Author's note: This was written for my dear friend, and beta-reader extraordinaire, Hal's birthday. She started the idea brewing in my mind, so I owe her a double thank you.

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

Thursday, just before midnight. Walter's broad back is warm. I press myself even closer and luxuriate in the scent and feel of my lover. He's fast asleep and I can hear the even breathing that shifts the muscles of his chest under my enfolding arms. If I lift my face just a little I can brush the back of his head with my lips: soft, fine hair and smooth bare skin... I nuzzle the fringe of hair, enjoying the tickle on my nose and mouth.

I love Walter's hair, but I love the sleek curves of his skull even more. I'm always aiming kisses at his head, hungry for that sensation: his smooth scalp against my lips. He indulges me, says the kisses feel nice for him too. I've just about got him convinced that bald really is beautiful, I think. On him, it's sensational and I wish he believed that.

I've got an idea that might help... thinking about it makes me smile against that silky surface. Tomorrow, maybe...

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

Friday, 6am, both of us in the bathroom. We share amicably, our morning routine a habit of nearly two months now. Walter was up first, of course, he's disgustingly energetic in the morning. Well, perhaps I should take back 'disgustingly', since I often benefit rather wonderfully from that surge of energy. This morning, he made a quick trip to the bathroom and then started in on his sit-ups. I'd obviously done too good a job of appearing deep in sleep and he didn't want to disturb me... I truly couldn't help the moan of arousal that escaped as I watched those clenching abs, or the incoherent whimpers when he looked up, saw my covert, slit-eyed rapture and turned that incredible energy on me...

Now, an hour, some changed bed sheets and a shower later, I'm watching him lather his face to shave. Time to put phase one into operation, I think.

"Walter... ?"

"Hmm?"

He's concentrating on whisking the soap in the shallow bowl and brushing the dense foam over his jaw. He's such a traditionalist: an old-fashioned wet shave with a bristle brush and a cut-throat razor. I love to watch this ritual. He has it down to a fine art and it takes him no longer than I spend with my aerosol foam and triple-bladed, high-tech miracle of engineering. I clear my throat and aim at nonchalance:

"Walter, can I try that?"

I missed my mark, I think. There was something heated in my voice. How could there not be. He pauses, the soap-laden brush poised in his hand.

"You want to use my kit?" He looks mystified. Okay, full-frontal assault it is:

"No, I want to try shaving you."

He looks at me, wondering what the hidden agenda is. I just meet his wary gaze and watch him consider the idea. Don't push, don't say any more, let him think about it. Remember your strategy. Please let him say yes.

"Have you ever used a cut-throat before?"

He's not refusing outright, then.

"Well, no... but I'd be very careful."

Another pause to consider... My nails are grooving crescents in my palms.

"You'd better be."

Yes! I never thought he'd go for it. My hands unclench. Other muscles tense. Before either of us loses our nerve, I hop up onto the counter top and take the brush from him.

"I've watched you do it dozens of times. I can do it. Would I damage that gorgeous face? It'll be fun... and sexy."

I can tell from his ears that he's blushing. I pull him between my legs and dab the soapy brush on the end of his nose. I'm actually seriously nervous now, and trying to cover it.

The first skim of that lethal blade down his cheek almost draws blood because I'm not confident enough to hold steady. His eyes widen and I lift the razor quickly, feeling sheepish. It's so unlike shaving yourself - viewpoint, angles, pressure, all disconcertingly different. Then there's the fact that it's him I'm touching.

"Just work in firm, smooth strokes," he says calmly. "Try again."

This time it's fine, the razor strips away the white lather and the stubble and his tanned cheek emerges unscathed. I smile triumphantly and start enjoying it.

Now it's as I imagined it: a very sensual experience. His towel-clad hips between my thighs, his naked torso giving off waves of heat, his eyes fixed on me, trusting me. I tilt his head this way and that, finding an unexpected sureness of touch, feeling a mounting excitement at the novelty and intimacy of the actions. Precision-skimming the line of his sideburns, flicking into the dip of his upper lip, the cleft in the strong chin... As I sweep the last strip of soap off his stretched throat, I can't resist leaning in to kiss the new-shaven skin. Tasting suds and inhaling the scent of male pheromones. Feeling the vibration of his chuckle.

