RATING: NC-17 for m/m interaction

CATEGORY: SHRRRR (very R!), slash (Mulder/Skinner)

SPOILERS: Not really, a tiny oblique reference to "Avatar".

SUMMARY: Cabinfic, Valentine-schmoop. Wholesome rustic activities <g>

THANKS: to Hal for inspired and generous beta reading, as always. Sam for very necessary encouragement and Sandy, for being the reason.

DISCLAIMER: They don't belong to me, though I'd give my last penny and live on love if I could have a certain WSS... Skinner, Mulder, Sharon Skinner and Scully are all the creation and property of CC, MP, DD, JH, GA, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement of copyright is intended, no money is being made from their use here. It's just a small celebration of specialness.

FEEDBACK: is always much appreciated and can be sent to sergeeva@geocities.com

WEBSITE: My other stories (nearly all M/Sk) can be found at Sergeeva's Walter Altar: http://geocities.datacellar.net/Area51/Shire/7155 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the sequel to my Valentine story "First Catch Your Man", which you probably should read first, and it was written as a birthday gift for my treasured friend m.butterfly. It includes a scene she requested, and hopefully, some of the ways we love to see our two heroes... For you, my dear friend, with much love. Thanks to Hal for inspired and generous beta-reading, as always. Sam for very necessary encouragement and Sandy, for being the reason.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He looks adorable when he blushes.

I guide him along the corridor and into the elevator, one hand on his delicious ass, and he's blushing like a little boy caught passing notes in Sunday School. His ears are pink. I want to kiss him.

He still hasn't said a word and I'm truly worried that I scared him. Seems I might have, as the first thing he says is:

"What just happened here, Mulder?"

"What do you think happened? I kissed you and I thought that you kissed me back... was I wrong?"

He's standing against the back wall of the elevator, his head down, studying his mirror-polished shoes. Now he lifts those huge brown eyes to my face and I feel the hot flush of desire flood me. God, he's gorgeous. How can he not know it? He searches my face for a long moment then seems to realise I'm still waiting for an answer.

"No... not wrong." It's barely more than a whisper and he swallows and drops his eyes again, blushing even harder. He's shy. And embarrassed to be wanting this so much. Because I'm sure he does want it. I've got my work cut out here, to show him that this isn't impossible, that it's something he deserves as much as I do.

I step up close to him, slamming the 'stop' button at the same time. He flicks an alarmed glance at the control panel, but doesn't say anything. He's leaning back, hands flat against the smooth steel panels of the wall. I move into his space and lift his chin with my hand, making him look at me. He looks a bit panicked, a little guilty, but that bulldog spirit won't allow him to run. I'm counting on that as I lean in and kiss him again. Slow, savouring the taste of his mouth, using my tongue gently, just caressing him with my lips, taking his breath and his low moan into my own mouth.

I drink him in for a few magical moments and when I feel his chest heaving with what I hope is not just terror, I release him. He looks stunned, his head tipped back against the wall, his beautiful lips moist and parted. He's still scared at how much he wants this. I know how much I want it, but I'm shaking with how much I need it, need him to be okay with this. I reach for his arm, still pressed back at his side, and shake him gently by the wrist, as you would reassure a child. Me the strong one? That's a novel concept.

"It's okay to enjoy it, you know, Walter."

The first time I've ever called him by name to his face. He takes it about as well as the kiss - nervous, unsure, pleased. A tiny curve at one corner of his mouth gives me a disproportionately huge amount of hope.

"I... " He swallows again. "I did, I am..., I don't..."

So his customary command of the language has deserted him, has it? And all because of me. I'm inordinately proud of that fact, not that I want him to suffer this way.

"Look - what do you want to happen? I think we should just go ahead with our plans, go up to your cabin and use the time to get to know each other better. Whatever happens, happens. No agenda, no promises. How does that sound?"

"Get to know each other better...? That would be good. I'd like that, Mulder."

He looks reassured and I release the elevator to continue its journey. I step back from him as the doors open on the parking garage, but I let my hand linger on his wrist for a moment. He smiles that tiny, shy smile again and I'm reassured too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I let him drive, it looks like he needs the distraction. Besides, it gives me the chance to just watch him. Legitimately, openly, ravenously. He shed his suit coat as we got into the car, so he's sitting there in all his white-shirted glory. I've always watched him: in meetings over the years, studying his stillness, his innate power; in the corridors of the JEH, ogling that long-legged stride, that perfectly muscled ass; in his office, watching his hands flick through my latest report, imagining those hands... At the moment, they're firm on the steering wheel, broad, tanned hands, neat, cleannails, hands I want to touch and be touched by.

He drives in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. He's reserved by nature, not given to inanities or small talk, comfortable with silence as few people are. He makes me comfortable too. Normally, I'd be covering my nerves with a stream of irrelevant babble, that I know annoys people, including Scully a lot of the time. I feel no need to talk here, the need I feel is to hold him, to take care of him, to warm his cold life.

Now where did that thought come from? This is a man who has been pursued by half the women in the Bureau, whose secretary is so devoted she will go along with a plan that leaves her own friends frustrated, just because, like me, she believes I can make him happy. He might have a rich and rewarding social life that I know nothing about, but somehow I know he doesn't. On too many occasions I've found him still at work when the rest of Washington is out enjoying itself. When I've needed him on the weekend or over a holiday, he's always been available. I just get the impression that since Sharon's death he hasn't had a whole lot of companionship in his life or very much pleasure either.

Clearly, he was taken by surprise when I kissed him the first time, but equally clearly, he wasn't appalled or disgusted by it. I need to go slowly with him, build his confidence, let him set the pace. My own needs can wait on his. My own needs... tentatively I slide a hand across and just rest it on his thigh. Sleek muscle under the fine wool fabric, the heat of another living body and a faint tremor. I let my hand stay, not moving it, getting enough pleasure from just that contact. The tremor subsides.

