sort out the complexities of Mulder's aroma. When his nose brushed through Mulder's hair, they both jumped and Mulder started talking quickly.

"Are you all right, sir? Feeling dizzy? Let me help you," and he took Skinner's cup from his hand and led him over to a chair placed before the glass doors opposite the beds. Watching his subordinate fuss and settle him like a cat with one kitten, Skinner was forced to see the humor of the situation.

"Mulder. Sit down."

But Skinner smiled and the younger agent grinned, retrieved his tea and pulled up a wing chair. They watched the rain falling over the long sweep of an emptied garden plot that stretched nearly to the half-bare trees at the fence line. It had a restful bleakness that suited Skinner's mood perfectly and he absently ate his own scones and the two extra that Mulder slipped onto his plate, still watching the rain.

After a time, Skinner remembered something. "How are you?" he asked.

"Me?" Mulder looked surprised at the question, then as if he were examining it from all angles, looking for the hidden mechanism that would unleash the trap that had to be lurking just beneath the words.

"You," Skinner said patiently. "You were in a car accident two days ago. How are you?"

"Fine," Mulder shrugged and looked away.

"Mulder…,".

"I'm fine, sir. Just bruises and a couple of scratches. I've had worse after a basketball game."

"Or a hallway meeting with your AD," Skinner suggested slyly. Mulder was startled into a grin. Skinner looked carefully at him and saw the dark smudges beneath his eyes, the down-drooping mouth, the paleness of his skin except for the vivid bruising on his left cheekbone and a couple of scratches across his nose and forehead. "You look like hell, Mulder."

"Thanks. I was in a car accident two days ago…" Mulder explained with his asshole grin tightly in place. "How's your neck? The doctor said you probably had some whiplash."

Skinner shrugged, then wished he hadn't. "Hurts," he said shortly, gulping the last of his tea. Before he was quite sure what had happened, there were strong hands working away at his abused muscles. And, despite the oddness of the whole situation, he relaxed into it with a small groan. Mulder's fingers were teasing at the knots and moving his head and neck slowly and gently.

The pain was starting to recede; his eyes had drifted closed and he was steadily not thinking about anything beyond the pleasures of Mulder's touch and the fact that he was at least 20 miles away from any lime jello, when Mulder said quietly,

"Tell me more about Javier Jimenez."

Skinner jerked and immediately wished he hadn't. Mulder's firm grip on his shoulders kept him in his seat, and after a moment's silent struggle, he capitulated and settled back against the chair. Mulder rewarded him immediately by going back to work relaxing the muscles he had just galvanized with his probing.

"Was I talking in my sleep?"

"Yup," Mulder confirmed, digging his thumbs deep into twin knots tied over Skinner's shoulder blades.

Skinner sighed with resignation. "What did I say?"

"You called him a bastard." Skinner could hear the grin in Mulder's voice.

"He was that, all right." Skinner smiled, remembering. "He used to call me 'Mariposa'," he said, lost again in memories.

"Butterfly?" Mulder spluttered, trying to stifle a laugh and failing miserably.

Trust Mulder to know enough Spanish to translate that. For six months, no one in his unit had ever worked it out.

"Inside joke," Skinner said.

Mulder's hands had stopped moving; they rested, warm and heavy and comforting on his shoulders. Then the younger agent said thoughtfully,

"'Mariposa' is also idiomatic for "homosexual" in many Hispanic cultures.."

Skinner turned to ice beneath those warm hands.

---

When he had finally found out what Jimmy's nickname for him meant, he lost it. He had sought out the smaller man, dragged him out into the brush and laid him out with one blow. Jimmy was back on his feet so fast that Walt hadn't even seen him sit up before there was a hard fist connecting solidly with his jaw. Another jabbed at his ribs before he could back out of range.

"Now what the hell's the matter, Mariposa?" Jimmy had demanded while Walt wiped the blood away from the side of his mouth.

"That! That name. I found out what it means. You're a bastard, Jimenez."

Jimmy had laughed and shoved him back against a tree, pinning him with a hard forearm across the throat. "Don't worry about it, Iron Man. You're still a straight white boy, no matter how many times you come down my throat." The words had hissed into his face, a sweet-scented whisper touched with nicotine and gunpowder.

"Then why?" he'd whispered.

"Just to remind you, Mariposa, what a thin line you walk."

