"Plans" by JiM

Mulder wandered through the connecting door, wearing only his sweat pants, vigorously toweling at his hair. "Scully?" he asked, voice muffled. "Have you got anything I can wear? Someone's aftershave leaked all over my suitcase and everything's soaked in some 'Obsession' knock off."

"Do you and Scully often share clothes, Agent Mulder?", a voice growled from the region of the desk.

Mulder's arms flailed wildly as he ripped the towel off his head and stared in horror at his boss, who was sitting calmly at the desk, papers spread before him, tie loose and collar hanging open. "Uh, sir, um…" Mulder said intelligently.

"I understand that the tailored masculine look is in for women these days, but I confess, I'm not able to see you in the scoop-necked things she usually wears," Walter Skinner continued thoughtfully. If Mulder had been able to look directly at his boss, he would have seen the demonic twinkle in Skinner's eye. It wasn't often that he could reduce Mulder to stammering or silence with anything less than a full-volumed bellow or an involuntary commitment. He let the sweet moment stretch as long as he could, then took pity on Mulder and let one side of his mouth quirk.

"Scully offered to trade rooms with me. She doesn't need a king-sized bed and my room didn't have one; that's about all I can sleep on." Skinner got up abruptly, trying not to notice how good Mulder looked, standing there, hair tousled, skin sparkling with water droplets in the early evening sunlight that streamed through the windows. He rummaged in his suitcase for a moment, then came up with a black t-shirt that he tossed to Mulder.

"Here. Wear that." Mulder smiled his thanks, then slipped it over his head and Skinner found his mouth going dry. The shirt was loose on Mulder, but the dark color merely made him look spare and elegant, like an heirloom blade waiting for the touch of his hand. The intimacy of seeing Mulder wearing his clothes was…jesus.

"Need anything else, Mulder?" Skinner grated.

The younger man shook his head, completely over his embarrassment, good humor back in evidence. "Nope. The concierge swore she'd have everything dry cleaned and back to me by 7 am. She even lent me a toothbrush. But I suspect I will not be welcome in the restaurant downstairs without a tie."

"Or underwear," Skinner suggested, then immediately wished for one well-aimed lightning bolt to obliterate him.

Nothing happened except for Mulder's startled look, followed by a quirky grin. "Well, it was either the natural look or wandering around smelling like a Turkish cathouse, sir."

"I see," Skinner said lamely.

"Scully and I are ordering from room service, sir. Care to join us?"

"Uh, no, Mulder. I've got plans," Skinner lied smoothly. "Thanks," he added, wondering if he had really seen a flash of disappointment in those light-colored eyes.

Mulder merely nodded then retreated politely through the connecting door he'd cannoned through earlier. The sound of the lock tumbling into place sounded very loud in the golden silence left in Mulder's wake.

•  •  •

An hour later, downstairs in the hotel's excellent restaurant, Walter Skinner realized that he simply wasn't very good at eating alone. Which was a shame, because he'd been doing it quite a lot in the past two years. Some people are able to dine alone in public and appear completely comfortable and unselfconscious, at peace with whatever thoughts might be passing through their own heads. Not he. And he simply couldn't bring himself to the point of opening a book at the table, as he'd seen some other solitary diners do, frankly admitting that there was nothing outside themselves worth paying attention to. His early training held good, his paperback remained upstairs and he was left to stare steadily at the candle on his table and to wonder why he hadn't accepted Mulder's friendly invitation.

The answer was simple, really; he'd wanted it too much. He wasn't certain when it had begun, this fascination, this tight focus on Mulder. It was dangerous; it was stupid; it was hopeless; he was helpless to stop it. All he could do was try to keep from falling prey to it entirely. Since Mulder and Scully had been reassigned to the X-files, it had been a constant battle to maintain the proper lines between him and his subordinates. They had shared so much, they knew such intimate, dark secrets about one another…He despaired of ever having a normal life again; no, that wasn't true, he realized. He was mourning the death of his desire to have that normal life. And part of that normal life involved not being attracted to his younger straight male subordinate, he reminded himself and sighed, signing the receipt for dinner.