Reaching behind me, I grab a clean wash cloth and begin to wipe the last traces of soap off his face. I've done a pretty good job, if I do say it myself. He looks so handsome - and a bit bashful at such close attention. Does he think that I see him as a big ugly brute and just put up with it for the mind-blowing sex? I start to kiss his jaw, his cheeks. His skin is kid-glove smooth now, that satiny, just-shaved feel that is so wonderful. I'm very conscious of my own raspy jaw scraping against him and pull back, my lips leaving him slowly. We're both breathing heavily.

"Would sir like anything for the weekend?"

The towel is off his hips and snapping threateningly in my direction before I can jump down and escape.

"Brat."

He steps close again and puts his arms around me, pulling me forward so that I feel the heat of his body, the soft brush of his chest hair. His hands slide up my back. He's almost purring...

"I'm impressed, Fox."

"Impressed, huh? Oh that's what you call this..."

I reach down between us and stroke his hardening cock. His silky cheek and warm lips assault me possessively.

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

Saturday morning and I'm standing by a narrow-fronted store in a backwater of Georgetown's shopping district. I've never been in this street of bespoke tailors and exclusive tobacco emporia before, but I had the presence of mind to notice that all Walter's shaving accoutrements bore the name of "Wiseman Bros." and I checked it out. So now I'm outside this discreet establishment, bearing a package of specialised items for phase two of The Plan.

Yesterday morning's experiment was a roaring success. We made ourselves late for work but Walter was in as mellow a mood as I've seen him in a long while. Scully said Kim was worried he was coming down with something, he was so benign all day. I saw Merrell in the washroom after lunch and he was still boggling at the way the AD had okayed the Tricorp surveillance, with only the mildest of quibbles.

Walter's a pussycat really. You just have to know how to handle him. Well, maybe more of a tiger... rare and beautiful and dangerous if provoked. I just hope I know him well enough to pull off phase two.

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

Saturday, late afternoon, lying on the couch reading the paper. Walter is sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, a file propped on his knees. Homework, it's never-ending for him. He warned me in the early days that it would have to be a trade-off between his paperwork and the time he could spend with me. He works so hard, meticulous in his responsibilities. I understand that it's part of what he is, of what I love about him. Sometimes we both sit looking at case files - it's companionable. I fold the paper and watch him for a while.

He's working his way through a report from Human Resources, making pencil notes in the margins in the pseudo-shorthand that only he and Kim can understand. I wonder if now is a good time to begin phase two in earnest. I shouldn't distract him, but he's irresistible: that bent head... My hand rests on his shoulder. I sit forward as if to look at what he's writing. My fingers drift to the back of his head, playing with the short neat band of hair. I can see the corner of his smile, that dimple he swears he doesn't have. I slide along the couch cushions until I'm sitting right behind him, turn and settle with crossed legs, both hands running over his head and neck now.

He gives up trying to work and lays the file down beside him. Submitting to my massage, he sighs appreciatively as I work at the knots in his shoulders. Time to make my move, I think.

"Walter, I've got an idea..."

"You have...?" He sounds cautious, he knows me as well as I know him.

"You have to admit I did a good job of shaving you yesterday..."

"I guess so. What does that have to do with..."

I'd planned a careful approach, but now it just comes blurting out:

"I want to go further. I want you to let me shave your head."

I can feel the reaction at once. His shoulders twitch and he makes a curious noise between a gasp and a snort. He sits up straight and slowly turns to face me. My God, I think he's struggling against outright laughter! Is that a good sign or not?

You - want - to - shave - my - head?" Every word weighted, no inflection other than mild enquiry. It doesn't fool me. His eyes are glittering, the muscles in his face working as he tries for control. It could go either way: fury or hysterics. I know I should just keep quiet, but it's more than I can manage.

"It's a fantasy I have. I can picture you... I've bought all the proper things..."

That stops the incipient guffaws or yells, whichever. He looks genuinely taken aback.

"You went out and bought 'the proper things', whatever they may be, hoping I'd agree to let you fulfil your fantasy. Before you'd even asked me?"