More miles pass, I risk flexing my hand against that taut thigh, the merest curl of my fingers over the curve of his leg. No tremor, good. I look at his profile - gorgeous, strong planes of brow and cheek and jaw - he is looking straight ahead at the highway but there's a definite gleam in his eyes. Oh it's hard to hold back... I never wanted anything so much in all my life as I want Walter Skinner.

"Um, Walter. could you pull over the next chance you get?"

Casual. Seems to have worked, no tremor in that hard muscle.

"Okay. There's a country store coming up in a half hour or so, we could stock up on supplies and take a break. It's only about another hour to the cabin now."

"I don't think I can wait even half an hour. Can you just pull over where there's a bit of cover?"

He cocks an amused eyebrow at me. Let him think I have no bladder control. It's the control of other parts of me I'm concerned about. He spots an unmarked side-road up ahead and signals to turn off.

"I know this area. We used to stop at a lake along this road, eat our sandwiches, walk a while. Um, Sharon and I, that is... there are trees and boulders aplenty just a bit further on."

He looks embarrassed to have mentioned Sharon and I squeeze his thigh without thinking, just to show I understand he has memories. The look I get back is one of such warmth that I squeeze again. Oh yes, he's definitely getting used to the idea.

We pull in to the edge of a wooded area. A trail winds off into the trees, but it's narrow and grassed over. We're not going to meet any backpackers today. I get out of the car and stretch luxuriously. Even in Walter's roomy sedan my back gets cramped sitting in one position for too long. I notice Walter eyeing me and lean in at his window.

"You should stretch your legs too, you've been driving for nearly three hours. Come on, stud."

It's a calculated risk, but he just grins and climbs out of the car. I wolf-whistle him enthusiastically, and he does look breathtaking, even rumpled and travel-weary as he is. He stretches too and my eyes nearly pop out at the sight of those shoulders flexing and that lean stomach tightening so that his pants settle a little lower on his hips. He grins a bit sheepishly seeing me watching, as if he still can't get used to being admired. I spare his blushes, much as I love to see them too, and turn away into the deeper forest to find a spot to pee in.

When I come back to the car, Walter is leaning against the front fender, looking a bit unsure again. I can't leave the guy alone with his self-doubts for a minute. I march up to him, plant my hands firmly on the hood of the car, on either side of his hips, and give him a devouring kiss. I push him lower against the warm metal, standing between his spread legs, plundering his mouth with all the hunger I feel. He gaps in shock, then pushes back, one big hand gripping my bicep, angling his mouth against mine, meeting my passion with his own. God, he's going to be fucking unbelievable when we finally...

 The baseness of my own thoughts makes me laugh aloud, a crack of laughter against his open mouth. He seems to catch my thought and laughs too: a warm bass chuckle that melts my bones. We loll on the hood of the car, giggling like schoolboys, truly relaxed together. I push myself up with a hand against his chest and kiss the end of his adorable retrousse nose.

"You going to take advantage of the available cover? "

I'm teasing and for a moment he looks as if he doesn't quite know how to take the comment. Then he realises what I mean and heads off into the trees. I have another long bone-cracking stretch and smile happily. I've found myself a rare treasure here. I must make very sure he knows that's how I feel about him.

Back on the road again, my hand falls naturally onto his thigh as before, but this time his right hand settles over mine as he steers with his left. He squeezes lightly before he returns his hand to the wheel. I deliberately stroke up his leg and over to tuck my fingers against his inner thigh, the back of my hand not quite brushing against his groin. A rewarding hiss of frustration is my answer. I think I'll risk another gentle probe:

"Has there ever been... another man?"

Not the most suave way to ask what I need to know. He clenches his jaw and blinks a few times. And is silent for several moments.

"Not for 28 years. There was someone... in 'Nam. He died."

I lay my hand over his on the wheel. There's nothing I can say. He nods, understanding what I want to convey.

"I've sometimes wondered, over the years, if he'd lived, whether we would still be together. It was what I wanted, then." He shoots an intense look at me. I can sense something very important coming.

"I'm not one for experiments, Mulder. Or for affairs. I never cheated on Sharon, until that..."

I grip his hand again, seeing the painful memories that must be going through his mind. I know what he's trying to say and I'm incredibly moved that he feels that way. I already know that I want this to be more than an affair, but I think we owe it to ourselves to just see what happens. We've come a long way already, in every sense.

Twenty-odd miles further on we pull up in front of a long low wooden building that announces itself as "Sawyer's Country Store. Feed, Grain, General Mercantile". There are tools and hardware hung all over the front facade and sacks of animal feed stacked up against a table with buckets of early garden flowers.

"When does Huck arrive, then?" I quip, and get a raised eyebrow in response. Walter climbs out, patting his back pocket to check for his wallet. I lower my window and call after him:

"Let me get this, it's only fair."

"You're my guest, Mulder. " He says mildly. "Besides, I don't want to spend the weekend eating the sort of thing you might buy."

I clutch melodramatically at my chest.

"You wound me, Walter. I know about 'real food' too, you know."

"Uh-huh. I'm not convinced. Come and help, though, if you like."

Walter is warmly greeted by the proprietor; a stout silver-haired man in faded blue dungarees with a ball cap on his head that bears the legend "Schumacher's Lubricants". I nearly choke when I see this, and Walter's quelling look sends me hastily off to check out the ice cream. I can hear Walter asking after people and chatting quietly to the old man. It doesn't surprise me in the least that he's part of this community even as only a weekend visitor. I've learned that his stern demeanour and gruff manner hide a caring and humane nature, as well as some very deep feelings.

The ice cream is home made and looks wonderful. I select a carton each of maple pecan crunch and double chocolate chunk. I can think of a few uses I'd like to put them to this weekend, if I get the chance. Walter has two large bags of groceries when I get back to the counter and he looks dubiously at my contribution.

"We've still a little way to go, Mulder. That'll be liquid by the time we get to the cabin."

I'm sure my face falls visibly, because the old guy chips in:

"I've got an old wooden ice-box you can borrow if you like, Walter. Just drop it off next time you pass."