Back upstairs, he changed, shucking his professional skin with a sense of relief that was new. Tired; he was getting tired with the constant struggle, fighting the fight that no one else seemed to know was going on. He knew he'd never advance any higher than his current position; between the murder charges, the prostitute and his open support of Mulder's quixotic crusade, he had hit his ceiling. Why stay? he asked himself as he pulled on shorts and the other t-shirt he'd brought. This one was black, too. It occurred to him that he ought to think about expanding his wardrobe choices.

Why *did* he stay? Because the fight wasn't over yet. The battle hadn't been lost or won and Walter Skinner was constitutionally unable to leave the field until it was. He knew it was this personality quirk that had resulted in Skinners being buried on battlefields across the world. And Mulder? Mulder wouldn't leave the field until all the ashes had settled and he could begin piecing together the wreckage for more answers.

Skinner found himself smiling a little grimly at the image of himself amidst the ruins, handing Mulder a dust pan and broom and telling him to make sure he filled out the paperwork correctly. Paperwork. He sighed again and sat down at the desk to fill out and review his minimum daily requirement of bureaucratic fiber. Next door, he could hear the faint sounds of conversation and the television. Mulder and Scully were there, going over the day's work, watching TV, just being together. Strangely, he didn't feel excluded or lonely; their voices soothed him and he bent to his work with something like good cheer.

Some time later, during which the stack on his left hand had efficiently moved to his right, there was a snick!, then a knock on the connecting door between his room and Mulder's. For one moment, he actually thought about not answering it and pretending that he wasn't there. Good sense prevailed, however, and he got up and opened the door.

Mulder stood there, looking unnaturally grave, despite the sweatpants and t-shirt. His t-shirt. Oh, jesus, his brain was melting again, oozing down to pool in his…

"Mulder, what can I do for you?"

"A moment of your time, sir. A case has just come to my attention and I'd like you to review a 302 so that I can investigate further." Mulder waved a file folder at him.

Work. Of course. What were you expecting, Walter? Why else would this man come to your door at this time of night except to ask for permission to go haring off to some other previously undiscovered mad tea party, for which he will expect the FBI to reimburse him when his car melts, his laptop becomes possessed or he contracts yet another heretofore unknown virus of probable alien origin. Skinner sighed at the ironically dull routine of it all and waved Mulder into his room.

"Give me the gist of it," he nearly growled, not willing to stare at one more piece of official-looking paper.

Mulder draped himself on top of the low bureau that held the one lamp and the TV and said, "It seems that members of the local artisan population have been experiencing a peculiar nocturnal phenomenon, sir." Mulder paused for breath and Skinner wondered idly what lunacy he was about to be asked to countenance this time. Werewolves? A rain of stones? Perhaps some nice old-fashioned vampirism? Mulder was speaking again.

"It seems that they go to bed with work orders for luxury goods to be filled the following day. When they come into their shops the next morning, they're finding the work already done for them."

Skinner stared at Mulder, hoping there was a point to this. He tried very hard not to be distracted by watching the fingers of Mulder's right hand idly stroking his own abdomen. He pushed himself to say something intelligent. "You're suggesting that someone is breaking in and doing the work for them?"

Mulder nodded seriously and continued speaking, although Skinner noticed that the younger man wouldn't actually look up and meet his eye. "We can only speculate as to the reason why, sir," he said gravely.

"Mulder? Why is the FBI interested in this? What crime is being committed here?"

"Aside from very probably breaking and entering? Hard to say, sir." There was a suspicious gleam in Mulder's eye that made Skinner ask suddenly, "Mulder. Those artisans—what do they do?"

"They're shoemakers, sir."

An awful suspicion was stealing over Walter Skinner.

"And the luxury goods they're finding made for them in the morning are…?"

"Shoes, sir." Mulder said, his eyes limpid with sincerity. "Incredibly finely detailed work, I'm told."

Impossibly, Skinner felt his lips beginning to twitch.

"And you suspect…?"

"Elves, sir," Mulder said earnestly.

There was a moment of terrible silence, like the last breath of wind on a mountain before the avalanche and then the stress of the day caught him and Walter Skinner was roaring with laughter. He staggered to the end of his bed and collapsed on it, still howling. Every time he calmed down slightly, he looked at Mulder and the delighted mischief in the other man's eyes set him off again.