"Well, yes. I suppose that was assuming too much but I thought if you said no, I'd shave my own hair off so you could see..." I'd had no such thought, but it comes to me unbidden now, and I think I may as well see if it helps.

He's beyond control now. A rich growl of amusement escapes him and as I watch, between embarrassment and annoyance, he wipes a hand over his face in wordless disbelief.

"Fox, I have to tell you that bald would definitely not be a good look for you." He reaches out and ruffles my hair. "You've had some pretty dire haircuts in recent months but nothing to warrant losing it all. Why on earth would you want to? Why do you want me...?" He's lost for words, shaking his head.

I match his gesture, reaching out to run my palm over the smooth hardness of his head. This is where my plan falls down. I don't really know how to explain my fantasy. I have to try, though.

"I know you don't hate the way you look. I hope I've convinced you that I find this head of yours incredibly sexy." Blushes again. He gets so fidgety when I tell him he's sexy, his self-image is all screwed. "Is it such a weird idea to try for a total look?"

He sobers a bit, as he realises I am serious about this. He's still dubious, though. I need to use all my arguments. But what arguments? How to share the sheer sensual backwash from even imagining how he'd look, how he'd feel...?In the end what comes out is honest, if inarticulate.

"I think you'd look stunning. Not that you don't... even more stunning, I mean... oh lord..."

"Well, why didn't you say so right away." Wicked grin takes the wind out of my sails. He's saying yes? Just like that?

"I'd dispute 'stunning' with you, but anything you think might help..." I can't believe it, he's looking at me with those earnest brown eyes, ready to go along with this.

"You'll really let me shave your hair off? You don't mind? What about the office, what about...?"

"I doubt anyone will notice. In any case, I don't care. If it's going to make me look 'even more stunning' I'd be a fool to pass up the chance." He looks quite calm. Sober, rational, apparently in his right mind. Carpe diem, then!

"Come upstairs with me." I take him by the arm and lead him after me, sit him on the bed and go to get my supplies. When I come back, he's cross-legged on the bed, looking curious.

"I do know what I'm doing, Walter. I've been to talk to Mr. Pringle at Wiseman's. He's told me exactly how to go about this and given me everything I need. He says you've been going to him for your supplies for years."

I'm babbling I know, but I'm trying to keep calm enough not to mess this up. I'm still taken aback by the reckless enthusiasm with which he agreed to this, by the sheer erotic rush that the very thought of it awakens...

Walter is calmness personified. He doesn't bat an eyelid as I produce clippers, spread a towel over his shoulders and take up a position behind him. Tilting his head forward, I begin to shear the fine, dark hair close to his scalp.

"You found Wiseman's, huh? From my kit, I suppose. They're a

world away from the fashionable places you no doubt patronise. They've been cutting my hair since I came to DC. Since back when Mr. Pringle would actually discuss styles with me." He chuckles in mild self-mockery, accepting his hair loss as a fact of life.

I push the steel clippers through his neat hair, the tendons at the back of his neck showing taut as he holds himself still for me.

"I'm not as unfamiliar with that type of barber's as you might imagine. When I arrived in Oxford I looked... a bit wild. One of my tutors steered me in the direction of a very old establishment behind St. Aldate's. I put myself in the hands of Thomas Fysshe and I've never had a better haircut or shave since."

"I can believe that." Wry, even tone. Shere Khan to the life.

I'm nearly finished with the clippering and Walter is behaving beautifully. Not a single flinch, even when I steer the buzzing instrument around his ears.

"I'm giving you what is known in the trade as 'a number one', the closest cut before a total shave. When I was in England, the skinheads measured your toughness by how close your cut was. Anything over a number two was pansy."

"Pansy?" He casts a sidelong glance back at me. I grin. No one in their right mind would ever call Walter Skinner a pansy. I'd like to meet the skinhead who would risk it. If they still have skinheads in England?

"Oh, I get it. But you didn't...?" He waves a hand in the direction of his bristly head.

"No. The University would definitely not have approved of that. If I met any skinheads, I had to duck into a doorway." We both laugh at the ridiculous notion of a 17yr-old Fox Mulder trying to keep a low profile.