"Thank you. Mr. Sawyer, that would be very kind. I'm sure Mulder here will enjoy Mrs. Sawyer's delicious ice cream."

Mr. Sawyer beams proudly. Obviously nothing Walter might have said could have pleased him more.

"Your Sharon used to love Helen's lemon sherbet, as I recall."

"Indeed she did. She'd talk about it all the way up here."

He smiles softly and he and Mr. Sawyer share a sympathetic look. Of course, Walter and Sharon must have spent many a summer up here before they grew to be more strangers than man and wife. I don't feel any shadows lurking. Walter's talked to me about his marriage and I know he made his peace with her before she died. That was three long years ago. I just pray that we can find something together, some love we both miss and both need.

Walter pays for the supplies, brushing away my offer to contribute and I pack the ice cream into the small square chest that Mr. Sawyer produces. Its double-wall construction keeps the temperature constant and it's packed with chunks of ice. The old man waves us off, and I wave back at him.

It's almost dusk when we reach the cabin and it's just as I imagined. A solidly built one story log cabin with a covered woodpile, a wraparound porch and a weathervane on the roof-ridge. I suddenly know that Walter built this himself. I can just see him, shirt off, sawing logs, planing wood, hammering nails. If I was hungry before, I'm dying now.

The object of my fevered imaginings is carrying bags inside while I sit here fantasizing. I catch him up as he comes out for the second load and sling my weekend bag over one shoulder so I can keep the ice-box level. Inside, the cabin is simply and comfortably furnished. A huge sagging sofa stands before a wide, open hearth and there are braided rugs, tapestry throw pillows and some striking paintings on the walls to add to the welcoming effect. I follow Walter into a small kitchen with a dining alcove and a huge pine dresser loaded with mis-matched old china plates and dishes. As he fills the cabinets and the ancient blue refrigerator, I look around some more. There are two other doors off the main room: a bedroom and bath, I suppose. One bedroom.

I'm pondering this thought and hoping that Walter is feeling even more relaxed now he's on his own turf, when I sense him watching me. I turn and see him leaning in the kitchen doorway, an expression I can't identify on his face. He breaks the silence.

"I've got steaks for dinner. And there's your ice cream. How about we freshen up and then I cook?"

I remember my vow about letting him set the pace, and smile amenably, but something of my yearning must show in my face, because he drops his own weekend bag and starts to walk towards me.

"Or we could do something else..."

It's a growl, a purr, a honeyed rumble of a proposition. In a heartbeat I'm beside him, against him, around him, our arms criss-crossing, our legs interleaving, our fingers meshing. He reels me in with one massive arm, and starts kissing across my brow, my eyelids, my cheekbones.

I knew he'd be dynamite, but nothing could have prepared me for this devastating tenderness. My knees give way but he holds me up and then just heaves me over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, as if I was half the size I am. I pretend to struggle and we're both laughing like kids as we head for the bedroom. I feel the softness of a down comforter under my back as he lowers me onto the bed and kneels beside it.

He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the fingers, that searing, consuming gaze never leaving my face. I'm incapable of speech, but reach for him with my free hand and try to get to the buttons on his shirt. He captures that hand too, turning them both over and kissing the palms alternately. Between the kisses, words spill out of him:

"I've dreamed of this for so long, maybe since the first time I saw you. It scared me how lost I was from the first moment, lost to reason, lost to good sense, lost to anything beyond the constant images of you in my head. I haven't had a life outside work since you came under my supervision. I've thought about you, worried about you, wanted you, my every waking moment. I knew it all had to stay inside my head, though, because how could I ever expect you to feel... and how could I risk giving your enemies any more ammunition. You seemed determined to ruin your own career and I could do so little..."

I can't just listen to this. It's the most incredible thing I've ever heard, and you know I've heard a few. I burst out:

"So little! What you've done..." But he cuts me off by dint of taking both my hands in one of his huge paws and laying a big finger of his other hand across my lips.

"Let me tell you... while I have the nerve. I never minded you lashing out at me, I knew how you'd been treated by your so-called superiors before that, I understood. But I worried when you went against orders because that risked your cause more than you realised.

"I wanted to... I wanted to just tell you that I'd protect you, that I was a friend to you and Scully both, that I... oh God, I wanted you to trust me, but I could do so little to earn that trust."

He looks so earnest, so anguished. I can't bear to watch him blame himself for something he didn't do, especially when in truth he achieved what he meant to, a hundred-fold. He's the only one I've ever trusted besides Scully, and latterly, even more than her.

There will be a time for me to tell him all that I thought and felt about him during those years, but not now. Now he needs to be warmed, to be loved.

I sit up, gently freeing my hands, and do something I've wanted to do for so long. I cup my hand against his cheek, caressing the smooth skin until he lets his head rest against my palm. Something about his face always strikes me as so young, almost boyish. I feel so protective of him, so aware of how much he has risked for me, how he has been hurt because of "my cause". I let my fingers stroke down the fine skin of his neck, around his ear, into the soft hair at the back of his head. His eyes close on a groan and then sweep open again. I need to see more.

Carefully I unhook his glasses and set them on the nightstand. I turn back to him and... those eyes... Huge, gorgeous, almost unbearably expressive. Long lashes, shyly lowered before my scrutiny. My fingers urge his chin up again. Clear brown like rare Madeira, as soft as a wild animal's learning to trust, wise and solemn. I start to unbutton his shirt.

That naked, vulnerable gaze is too much for me and I lower my eyes to naked vulnerable skin instead. His bared throat is so beautiful: strong, velvet-skinned. He smells wonderful too: of clean cotton and faintly of a subtle cologne. And of himself, a warm, wholesome manly scent that starts my pulse racing with desire.

My eyes move lower, as more of that flawless chest is revealed. I'm going really slowly, sliding the shirt bit by bit off his shoulders, rubbing my face against his skin. Not even kisses, really, just touching him with my parted lips, breathing in his addictive scent, trying to make him feel the adoration and believe it.

