CATEGORY: SRA, Slash (Mulder/Skinner)

RATING: NC-17 for violence, language, loving and consenting m/m sex.

(Warning: this story also contains a description of m/m oral rape. Please be warned and do not read on if you are under age or do not wish to read such material)

SPOILERS: small ones for Paper Clip, Avatar, Tunguska

SUMMARY: Skinner's anguish is not yet over and an old enemy returns.

THANKS: To Hal, for her beta-brilliance, and to all our friends for encouraging, supporting, nagging and waiting. We hope you'll think it was worth it.

DISCLAIMER: Most of them don't belong to us, sadly. The characters of the X-Files are the creation and property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Broadcasting and the talented actors who bring them to life. No infringement of copyright is intended and no money is being made from their use here. The other characters portrayed herein are the creation of the authors and may be used only with permission.

FEEDBACK: Always appreciated and answered. Write to the authors at sergeeva@geocities.com and xanthe@innocent.com

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

It was a perfect position from which to observe, he thought. The ground rose steeply behind the widely spaced houses and it was thickly wooded - perfect cover for surveillance. The wood thinned out into an area of pleasant paths and trails, but not for some hundreds of yards back from the boundaries of the lots. Dog-walkers confined themselves to that more level ground and he'd been able to make his observation post here without fear of discovery. No human or animal had shown any interest in the lone man lurking in the deep woods.

He'd been here for three days now, huddled in an unzipped sleeping bag, not daring to do more than catnap in case he needed to make a quick getaway. His subject hadn't slept much either, which had made his job a lot easier. The man he was watching through his high-powered binoculars had spent most of the last 48 hours sitting staring into space from the sofa in his living room, or pacing that same room from end to end like a caged panther. In the last few hours he'd started gathering papers onto the low table by the sofa - letters and newspaper clippings they looked like, then photographs - dozens of them. The man had read and re-read the letters and clippings and turned the photographs over and over in his hands, his face angry and then sorrowful.

It was silly to keep thinking of him as "the subject" or "the man". He'd tried to think of him that way to keep his feelings at bay during this crucial phase of the operation, but it wasn't working, so he might as well be honest with himself. He laughed softly at his own use of the word "honest" - it had been a long time since that had been appropriate. He wanted to be honest with this man, though, with the man he watched so doggedly.

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

Walter Skinner rubbed a hand over his sore eyes. He needed to sleep, but he couldn't face the dreams that haunted him when he lost consciousness. Dreams of Fox Mulder, of hazel eyes flicking away from his in shock and hurt, of the sound of the front door slamming and a car driving away. Since he'd told Mulder to leave he'd been in a turmoil of pain and indecision. He couldn't get over the feeling that he'd closed a door on something that would not be offered again, on a friendship - maybe even more than a friendship - that had been painfully won and which might have changed his life for ever.

It was fear of such a change that had made him withdraw behind his protective walls again, made him try to convince himself that it was better for both of them that this end now, whatever this was, or had been. He was a bad risk, he told himself... too closed off to be reached, too chilled from years of keeping the horrors inside to ever be warm and human again, too set in his solitary ways to make any kind of relationship work. It was far kinder to hurt Mulder a little now, rather than let him go on hoping and fail him later, when he inevitably discovered how far from being a hero Skinner really was.

It was the charitable thing to do, the wise thing, the necessary thing. Why then, did it hurt worse than anything he'd ever felt, worse than Sharon's withdrawal, worse than losing his buddies in 'Nam, worse than the most lonely nights he'd endured? He lifted the whisky bottle and poured himself another inch. Only his second this morning, or was it afternoon by now? He barely knew what day it was, let alone what hour. He hadn't changed his clothes or showered or been outside of the house for nearly three days. He should have been back at work yesterday, but he'd felt ill enough to call in sick with a clear conscience. The Bureau had had enough of his life over the years, the work could wait another day. Seeing Mulder could wait a whole bleak lifetime... yes, that would be best - just never see him again, transfer him and his damn department onto some other AD, transfer himself to another office, resign... he let the whisky burn down his gullet and saw no hope in his future.

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

On the cold hillside, Alex Krycek lowered the binoculars from the sight of his quarry drinking himself into oblivion and felt the anger rise like bile in his throat. Mulder had done this. He'd seen Mulder coming and going during the past week, knew that he'd spent several nights here, but he'd also seen lights in two bedrooms so he knew it wasn't quite a fait accompli. Spooky had been in with a chance at what he dreamed of... within a breath of having Skinner at his mercy, in his power and in his bed, and he'd blown it. He didn't deserve even Krycek's contempt. He certainly didn't deserve to have Skinner.

Once upon a time, Krycek had thought that he and Mulder... but it was impossible. Mulder was so fucked up he didn't see the truth in front of him: that survival was all that mattered. Whatever you had to do to survive, you did, taking comfort where you could. Those moments of human contact were what got you through all the shit and SpecialFuckingAgent Mulder might be a genius but he couldn't grasp that simple fact. He and Krycek could have made use of each other and found a moment of raw physical pleasure in an otherwise shitty life, but no - Mulder had His Quest, his search for The Truth. In pursuit of that truth, Mulder had brought Krycek to Walter Skinner's apartment one dark wintry night and that was when Krycek's fantasies had taken on a new plot.