Then Jimmy had slid down his body, inch by hot inch and blown him. He'd come until he'd thought his eyes were bleeding. When he could focus, Jimmy was tucking his own meat back into his pants. In all those months, he'd never changed; no one touched him. He came by himself, by his own hand only. Skinner would go back into camp wearing Jimmy's come somewhere on his pants or boots, but he'd never tasted it, never kissed Jimmy, never held him and whispered all the sweet words that jammed up in his throat. He thought that Jimenez might know what he wanted to say, sometimes, but a cold-edged glance from those obsidian eyes froze him into silence every time.

---

"It was a joke," Skinner heard himself speak the lie as if from a great distance. "We all liked to listen to 'Iron Butterfly'. The other guys used to call me 'Iron Man'. Jimmy liked to screw around and tease me."

Mulder's hands resumed their gentle movements over his shoulders, trying to probe beneath his skin, to unlock the knots and pains that had lodged there long before this most recent accident.

It was more truth than he'd planned on sharing, he reflected. Jimmy had died teasing him.

---

The night had been quiet. They weren't even on patrol, they'd pulled simple guard duty in an area listed as 'mostly secure.' Jimenez had been frenetic that night, taking stupid chances to be with Skinner every moment he could. He'd melt out of the dark and have his hand in Skinner's fly before the taller private could even speak. But he wouldn't let him come. For three straight hours, Jimmy kept him hovering on the brink, one stroke, one suck away from the edge.

By midnight, Walt had been aching, ready to sob in frustration. Each time Jimmy came past his post, he'd convinced himself that this would be the last time, he'd get some relief. Each time, the fuse was burning, he was about to go up like a Roman candle…then Jimmy would pull away, sometimes nipping at his balls, or scratching down his thighs, and disappear into the dark with an evil chuckle.

Walt would be left with his body screaming and no company but the drip, drip of the rain on the leaves for another eternity until that spick bastard crawled out of the jungle again and sent him to hell one more time.

Except that that last time, Jimmy had disappeared into the dark, then there was a hoarse scream and Jimmy's nasal voice off to his left, telling someone to calm down and let him get over there…then a flash of fire and a hell of a blast punching Walt off his feet.

Later, when they had pieced the story together, they would realize that a new guy in the unit, Williams, had stepped on a Bouncing Betty, a land mine set to detonate, not when it was stepped on, but when you stepped off it. They were Jimmy's specialty act; he could defuse one in less time than any other guy in Ordinance. Jimmy had been almost within reach when Williams had panicked and bolted and the blast had caught both of them.

---

Dimly, Skinner heard himself telling Mulder the abridged version of the night Jimenez had died. He'd never told anyone; hell, he hadn't thought of Jimmy in fifteen years, at least. He wondered briefly at himself, then carefully decided to blame it on the medications and residual shock. Or maybe it was Mulder's interrogation technique. Those strong, warm hands were still working his abused muscles; he was wreathed in the warm, spicy scent he'd noticed around Mulder before; he had been fed and was at peace here, in this warm blue room with the one man he knew could be trusted with the oddest truths. Hadn't he shared the strangest, most alien notions with him already and seen them accepted without a blink?

He must have fallen asleep. When he noticed his surroundings again, it was full dark outside and there was a light cotton afghan thrown over him. Mulder was back on the bed, furiously tapping at his laptop.

"Filling out the accident report?" Skinner asked hopefully.

The younger man shook his head and grinned. "Playing Tetris. Feel like some dinner?"

"Yeah," Skinner began slowly unfolding himself from the chair. "How come I got the head injury and you're so…chirpy?", he asked in an aggrieved tone, grimacing as something began throbbing behind his left eye.

"Because my airbag worked, yours didn't and your seat belt was too loose. Or maybe it was just karma." That same irritating half-smile that made Skinner want to pummel him in the office made him laugh now. Then the sight of the blue-purple bruising and scratches on Mulder's face sobered him and he said,

"Mulder, I'm sorry about all this."

"No problem," the junior agent shrugged and led the way out of their room.

"Yeah, it is. I should have listened to you about the weather. You were right," he gritted out.

"Can I have that in writing?" Mulder asked with a tinge of malice, as he waited for his boss to negotiate the curve of the staircase.

"Asshole."

Mulder laughed and they went into the dining room.

Sipping a very small whiskey in the firelit library later, Skinner began wondering about a few details. He wanted to ask Mulder about them, but he had only recently won the "no alcohol while on painkillers and muscle relaxants" battle and wasn't eager for a return skirmish. His companion sat across the hearth from him, paging through an old National Geographic. They were the only people in the room.