When he is bare chested before me, I start on my own shirt, but he's not having that. He's not patient either and buttons go flying as he simply hauls it up and off in one impetuous motion. He's panting and flushed, that magnificent chest heaving as he takes deep breaths. He's not looking for slow and gentle.

My control is not so superhuman either, and we fall clumsily side by side on the wide bed, fumbling with belts and zippers, aching to touch hot, yearning flesh. We come fast, lying groin to groin, our pants barely undone and pushed down our thighs, our mouths locked, our hands sliding together over our cocks. As a first time it's not great, but it's wonderful. We couldn't have spun that out into a slow romantic seduction. Our bodies needed release, four years of want took about four minutes to explode.

We're a mess, side by side smiling up at the rafters, sticky and still half blind with the force of our orgasms. I recover first and roll off the bed, almost tripping over my own half-mast trousers. I sigh exaggeratedly and try to peel them off. I still have my shoes on. We made love with our shoes and socks on. Shaking my head at the less-than-romantic practicalities, I finish undressing and try the part-open door beside the bed. There's an all-white bathroom, with a heap of fluffy towels and a blue and a green washcloth laid out on the counter top. Two washcloths? How organised can this man be? I run the green one under the hot tap and clean myself up, then soak the blue one and snatch up one of the dark blue towels.

I was wrong about it not being romantic. The sight that greets me when I walk back into the bedroom is the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. Walter is still lying on his back, his dark pants and white briefs round his knees, his glorious body slick with sweat and semen, his cock still partly erect. I clamber onto the bed, get his shoes and pants off and begin wiping off my lover's chest and belly and groin. His cock twitches as I gently handle it and I bend to kiss the sculpted head, tasting myself as well as his unfamiliar flavour. He gasps out a sound almost like a sob that makes me look up into his face in alarm. He looks guilty again and I think I know about what.

"My God, Walter, I've never come so hard, so fast in all my life. I couldn't have waited another moment though, I've been waiting four long years for that."

I was right. The look of relief that floods his handsome features goes straight to my heart.

"I wanted it to be so perfect, to be slow and tender and perfect. I was as rough and clumsy as a teenager, hell, I wasn't that selfish even when I was a teenager."

"Selfish? Were you alone just now? I was in as bad a state. We both just needed release, any way we could get it. Next time will be slow and perfect, this time was just fast... and perfect." I pointedly stress the last word. It's the simple truth. I'm happier than I've ever been.

I dry him carefully, kissing his throat, his collarbones, his ribs, his navel. I want to learn every inch of this beloved body. I want to spend the rest of my life on the learning.

He's almost asleep when I finish cleaning him up and toss the washcloth and towel off to one side. No doubt it will offend his Marine-honed sensibilities when he sees them in the morning, but right now, we're both too drained to worry. I crawl up the bed and he opens his arms for me. Sleepy maple syrup eyes smile softly at me, warm skin calls to me, a broad furry chest makes a perfect pillow. I snuggle in against him and pull the comforter up around us. I suddenly realise how quiet it is here. I'm used to the constant hum of traffic outside my windows, or the murmur of the TV through a restless night. Tonight I can hear only Walter's steady heartbeat and the whisper of his breath against my hair. I fall asleep before the thought is complete.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In contrast to the night before, it seems awfully noisy when I wake next morning. There is some damn bird piping outside, and I hear pans clattering nearby, and the faint sound of a radio - voices too low to interpret. I sit up blearily, and realise I feel wonderful. I'm also alone, but maybe that has something to do with the cooking sounds. The drapes are drawn partly back and clear pale sunlight is flooding into the room. I can see more detail now than I was in any condition to notice last night. The high pitched roof is open to the rafters in this part of the house, an awesome weight of solid timber arching over my head. A set of French doors makes the room light and airy and gives a view of a sweep of landscape that any real estate agent would be in raptures about.

There is a wall of bookcases that I must inspect later, a walk-in closet and a couple of what look like antique armoires. There's also a stone hearth, smaller than the one in the main room, but still... my mind is already planning. It is only February and the days are still chilly. I'm thinking roaring blaze, comforter on the floor and Walter naked under me.

My blissful fantasy is interrupted by a sheepish chuckle. I swing round to the door where a vision greets my eyes. Walter is wearing some ancient, faded, silky-soft jeans that are so moulded to his body you can see every contour, and I mean every contour. Has he got room for underwear under those things? Do I care? He has on a chunky fisherman's sweater too, that just emphasises his massive chest and shoulders in contrast to that narrow waist and hips. He grins shyly, and takes the words from my mouth:

"You look good enough to eat. But I made waffles and bacon because you'll need your stamina today."

A little twinkle. He's got a great sense of humour, I realise.

"You look mighty tasty yourself, I may say." I lick my lips lasciviously and get rewarded, as I hoped, with a blush. "So what do you have planned for us?" I ask, archly.

"Well, since tomorrow is Valentine's and we'll obviously be in bed all day..." My God, he is feeling better, woo-hoo! "... I thought you might like to see something of the area today, fulfil the purpose of our trip."

I'd forgotten what a man for the details he is. You hope he'll forget that throwaway remark, or that ill-judged comment in your report, but he never does. It's all branded on that steel-trap of a mind, to come back and haunt you. Now I'm wondering which particular purpose of the trip he means.

"What, you want to take me fishing after all?"

"Not fishing, no, but have your breakfast first and I'll explain."

I'm not sure I like the sound of this... and what time is it anyway? Something about the quality of the light has just sunk into my consciousness. I grab my watch off the nightstand - did he take it off me at some point in the night? It's fucking 7.40am! On a Saturday, on a vacation.

I find a cotton robe has been draped over the end of the bed, so I belt it on, visit the bathroom then stomp out to the kitchen. Walter is sitting at the table sipping coffee and looking bright-eyed and wide awake. I flop down on the chair opposite and try to scowl at him.