I'm almost tempted to forget the shave and leave him like this. Running my hand over the short stubble is like brushing a cat's coat the wrong way, or stroking velvet: just enough pile to tease the sensitive palm of my hand, but short enough to keep it's plush neatness. Something occurs to me:

"When you were in the Marines, did you have a buzz-cut?"

"Yeah, of course. Regulations. It made sense in the heat out in 'Nam anyway. Why?"

"Mmm, nothing, I just wish I'd known you then... I bet you looked good enough to eat." I'm getting wistful, just imagining a young Skinner in camouflage gear, toting an M16 and with that beautiful skull furred with dark hair. My palms are sweating at the thought.

"Mulder, you'd have been about 8 back then. I doubt very much that a lanky Marine corporal would have featured amongst your acquaintances. And why are you stroking me like a cat?"

"Um, well... you feel nice. Wait until you're all silky skin and see what I do to you!" I wiggle my eyebrows at him and stick my tongue out suggestively. "Stay put, and I'll be right back for the next stage."

The sun has swung right round to the west and is pouring in through the big window by now. The light is perfect for my delicate task. I set a bowl of steaming water covered with a towel carefully on the night stand and settle myself behind Walter on the bed again, laying out the items I need beside me. I whip the hot towel off the water bowl and wrap it around Walter's head. He looks a little startled and I put on my 'nanny knows best' voice.

"Mr. Pringle said that for the first shave, I should be very careful to warm the scalp first and soften the skin with moist heat. Besides, you suit the Sheikh of Araby look - it must be those Valentino eyes."

The bowl nearly goes flying as he swipes at me and I roll, laughing, out of his reach.

"Don't make me regret this, Mulder. God, your whole sex life is one big fantasy, isn't it?"

"Yep, one big fantasy." I roll back and push him down on the comforter, pretending to gnaw at his huge shoulders.

"This T-shirt will have to go." He looks panicked for a moment.

"You're not thinking of shaving anywhere besides my head, are you?" His hand is spread defensively over his chest.

"God no, I love my furry beast." I pull up the front of the T-shirt and nuzzle the crisp brindled curls. I'm settled in for a long session when I remember my mission. I haul him back up and tug the shirt off him. He looks so edible I almost decide to just nibble and kiss him into submission. His turban has unwound itself during our wrestling but his head is pink with the steamy heat so I reckon we're as ready as we'll ever be.

We resume our positions, Walter cross-legged and me wedged in behind him, a leg on either side of his hips. I hand him the water bowl and he balances it in the angle of his bent legs. I show him the razor.

"Did you know there's a special type of razor for shaving heads? It has a narrower head, and a differently-angled blade to accommodate the curves of the skull."

"Fascinating. You've invested quite a lot in this enterprise. Are you planning to make this a regular thing?"

"I hadn't thought. Let's see how you feel about it afterwards."

He snorts, but good-humouredly.

I've got his soap and a new, soft shaving brush ready and I try and do as I've seen him do: swirl the brush over the concave surface of the solid soap to work up a stiff lather. I whisk too vigorously and the soap goes everywhere. Flecks speckle the dark blue of the comforter, blobs of white are slowly melting down his back, my hand is slippery with the stuff. I'm embarrassed, but hopefully he isn't aware of the chaos behind him. I try for blasé.

"Pass me the towel, I'm ready if you are."

I wipe off my hand and spread the towel across his bare shoulders. His back will just have to stay soapy. Another go at the soaping and this time I contain the foam on the brush and begin to circle the soft bristles over his head. The consistency is still too wet and globs of lather slip down off his skull and over his neck. For a moment I find myself thinking it's cream and leaning forward to lick it off that smooth brown skin. I stop myself in time and use a gentle finger to scoop it up. He rumbles pleasurably, deep in his throat, that almost-purr again.

The moment has come. I lift the razor in my hand and hope my hand is steady enough. Just as I'm getting jittery with nerves, his low voice reaches me.

"You still there, Fox? You leave me in this state and I run the risk of being thought pansy. You're not reminiscing about that whipped cream at Christmas, are you?" Jesus, the man is psychic.

He's steadied my nerves, though, so I concentrate and make the first sweep. This new razor is good, I hear the scrape of the stubble against the blade, a clean satisfying sound. I can do this.