He took a sip and glanced at the other man. The fire touched him with gold, picking out cinnamon highlights in his hair, sharpening the blade of his nose, washing across the skin of his face, throat and hands like warm honey. He shifted once in his chair and the leather made a comfortable purring noise beneath his body.

Watching him, and in spite the pain, Skinner realized that he himself was more relaxed than he had been in months, just sitting here, in this small inn in the middle of Nowhere, New Hampshire, with this one person. How odd.

That Mulder had obviously engineered it didn't really bother him. He knew he was safe; he felt only a deep interest in the 'why' of it. Why had Mulder gone to this much trouble to get them both to this point, this place?

But he knew, really. With the smoky flavor of whiskey curling down his throat, the fire whispering and chuckling before him, the memory of Mulder's hands still warm on his neck, Walter Skinner knew. The only question that remained, really, was what to do about it.

He knew that, too.

"Mulder." The other man looked up, a slight smile on his face. "I'm going up."

The words were neutral but Skinner could feel how terribly open his expression was. He met Mulder's gaze for one moment, then looked away and began the slow process of extracting himself from his chair. Suddenly, Mulder's arm was before him and he gripped the strong forearm with his own. Mulder smoothly drew him up, still smiling slightly.

"I'll come with you."

The words were just as neutral as his own had been, but something in him leapt, hot and hungry at the look in Mulder's eyes.

They said nothing as they went upstairs, nothing when they went into their room, still nothing when they stood before one another in the flickering light of the small fire that had been lit in their absence. But then, thought Skinner, as Mulder slid into his arms, what needed to be said?

Mulder's lips were warm and gentle, with a first-kiss sweetness that Skinner knew they would never have again, whatever else happened, so he took his time, reveling in the feel, the taste, the scent of the other man. When Mulder's lips opened under his, Skinner could hear the small whimper of surprise that trickled out of his own mouth, into Mulder's. There was a sweet smoky fire to Mulder's kiss, a slow burn like the whiskey he had abandoned downstairs, that he hadn't expected.

Something in him prowled and howled and wanted to devour Mulder and he ruthlessly pushed that part of himself away. Not now, not this time—perhaps some day. Right now, in this moment, whatever they were building between them required a gentle, deft touch. And so they touched one another gently, stroking lightly through each other's hair, nuzzling against the other's face, hands sliding softly together, interlacing, then moving on to caress again.

At some point, they moved apart, and slowly and deliberately, Mulder unbuttoned Skinner's shirt and slid it off, being careful of the bruising and the abused muscles in his neck. He ran one cautious hand down Skinner's chest and smiled, this time bright, happy and boyish. He yanked his own shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. His chest was smooth and muscular, very lightly furred, and he stepped back into Skinner's arms with a sort of shimmying movement , a full body caress that made Skinner's breath catch in his throat.

"Did I hurt you?" Those golden hazel eyes were dark with concern.

"No," Skinner growled, and kissed him fiercely. He couldn't quite tip Mulder's head to the right angle because of his abused neck and shoulders and his disappointment rumbled in his throat. But when they broke, he was delighted to see Mulder looking dazed, eyes wide, lips wet and full. He blinked once and Skinner could see a bit of sense seeping back into his gaze. He said,

"We're gonna take it slow tonight, Walt. No caveman stuff until you're better, got it?"

"Mulder…," Skinner protested, and bent to kiss him again, frowning when he was eluded.

"Slow," Mulder said firmly, taking a step backwards toward the bed and tugging on Skinner's hand. When they reached the bed, Mulder gently pushed Skinner down, gentle hands firmly helping him to lie down, taking his glasses and tucking a couple of pillows behind his shoulders. Looking up at the younger man, barechested, skin etched with firelight, the button of his jeans undone, eyes dark, Skinner swallowed hard and said,

"I hope to Hell you're not just tucking me in here, Mulder, because I'd have to kill you."

He'd meant to growl, his patented threatening rumble, and was appalled at how needy and hungry he sounded. Mulder only laughed and rubbed one hand over the straining bulge in Skinner's jeans. Even as he arched into Mulder's touch, Skinner could feel his abused muscles protesting. He hated it when the younger agent was right…but all the irritation went out of his thoughts when Mulder knelt beside him on the bed and began tracing the line of Skinner's collar bone with his teeth. One strong hand slipped beneath Skinner's neck, supporting the damaged muscles even as the other hand stroked up his thighs and his mouth danced across all the quivering flesh between. Skinner let his own hands wander over the hot skin of Mulder's back and through the heated silk of his hair as Mulder's mouth slipped lower and lower.