"I don't do mornings, Walter. I especially don't do Saturday or Sunday mornings. You should know that. Look how grouchy I always am when you schedule a meeting at 8.45. And that's a whole hour later than now."

He just grins, wickedly. I could forgive him anything for a sight of that grin. I've already forgiven him for whatever action-man plan he has lined up for today. I'm a lost cause where Walter Skinner is concerned: helplessly, hopelessly in love.

"You're always grouchy, Mulder, or smart-mouthed, or wacko. It doesn't impress me. Get a head start on the day and you'll reap the benefits later. How do you feel anyway?" A flicker of worry in his eyes and in his voice.

"I feel great, Walter. I feel alive."

He plonks a plate heaped with hot crispy waffles, fragrant bacon and melting butter in front of me.

"Did I tell you that I love you, Mrs. Mulder?" I quip, and then realise what I've said. He looks wistful and turns away quickly. I can't think of an easy way to fix that faux pas, not without making things more serious than either of us is yet ready for, I think. The moment passes, but it niggles at me. I do love him. Incredible as it seems, I know it with a certainty that I know very few things in my life. Before this weekend is over I will tell him.

We both munch happily for a while, passing the syrup and wiping our buttery mouths. I want to kiss him before he brushes his teeth, taste the salt sweet flavours on his tongue. I'll choose my moment.

I finally sit back, replete, and pat my stomach. He winks and pours more coffee. He makes the best coffee I've ever tasted, or perhaps everything will taste perfect in this perfect weekend. I suppose it's time to hear the plan of campaign for today.

"So if not fishing, what?"

"I woke up early," he says. Earlier than 7.40? Is there such a time?

"so I walked over to Ephraim Cooper's and borrowed a couple of his horses for the day. I thought I could show you the county."

I nearly choke on my coffee.

"Walter, I don't ride. I-do-not-ride. I don't like horses, they don't like me. I'd rather go fishing, than that."

His tone is mild, reassuring. "You'll be fine. They're quiet animals, we'll go slow, you'll enjoy it, really."

He must want to humiliate me. I'm not going to do this. I don't care how much he grins at me.

Forty minutes later, I'm dressed in jeans and a fleece jacket and standing beside an enormous, vicious beast with a nasty glint in its eye. I did get my syrup-and-bacon kiss, though. My reward for agreeing to just try this. I guess it was worth it.

Walter's horse is a massive black animal, pawing at the grass as he stands by its head, murmuring calming words. It's clearly a dangerous beast that will plunge him into the first ravine if he doesn't appease it. Mine is brown, not quite so massive and it keeps flicking its tail at me and stamping its back feet.

Walter seems to be waiting for me. I don't know what he expects me to do.

"Shall I give you a leg up?" he asks.

"Sure." It's the only way I'll ever get up that high without the help of stimulants.

He walks round behind me and cups his hands for my knee.

"This is Ruby. She's a good quiet ride. Okay, now grab the pommel - that raised part at the front of the saddle - right. When I say 'go' pull yourself up and swing your right leg over the horse's back. I'll boost you. Okay - 'go!' "

It worked. I feel disgustingly proud. Way too far off the ground, but damn pleased with myself. Maybe this won't be so bad after all. Walter slaps my thigh, comfortingly.

"See, that wasn't so hard." He goes to his own mount and pats its gleaming neck before lifting one long leg up into the stirrup. With a seemingly effortless surge he swings up and lands lightly in the saddle. My eyes are wide at the sight. I want to ask him to get off and do it again, so I can pay better attention. I have a blurred impression of flexing shoulders, the taut curves of skin-tight-denim-covered buttocks and the sweep of a long graceful thigh. I nearly had to get off and change my jeans.

We set off and for a few minutes it's pretty good. We let the horses go at their own pace and Walter lets me get used to the movement. He gives me little instructions all the while: "tuck your knees in a bit, it'll give you more control" (who is he kidding?), "don't tug on the reins, let them hang loose", "leaning forward won't make her go faster, try and sit upright, but relax." I think I'm doing fine, in fact I think I might be a natural at this. Until we have to turn through a gate onto a bridle path and Ruby doesn't seem to understand my left-turn signal.

Walter is behind me and sees the problem.

"Don't use the reins to steer, press gently with your left leg, touch her with your left heel if necessary. There you go."

Ruby wheels obediently to the left and I want to whoop with satisfaction, until it occurs to me that it might alarm Ruby and I don't think I'm quite up to controlling a bolting mare yet.

Walter follows me through the gate and we go on, side by side, our legs touching occasionally. Walter was right of course, I am enjoying this. It's pretty country, not too wild, not too civilised. He takes us down paths canopied by still leafless trees, across open meadows where birds start out of the long grass as we approach, along by a tumbling stream, its banks springy with moss. I get stuck plenty of times, but he's right about Ruby too, she's patient with me and not flighty. The weak winter sun climbs higher in the clear sky and by noon it has some heat in it. The air is great, so pure it feels like you're drinking it, rather than breathing it. It sure gives one an appetite too. I'm just about to mention this to Walter, when he turns us into a copse and the young trees thin out to a gently sloping bank where another loop of that same clear brook chatters over boulders.

He swings agilely down off his horse and I'm paying attention this time. Poetry in motion. For a big guy he is very graceful. He is rummaging in some sort of saddlebag when I cough apologetically.

"I'm not sure how to get off."

"Grip the pommel firmly - you remember what that is? Lift your right leg and swing it up and back until you're clear of the horse's back, then just jump down, legs together."

I manage it, somewhat awkwardly and discover my legs don't work any more. My thighs are like cotton wool and I feel as if I have to walk like a cartoon cowboy with my legs permanently bowed. Walter doesn't laugh, bless him.

I waddle stiffly over to where he's set a collection of delicious smelling bags and gingerly lower myself to the grass.

"I think you'll have to winch me back up again, and I hope you're aware that I'll probably need hip replacements when we get back to DC?"