God, it felt good to let go like this. The sound of Mulder's laughter was the sound of water in a dry land and he soaked it into himself, letting his own laughter well up to meet it. Eventually, it died down to undignified snorts and chuckles and he was able to gasp out, "I needed a good laugh. You're a lunatic, you know that?" in a voice warm with the affection he was never able to show for his agents in the office.

"Yes, sir, I've been told," the other man was grinning at him. "Of course, I have official paperwork that says I'm not actually crazy, which is the benefit of spending a weekend in five-point restraints."

Abruptly sobered by the reminder of that whole painful episode, Skinner sat up and polished his glasses on the tail of his t-shirt. He didn't notice Mulder's expression softening as he looked at his boss. "So, does that mean you'll sign the 302?" he asked briskly.

Skinner recovered himself and stared at his agent. "Mulder—let's try something new and different—tell me, in very small English words, what you're doing here, spinning me this line of bullshit at…," he checked his watch, "11 pm?"

"I'm trying to seduce you, sir," Mulder said quietly. "But you're not being too helpful," he added plaintively.

Skinner looked at his watch again, half-expecting it to be dribbling off his wrist in some Dali-esque signal that his life had glided into the surreal while he had been helplessly giggling on the bed. Nope. Still 11:02 on a hot night in St Louis and Fox Mulder was still standing there, leaning against his TV, only now he was looking at him like a child outside a candy shop. Remembering some of Mulder's other case reports, Skinner said, "Mulder, if I stabbed you right now, what color would you bleed?"

"That's not quite the response I was hoping for, sir."

"I can't even begin to imagine what kind of response you were hoping for when you start a seduction with a request to investigate elves." Skinner got up and crossed the room to the connecting door, which brought him far too close to Mulder's dangerous heat, but it couldn't be helped.

He held the door between the rooms open and launched into the same speech he had used over the years with various members of the secretarial pool and the occasional fellow agent. "I'm very flattered, but it's impossible…,". Mulder didn't move.

"It's not impossible, sir, just highly improbable." There was that grin again, the one that annoyed him so much because it made him want to do anything Mulder wanted, just to see that light in those sad eyes.

"It's against regs; it makes us blackmail targets—we might as well invite your Cigarette-Smoking friend to watch; it's insane; and what makes you think I'm interested in you?"

Mulder's grin grew a touch deeper, as if he had heard something that pleased him in Skinner's growling plaint. "Because if you weren't, that would have been the first and only reason you mentioned."

Skinner slumped against the edge of the door. "Shit. Mulder, this isn't fair. I can't say yes. You know that."

Mulder was suddenly standing right in front of him. "Yes, you can." Then he was reaching out and pulling Skinner's head the last few inches forward until their lips met. Unnoticed, Skinner's hand began tightening on the door as Mulder's mouth moved across his, tongue darting out shyly to flicker at his boss' closed lips until they opened and let him slip inside. There was an unpracticed sweetness to Mulder's kiss that demanded that Walter Skinner bring his hands up to cradle Mulder's head and slowly deepen the draught, rather than give in to the sudden raging demand for *more* from his long-restrained body.

He broke the kiss, retreating regretfully from the fullness of the sensation and Mulder's lips. His mind still gibbered about the insanity of the whole situation, but it was a faint voice crying in the wilderness of having everything he'd ever wanted locked in his arms, panting and flushed and bright-eyed. Then Mulder brought one hand up to cup the side of his head and misjudged the distance, catching Skinner's glasses and driving them painfully into the bridge of his nose. He let go of Mulder, eyes watering madly, the pain sheeting across his consciousness. He felt his nose gingerly, hoping he wouldn't have to explain a broken nose to anyone in the St. Louis office in the morning.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Mulder was pulling his head up and inspecting the damage. Skinner batted his hands away and carefully took off his glasses, folded them and put them on top of the TV. Mulder watched him warily, with a kind of bruised defensiveness that tugged at Skinner's heart even as points south demanded that he rip Mulder's clothes off and drag the man to bed *now*.

"Shut up," he suggested and kissed the younger man again. It was even better the second time and Skinner's sensible objections became mute in the face of Mulder's hard, hot body pressed against him, vibrating with noiseless moans. This time when he drew back, Mulder looked positively drunk and that luminous smile was back on his face.

But something prompted Skinner to ask, "Have you ever done this before?" "Kissed someone? Or seduced my boss?"