I move his head where I need it, tipping it from side to side, shifting myself a little to get the full sunlight on the right spot. I gently bend his right ear forward and shave the skin behind it. His head is so fine-skinned, his ear so tender and pink. As soon as the foam is swept away, I move in to lick the rim and the delicate skin behind. He shivers involuntarily and I kiss the place, deliberately breathing warmly over his damp skin. Walter groans.

The sooner I can explore this the better, but I'm not done yet. Getting into a rhythm of one careful stroke then a reach around him to swish the razor in the water bowl, it's still going too quickly. I deliberately slow: brush my arm against his side as I reach past him, fondle his ear as I turn his head to the angle I need, heat the bared skin with my breath.

His hairline isn't low at the nape of his neck, but the strong tendons make a deep groove and it's a tricky operation, even with the flexible razor, to skim every last hair away without nicking the skin. I realise as I make the last stroke, that I've been holding my breath. I wipe the razor on the towel and let out a heartfelt sigh. It's done.

Walter's lovely head is as smooth as any bowling ball, but infinitely more enticing. I drop one kiss on the newly naked skin and climb off the bed.

"Stay put, you're not quite done yet, Yul." I take the bowl from him and go to refill it with clean warm water. I rinse the razor off and clean the brush, leaving them both carefully drying. Whatever I said to Walter, I'd love this to be a regular thing.

Sitting at his back again, I use a damp washcloth to clean off his head and neck and wipe the last traces of my soap extravaganza from his lower back. Incongruously, I think of my mother washing behind my ears when I was very small, how she was almost savage in her briskness and my poor ears would be red afterwards. I'm very gentle with Walter.

Now the final stage. I have a bottle of lotion that Mr. Pringle was insistent I take "to soothe and protect the newly-bare skin, Mr. Mulder". Sounds lovely to me. Smells good as I unscrew the cap - faintly herbal, nothing too flowery or medicinal. I study the label.

"I have something to rub into your skin, Walter. It has aloe in it."

He's still sitting patiently, head bowed. I pour a little of the creamy lotion into my palm and stroke my hand over the back of his head. And almost orgasm from the sensation. The newly exposed skin is so soft and a shade lighter than the tanned crown of his head. The lotion glides on easily and is soon absorbed, giving the skin a sheen that shows the intriguing bumps and hollows of his skull.

This is my fantasy brought to life - caressing Walter's bare head, having a perfect excuse to lavish attention on that satiny surface. I was too focussed while I shaved him to feel the effects of what I was doing, but now, sliding my hands over his sensitive scalp, massaging the creamy lotion into his skin, feeling his skull almost naked against my palms... its an incredibly erotic sensation and I'm responding powerfully. I hook my legs around his hips, pull myself tight up against his ass, press my swelling cock to his tailbone. My fingers are moving in tight circles now, barely touching his head, feathering the slippery liquid into the pores of his skin, making it more and more silky to my touch. For every swirl of my fingertips, a kiss, my lips softened by the aloe and hypersensitized by desire.

That is without doubt a purr I'm hearing. Rocking together, keeping our desire simmering with every caress, we know where this is heading. Walter is pushing back against me, rolling his head under my hands. My hands are slowing, cupping his head, then sliding down over his chest, circling again with my silky hands, kneading the firm muscles. Walter lets his weight topple me back onto the bed, twisting to pin me under him. He looks hungry, hungry for me. A predatory, dangerous tiger that I might have teased to distraction, who might just decide to maul me a bit in revenge...

I'm willing to be mauled, waiting for the weight of his big hands, for the effortless pounce, the cuff of a heavy paw... he holds me there like a cat toying with a mouse, grinning down at me, making me wait. His eyes are so soft, a darkness to drown in. His flesh is sleek and hot. He holds himself over me on his braced arms, dipping to lap at my nipples. My fanciful brain conjures the jungle cat image still, in the sinuously shifting shoulders, in the smooth brow and broad cheekbones, in the lash of the pink tongue. I accept his mastery and offer him my throat. He rakes me with tender fingertips, savages me with kisses and I go to my death whimpering ecstatically.

THE END (I'm sure you can imagine what follows!)

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