"You'll be okay after a hot bath and a good rest. You're just not used to using so many muscles."

Is that so? I'd like to use some of my muscles on him right now. But he's handing me a sandwich from paradise, so I'm distracted. Inch thick crusty Italian bread, thick slices of ham, dill pickles. The paper is already transparent with grease in parts and the first bite is nearly as good as that orgasm last night. Nearly.

He fishes a couple of bottles of Sam Adams out of the icy stream, where they've been chilling, and hands me one. The cold brew hits the back of my throat like the purest nectar and when I open my eyes and see my gorgeous lover, head tipped back, throat moving as he swallows, I know I've never been more content.

He gets me back onto Ruby, my aches more than a little mellowed by the beer, ("One of the advantages of a horse, Mulder. You can drink and drive, in moderation"), and we set off again. Walter leads us to higher ground this time, along a ridge of open land where a few rabbits, lured out by the warmth of the spring day, skip away over the tussocks of coarse grass. I'm feeling a bit guilty about keeping us at this undemanding pace all day. Walter is clearly an experienced rider and he must long to let his mount have his head. I could stand a pause, so I suggest that he might like to have a gallop and rejoin me here. He looks touched that I would think of it and tempted by the idea.

He stands in his stirrups and surveys the scene.

"I could go over as far as that clump of trees and back, just to loosen him up? Are you sure you don't want to try it?"

"I'm quite sure, thank you. I'll just enjoy the view." And I wink to let him know I don't just mean the landscape.

He wheels the big black horse round and gives him just the slightest signal with his heels. The gleaming animal strides forward and suddenly they're off, picking up the pace until man and horse are moving as one, both powerful, both beautiful. I wish I had binoculars to watch them as they swing around to climb up the slope of the hill heading for a line of brambles and bushes over to our right. I expect Walter to turn his horse before they reach the barrier, but he gathers the reins and sails over the brambles, a fluid, magnificent silhouette against the horizon.

I catch my breath and wait, heart pounding until I see his unmistakable head showing further along the line of bushes. Man and animal come flying over again and thunder down the meadow towards us. Walter slows to a canter and then a walk as they approach. The horse is snorting and tossing his head in pleasure and Walter looks breathtaking, his face flushed, his eyes bright. I realise how much he needs physical activity. Sitting so many hours at a desk must be torture to him, working out at a gym is hardly a substitute for this: clean air and exercise that challenges stamina, co-ordination and agility. It's a Walter I've never seen before, and one I want to see a lot more of.

He smiles that heady smile at me and takes his glasses off. They're fogged with the heat of his face and he produces a large white handkerchief and proceeds to polish them. I just watch him, drinking in the detail of the neat efficient actions. People watching him do this in his office would think he had the soul of a bureaucrat, but I know better.

We take a shorter route home, Walter sensing that my aching limbs can only take so much. It's been a great day, though. I feel as if I've achieved miracles and it's still only 3.22. This is what Walter meant by 'getting a head start on the day' of course. We still have hours ahead of us to do... what? A long soak, for one thing, or I'm not going to be fit for anything.

Walter tethers the horses outside and lets me into the cabin. I can barely make it up the steps to the door and I can't suppress my groans as protesting muscles resist the slightest movement. Walter is all concern.

"God, I'm sorry, Mulder. I shouldn't have kept you out so long when you're not used to it. You go in and get undressed, I'll set the bath running and walk the horses back to Ephraim's while you soak those aches and pains."

He's as good as his word. I hear him call out as he leaves and when I limp into the bathroom, I find the huge tub filed with steaming, herbal-scented water and a chilled Sam Adams on the side. He'd make someone a wonderful wife, would Walter.

I'm still steaming peacefully when I hear him come back into the bedroom.He pokes his head around the door. I have to ask:

"Care to join me, Mr. Skinner?"

"Nah, I'm saving that for tomorrow. I'll take the shower. I have things to do, so take your time."

Shame. I really wanted to see him strip and then climb in here with me, so I could wield a sponge with intent... but there is still tomorrow. We still haven't seen each other naked. Well, I've seen him a couple of times in the locker room at the JEH: tried not to stare, thanked God for my photographic memory. I will see him naked tonight. If my muscles can stand it, we're going to fuck until we're drained dry. I'm going to love that man *so* good...

He picks that moment to come back into the bathroom. He drops his robe and steps into the shower cubicle. The glass panel is clear except for a few etched modesty bars across the halfway point. I can see his feet and his legs up to mid-thigh, then his shoulders and head higher up. In between is a frustrating blur. He turns the water on full blast, needle points pounding into his shoulders. For a minute he just stands, head lowered, so that the force of the water falls on his back. Then he moves, tilting his head back. The spray cascades over his smooth head and then streams down his chest. Eyes closed, he lifts his arms over his head and arches back, loosening his spine, offering his throat and armpits to the water.

Clearing drops from his face, he swipes a big hand up and back over his scalp, then reaches for the shower gel. His hands are tawny, indistinct shapes behind the frosted glass but I can see when he lathers his chest and under his arms and I can picture his hand moving lower, over his hard belly, cupping his genitals. I realise that I'm moving the sponge over my own body in the same pattern, and I'm getting hard. Suds are streaming down those long tanned legs, over the high curve of his ass, my hand is working over my own cock, my mind sees only him.

I ejaculate under the bath water, my cry lost in the hiss of the shower. I feel hardly relieved at all, arousal and longing still twitching in every nerve. The shower shuts off abruptly and he steps out, a towel already wrapped around him by the time my lust-slowed reflexes turn my head to look. Damn. My cock aches as much as ever.

He grabs his robe and strolls back out of sight into the bedroom. I struggle up out of the cooling water and let the tub empty. I daren't even rub myself with a towel, I'm in such a state, so I just put on the cotton robe over my wet skin and decide to jump him as soon as I get close enough.

He's got plans of his own. In the bedroom he has started a log fire in the hearth and laid blankets and pillows in front of it. He's been, reading my mind again. I loosen my robe and walk toward him, to find him offering me a choice of two bottles.