"Smartass," Skinner growled, smiling into the impish face that still had that odd defensiveness hovering in those hazel eyes. "Ever made love to a man?" Mulder shook his head slowly, looking embarrassed.

Walter Skinner blinked. Then he thought for a very long moment. Good sense voted that he pat Mulder on the head and send him back to his own room. Good sense was immediately throttled when Mulder stirred restively against him, rubbing gently against his aching cock. Walter sorted quickly through most of the lines he had heard used with virgins and discarded them all as patronizing, stupid or simply inapplicable. Mulder certainly wasn't too young to know what he was doing, he wasn't afraid of anything except rejection and he was apparently very sure of what he wanted. In the end, Skinner just smiled into the anxious eyes and said, "You're gonna love this."

And Mulder did. He was vocal in his appreciation; his range was impressive. He sighed, moaned, hummed, purred and shouted his pleasure. Skinner couldn't help feeling a bit smug as the usually-reserved Mulder writhed across his bed, begging for more of his touch. He accepted everything his lover did with a kind of open wonder that told Skinner far more about the man's romantic history than he would have wanted known.

It was only when he gently urged Mulder over onto his stomach that he saw the younger man tense, fingers locking in the sheets in nervousness rather than erotic tension. "Mulder. Relax. We're not going to do that tonight. We're not going to do anything you don't want to do." He saw his words rippling down Mulder's back, letting his formerly boneless arousal flood back as the younger man whispered, "I trust you."

The pleasure of hearing those words was as sharp as pain, and Skinner took a deep breath before kissing the star-shaped scar on one shoulder. "I know. But we don't have what we need and there's a lot of fun to be had yet. Some other time," he promised, beginning to kiss his way down the long muscular back. A long sigh of pleasure was his answer.

Mulder tasted sharp and sweet and green, freshly showered; like he hadn't spent the day pounding pavement and desktops as he and Scully tried to unravel the mess the St. Louis office had made of a comparatively simple X-file. Mulder's scent grew richer as Skinner brushed his unshaven chin over the curve of that firm ass, nuzzling happily. Mulder's gasp was as much a sensual pleasure as the taste and feel of that summer-silk skin beneath Walter's tongue. He ran his hands caressingly up Mulder's legs, gently urging him to spread them, then he settled in between them and applied himself to the task of showing Mulder all the fun to be had, as promised. That, or driving him insane with lust; he wasn't particular, as long as it convinced Mulder to come back to his bed and never leave it.

Mulder's response to reaming was encouraging. He shuddered and mumbled, tossed his head and finally begged when Skinner's tongue began stroking lovingly around his balls. "Please…you're trying to kill me, aren't you? They're gonna find me dead, in your bed. Please…" Skinner finally took pity on him and sat up, after another friendly nuzzle at Mulder's fine ass. One hand on Mulder's hip was all the invitation needed and the young man turned over with a groan. Mulder's cock was slender and long and curved yearningly up towards his quivering abdomen. Skinner stopped to admire it, mouth already watering at the thought of tasting it again. Mulder's rasping whisper, "Skinner…", was all he needed to hear and he was unleashed, licking, sucking, nipping, and stroking. It seemed like no more than a moment later that Mulder was shouting and arching off the bed, flooding his mouth with saltwater-cinnamon flavored cream.

Mulder lay there, panting and motionless as Skinner gave his cock a last proprietary caress before sliding up the bed to kiss him deeply. Those hazel eyes were shining when he pulled back to look at his lover. "Well?" Skinner asked with a grin, not at all afraid of the answer.

"Can I try that?"

"Oh yeah," he breathed, as Mulder pushed him flat and began his own explorations.

They were both brisk and business-like when they met Scully for breakfast, twenty minutes late. Mulder chattered unceasingly, mind flickering from topic to topic, which Scully appeared to follow with practiced ease. Skinner kept trying to school the idiotic grin from his face with a noticeable lack of success, if the tiny smirk on Scully's perfectly molded lips was any indication. He trusted her not to report them or do anything to hurt Mulder; he hoped that she would grow to trust him in the same way.

Shit. The situation called for a plan; he started thinking as he drank his second cup of coffee. It was insane, it was dangerous, and he hadn't felt this happy in a long time. It was a feeling he was willing to trade just about everything else in his life to keep.