It was when those clever hands were easing his jeans open, sliding them down his hips, and still lightly holding him to the mattress that Skinner was slammed by memory. Hardly aware, he grabbed at Mulder's hands, immobilizing the younger man.

"Walt?"

He became aware that he was breathing heavily, panting really, fingers digging into Mulder's wrists. Mulder slowly sat up, carefully pulling his hands out of Skinner's grip. He laid them gently on Skinner's chest, soothing and stroking him.

"Sorry. I guess I'm not very good at this game." He couldn't meet Mulder's eyes.

"There's no game here, Walt. Just you and me," Mulder said quietly.

When Skinner finally looked at him, he saw Mulder's brain in high gear behind those warm eyes, putting together fragments of puzzle pieces and watching a picture emerge. He watched with a kind of hungry despair as Mulder backed away and stood up. Then the younger man stripped off his shoes, jeans and briefs and came back to kneel on the bed at his side. He picked up Skinner's hand and very deliberately placed it on his own straining erection, biting his lip as Skinner's fingers closed around it.

"No games. This is what you do to me." He took a long shuddering breath as Skinner stroked slowly up and down his cock, a slow smile of delight unfurling on his face.

"I know you don't do 'passive' well, but you were just in a car accident…in fact, we shouldn't be doing this at all," Mulder said reflectively.

At Skinner's protesting mumble, he grinned again.

"Ok, neither one of us is that smart. But we are gonna do it in such a way that you don't wind up in traction for the next few weeks. And that means, slow and easy and you just lie back and enjoy, got it, Walt?"

He punctuated his stipulation with a squeezing caress to Skinner's cock that made the big man moan and toss his head, then groan as his aching muscles and head made themselves known again.

Damn Mulder for being right. Ok, he could do this. It wasn't the same thing at all, he realized, Mulder's thigh quivering beneath his arm as he caressed the satin heat of Mulder's cock. This man wanted to share it all with him. He loved the feeling of Mulder thrusting into his hand, pressing harder into his touch, begging him silently for more.

Mulder's mouth touched his briefly, then began a heated flow down his body, stopping briefly at each nipple and hip bone before nuzzling into his crotch. That hot and clever tongue lapped at his balls and cock, rolling them, sucking at them, nibbling until he was arching up, heedless of the pain in his neck and shoulders, unaware that his head had ever hurt at all. When Mulder swallowed his length whole, he forgot everything else in his world as he came, shouting and cursing, hands locked on Mulder's head.

After lapping his softening length clean, Mulder obeyed the urgent demands of Skinner's hands and allowed himself to be drawn up the bed again. Skinner kissed him deeply, tasting himself and Mulder with a kind of grateful wonder that he knew the profiler in Mulder would want to talk about later. But until then, there was the hard and hot length of flesh pressing into his thigh.

He thought about and discarded most of his favorite fantasy options. There was no way he could have Mulder kneel over him, not with his ribs and shoulder as bruised as they were and he couldn't really bend his neck to suck him properly. Mulder was watching him with hot and trusting eyes, so he drew him close to his unbruised right shoulder, and shifted enough to be able to reach him with his left hand. Skinner slowly licked his own palm, then reached down and began to polish the head of Mulder's cock with his slicked palm, in much the same way that nervous men polish the shift knobs of their beloved cars. It was a sure fire technique and he had Mulder writhing and gasping in moments, coming less than a minute later, gasping and biting weakly at Skinner's shoulder.

After a quiet time, Mulder slid away from Skinner's shoulder and got up without a word. Skinner's eyes tracked him, golden and naked in the firelight, as he went into the bathroom, then as he came out. The younger man yanked the quilt off the other bed and brought it back to Skinner's bed, shaking it out over him and fussily arranging it over his feet. Skinner's protest died behind his teeth as Mulder slipped back in on his right side and kissed him gently.

"Thank you," he said softly, then snuggled down beside Skinner with a happy sigh.

"Thank you?! You did all the work," Skinner tried to sound outraged but only managed to sound sleepy and smug.

"Fine," came the equally sleepy but irritable reply. "When you're back in condition, you can fuck my brains out and I'll just lie here and enjoy it, OK? Jeez, I've never heard someone complain so much over getting a blow job…"

Skinner kissed him to shut him up, then stroked that full bottom lip and said, "Thank you."

Mulder grinned and said, "Any time, Mariposa."

And Skinner groaned, knowing that he had made any number of mistakes this week and that telling Mulder about Jimmy and his damned nickname was the one that would revisit him for years to come, if he were very lucky. Then he closed his eyes, gathered Mulder just a little closer and went to sleep.