"Sandalwood or cedar? The cedar will be particularly good for the muscle ache."

I'm disoriented for a moment, until I realise what he's offering. The thought of those wonderful hands working over my body is something I've fantasized about so many times I've lost count but I'm really not sure I can hold back my reactions if he touches me now. I don't want him to think I have no self-control at all, and after last night... hell, I feel the same as him, that I want it to be slow and sensual and romantic. He's doing his part with the offer of this massage, how does it look if I just get my own rocks off without giving him anything in return?

I should have known. He's perfect. I'm still suffering on the horns of my dilemma when he slides the robe off me and strokes a warm, firm hand down my chest and belly and curls it lightly around my cock. I jerk into his palm, involuntarily, even that barely-there touch nearly making me come. He soothes me with shushing noises and murmurs in my ear:

"Lie on the rug, Mulder, before you fall down."

He opens his hand and the air on my cock feels like ice-water after his warmth. It gives me a few precious moments more of control, enough to get myself flat on the nest of blankets in front of that glowing fire. Walter kneels beside me, bends and takes my cock in his mouth.

I arch up off the floor, sore muscles protesting, and the melting heat of his mouth accommodates my thrust, his tongue curling around me, pushing me gently against the roof of his mouth.

That warm palm cups my balls now, flexing just the tiniest amount. He's using his lips on my penis, so smooth over the tight skin, tightening and releasing as he works up and down the shaft. I'm almost out of it, blind and dumb, but for staccato moans, but I want to see this. I lift my head and see the most incredible sight. Walter is leaning over me, one arm holding him up, the other nestled in my groin, his beautiful back satin-skinned, gleaming in the firelight. I can see his cheeks hollowing rhythmically as he sucks me. As I watch... He pulls right off me, scrolling his tongue around me as he slides away. I gasp at the loss of his heat, but I needn't have worried. He sits up so he can stroke my cheek, such a soft light in his eyes. Then he bends over me again and takes me deep, in one lunge. I've no reserves of control left... The instant the head of my cock touches the back of his throat I spurt, wave after wave. Weightless, timeless, formless, I feel elemental, pure. The air seems to sparkle around me, wind rushes in my ears, I am a thread stretched taut on an infinite trajectory. He swallows around me, the movement of his throat milking me. I'm still jerking when there's nothing more to come.

Basking in warmth. Turning into it, snuggling against softness. Powerless to move a single muscle, limp, spent, sated. Something cool and soft sliding over my fevered brow, my hot sticky body. A voice; low and loving, hands gently rolling me onto my stomach. Sleep. Just for a minute...

A sensation of deep loosening, of liquefying, bone-melting relaxation slowly penetrates my consciousness. My cheek is pillowed on cushions, my body is cosseted by soft blankets, the air is warm around me and perfect hands are sliding over the skin of my shoulders. Walter straddles me, and the scent of cedar oil wafts over me as he leans into each powerful stroke.

His fingers curve over the trapezius muscles running across my shoulders, loosening knots and dissolving the tension at the base of my neck. Then his palms sweep down over my shoulder blades and down my sides, slicking the skin over my ribs, making minute shifts in the alignment of bones and tendons that lift away tiny aches I wasn't even aware of until they're gone and the absence is bliss. Spanning the taper of my back effortlessly, Walter smoothes firmly down to the narrowing of my waist, slowing to small circling motions, softening the skin with the fragrant oil.

Then the heat of palms cupped over my buttocks, strong flexing squeezes. At the top of each stroke, his thumbs probe insistently at the base of my spine, dissolving stiffness, making my pelvis feel disjointed, elastic. At the end of each stroke, those thumbs slide teasingly down the cleft of my ass, barely spreading the cheeks before sweeping outward over the tops of my thighs. It's the most sensual experience of my life, but it isn't winding up sexual tension. Rather it keeps me floating on a cloud of inertia, passive, without a will of my own, literally in his hands.

I drift in and out of sleep, rousing to find him cradling my foot against his thigh, working the sole with tender determined fingers, or skimming oiled hands up the inside of my thighs, spreading me slowly, in a way I thought I could never move again once I was off Ruby's broad back. Warming the overworked muscles into flexible looseness again.

I'm peripherally aware that the light outside has faded to night, and only the amber flicker of the fire lights the room. Guiding touches on my hips roll me again, to lie on my back. Now I can watch him, the chiselled planes of his incredible body softened by the warm light. No cold marble statue this, though Praxiteles might have carved such perfection, but living flesh, flushed with heat, gleaming with exertion, silk-smooth, steel-strong.

He spreads my arms and massages along biceps and triceps, feather light over the sensitive skin in the crook of my elbow, one hypnotically repeated brush of a thumb over the pulse-point at my wrist. Every finger is gently stretched and when he finishes with each hand he curls my fingers around his own and kisses them lightly. Our eyes meet and we both read the same message. This is love. No words yet, they will come later.

When he touches my chest I'm amazed I don't pass out. A flattened palm, softened with oil, circling over pectorals and down my breastbone, the back of a finger just flicked across a tightening nipple, overlapping sweeps of heat up over ribs and down over abs. I arch my spine against him, pushing up for more contact. He continues his maddening slow pace: thorough, deliberate, expert.

When he reaches my groin I can see I need to take control and soon. His powerful thighs are settled either side of my hips, the long sculpted muscles flexing as he leans into the massage. His stomach is taut and flat, the fading scar of his horrific gunshot wound angling down into the patch of dark pubic hair. Full, heavy testicles and a massive cock lie against his thigh. I get an idea and hold out my hand, palm up, cupped.

He looks momentarily puzzled, then as I glide my hand over my own slick belly, he understands and pours a little of the oil into my palm. I warm it between my two hands, coating my fingers. A hand on each of his thighs, I work the oil into his smooth skin. Such satisfying resistance of sleek muscle, his legs spread a little wider as I press down, allowing me to touch the unbelievable silk of the inner surface. Each stroke inching higher until I nudge the heat of his scrotum with my knuckles. I switch to his abdomen, loving the fierce groan of frustration that he makes when I leave his groin. His own hands clench against my hips, making me roll my eyes back and bite my lip.

Down the rippled hardness of his belly, trailing playful fingers through the dark curls below. Back to the groove where thigh meets hip, polishing over hip bones, drifting a long finger down to toy with the ripe balls. And all the while watching his beautiful face: wide dark eyes feverish with arousal, a spot of colour high on each cheekbone, his perfect lips parted to reveal even white teeth. His control is astounding, but my touches are getting ever more intimate and the longing in my eyes tells him what I want. Slowly I see it in his face, hear it in his breathing - he is letting go.

I reach up and pull him down to me, feeling the push of his erection against my thigh as he settles over me. I kiss his throat, his ears, his shoulders, the corners of his mouth. My legs wrap around his lean hips as if we'd done this a thousand times, cradling him against me. I reach a hand down between us to finally touch that hot straining cock. Skin like silk over the quivering tightness of that column. The big vein pulsing against my caressing fingers, moisture beading my palm. He groans against my chest, rearing back on his braced forearms.

"Walter, come to me, be with me, fuck me!"

His eyes open wide suddenly, clear and lucid and serious.

"I mean it, Walter. I'm ready for you, big guy, melting inside, I want your beautiful body all for myself, I want your beautiful cock deep inside me, I want to watch you come for me."

I lay my hand against his cheek and somehow, more than my words, that gesture convinces him. He rolls away just enough to dip his fingers in the oil and slick over his penis. Then he lies beside me and takes me in his arms, lifting one leg over his hip so he can slip his hand between my cheeks and moisten around my anus. I wasn't kidding when I said I was ready for him, my muscles are so relaxed the sphincter opens for his finger easily. He kisses my hair, crooning tender words in my ear. His big hand stroking down my spine, holding me so close. He grazes his finger across my prostate and I moan deliciously against his breast. He murmurs something, his voice so low it's more a vibration than a sound.

Two fingers and I'm begging incoherently. My hips are thrusting against his hardness, my hand furrowing in his chest hair, clutching at him urgently. Still he rocks me in his arms, finger-fucking me, his own need ignored until he's sure I'm ready. At last he looks into my eyes and sees what he needs to see.

"Foxxx...?" Just a breath, awed, reverent. I can't believe how I move him, how unsure of himself he is, even now. So magnificent and so selfless. My heart is so full and I must make him believe.

"Yes. Please." I lift my eyes to him, it feels as if nothing has ever been more important.

He lowers me onto my back and lifts my legs onto his shoulders. He looks so solemn, I think he fears he will break me. One long slow push and he's in me, oiled and smooth and filling me so awesomely I feel tears welling up. He's so still, watching my emotional reaction, then his own eyes close and he pulls back and pushes in once more, even slower than the first time if that's possible. He watches me again, his stillness phenomenal. I breathe out raggedly and shift around him, signalling my readiness. The first moment of pain has melted into something decadent, a fullness I couldn't have imagined, and sweetest of all is the sight of him leaning over me.

His eyes are so soft, he looks young, care-free, ardent. Then he smiles and flexes his hips against me. God, it's too much already, silk heat stretching me, driving deeper and deeper, the glory of it spiralling up inside me, sweet heaven...

Against my prostate, once, twice, three times - perfect curving strokes. I try to curl up my pelvis to take even more of him and he shifts his weight to one powerful arm, so he can lift me up against him. His furry chest brushes over me as he rocks into me. I can feel his buttocks clenching under my heels, I can feel the pulse of his heartbeat where my lips touch his throat, where his heat throbs inside me. He lets me lie back again, and wraps his careful hand around my own swelling cock.Tantalisingly tender, fingering the vein, fondling my balls. I've never lasted so long, hovering on the brink of release for what seems like hours. I couldn't tell you my own name, I'm so lost in sensation.

I want his mouth, his kiss. My hand goes to the back of his neck, drawing him even lower over me. My cock in his caressing hand is crushed between us, his body is hard and soft and hot and wonderful between my legs. His eyelashes brush my cheek as his mouth meets mine. I don't know how we are breathing, one breath, one heartbeat, one life-force. Now it's not careful, it's reckless. I touch him everywhere: pinching his nipples, digging my fingers into his smooth back, crushing his hips between my thighs, clenching my internal muscles around his perfect core of heat.

He is breathtaking, such power and grace, driving into me with such dazzling strength, making love to me with such intense passion. He twists his head, snarling and moaning - so close now. Shuddering, he holds himself at the point of release and looks down at me:

"I love you, Fox. I love you."

He thumbs over the head of my bursting cock, and I'm gone, spattering over his fist and both our bellies, his words ringing in my ears. A bare second later he arches back and cries out and I'm flooded with liquid heat.

By the time I'm back in the land of the living, he's collapsed beside me, panting, still shaking with the dying tremors of his orgasm. On his chest and under his arms the hair curls damply. He's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen and I still haven't told him. Tenderly I pull him into my arms, settle him against my chest, his head on my shoulder. I stroke his face, his smooth skull. I'm almost too choked to speak. From somewhere I find a whisper:

"Walter, I love you so much."

I'm startled to hear such a sentiment from my own lips, but it's the simple truth. He has saved me from myself more times than I care to remember, he has watched over me, not sparing himself. And tonight he has held me, adored me, let me love him.

We kiss softly, lips and cheeks and eyelids and clasped hands.

Some time later we run another bath and tenderly wash each other, change the bed linen and think about supper. We're both quiet.

Walter is finishing up the cooking and I'm standing out on the porch, looking up at the night sky, wondering why it all looks the same when everything in changed. Warm arms circle my waist and a warm voice asks:

"Wishing on a star?"

"I don't need to. I've just got what I wished for."

"Me too. And I'm never going to let it go."

THE END

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