He'd been unaware of whose apartment Mulder had dragged him to until he'd heard Skinner's deep voice asking who was at the door and his heart sunk. He knew Skinner first as a grim-faced superior with a deceptively soft voice that nevertheless could flay the skin off a less-than-efficient Agent as easily as peeling an orange. He'd watched Skinner in meetings, the man's controlled energy like a tangible presence in the room. Skinner didn't need to shout, he didn't need to use that intimidating physique as a threat (though that idea had given Krycek a few heart-racing moments on the rare occasions when he had to seek relief alone). Then he'd had a violent close encounter with the Assistant Director on the instructions of his then bosses. He had a very healthy respect for Skinner after that: it had taken three of them to get that tape off him. The AD had plenty of reasons to hate him after what Krycek had been a party to; when he heard the gravelly voice from behind the anonymous apartment door, Krycek expected only to take what was coming to him at the hands of this formidable man.

What his feelings did after the door opened was totally unexpected. At the sight of the bare-chested AD standing in the doorway Krycek felt his insides coil in a long slow roll of desire, felt the lust surge through him so ferociously that his legs buckled and only Mulder's grip on the collar of his jacket kept him upright. Skinner stepped back to allow Mulder to push Krycek into the apartment. Krycek kept his head low, sneaking a glance from under the peak of his ball cap at the man whose privacy they had invaded.

Skinner was wearing only dark dress pants, the belt still unbuckled from his hasty dressing, his feet bare. The moonlight through the high windows above the balcony doors slanted over his grim face and the powerful muscles of his chest and shoulders and Krycek felt the tightening in his groin in the seconds before Skinner's fist connected with his stomach and he crumpled to the floor.

Even through the pain he was so aroused by the proximity of Skinner's incredible body. As the AD hauled him to his feet and man-handled him out onto the balcony, all Krycek could think of was the heat coming off the man's bare skin, that smooth skin, taut over the curves of broad shoulders, hard pectorals and steely abdomen, the feeling of being held in that iron grip.

"Just think warm thoughts." Skinner had said to him as he left him handcuffed to the balcony rail. Krycek had done just that. He got himself through the chilly night by imagining what it would be like to run his hands over those muscles, to lick the fine skin of that bare throat, to stroke the smooth scalp, to unzip the dark pants and feel the heat of Skinner's cock against his lips. To shake that unshakeable control and have Skinner on his knees, whimpering with need... He'd been thinking warm thoughts about Walter Skinner ever since.

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

Mulder was sitting at his desk, his chair tilted back at a dangerous angle, staring at the ceiling and wondering what excuse he could find to go up to the fourth floor. He'd already persuaded Kimberly to let him know as soon as Skinner appeared, but he couldn't believe his boss would miss another day's work. Maybe Walter had arrived in such a foul mood that Kimberly hadn't dared risk passing him the word... he had to see Walter, try and talk to him, make him see sense.

He'd driven away from Walter's house in a fury of resentment and self-pity. After all that had happened between them, he couldn't believe that Walter was ready to end this before it had really begun. He cursed himself for moving too fast, for scaring Walter off with his longing looks and neediness. He understood that Walter was wary of commitment after the unhappy ending of his marriage, that he was probably still under stress from their recent experiences, that his by-the-book professionalism would make him fight shy of any sort of personal relationship with a subordinate... He could imagine all these things convincing Walter this was a bad idea, but he had counter-arguments marshalled and ready to roll and not to be given the chance to even put his case... that was too cruel.

He glanced over at Scully, perched on a straight-backed chair across the room, leafing through a forensic report, her glasses propped on her nose, tapping her front teeth with her pen.

"I'm just going to get a soda, you want anything?"

"No, not at the moment, Mulder... thanks." Scully didn't even look up from the notes, not wanting to be distracted.

"Okay." He headed for the door. Timing was everything. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back, as if a thought had just struck him..."I could see if Kimberly has that 302 for us yet."

Scully looked up, frowning absently. "I thought Skinner was still off, recuperating," she said. "In any case, I'd have thought you'd want to stay well away from Skinner for a good while longer yet, after that fiasco he's just pulled you out of. He's not going to be pleased with you, Mulder, especially when he comes back to the mountain of paperwork your little escapade will have generated. I wouldn't push it by asking for a 302 if I were you."

"Well, I could just see if he's in, ask how he is..." Mulder was half out of the door.

"Do you have a death wish? Or are you two closer than I realised?"

Mulder backed out of the room hastily, calling back: "Well, we bonded pretty well down there, you know..."

Left alone, Scully put down her pen and sat looking pensive. For all his wisecracking, Mulder hadn't been his usual irrepressible self the last couple of days. She'd put it down to the aftermath of a scary experience, but now she was beginning to wonder. He'd refused to let her stop by while he was off work last week but he hadn't replied to any of her phone messages until the Sunday night, and she couldn't believe he'd been asleep at home all that time. He never slept, he called her up in the middle of the night to talk because he couldn't sleep.

Something was going on. She wondered if she should try and contact the Lone Gunmen, but she'd feel foolish confessing to such a unjustified curiosity in her partner's private life... Perhaps that was it: perhaps he just had a private life at last, someone else to spend time with. She was surprised to feel a quick flash of jealousy - not that Mulder was spending time with someone other than herself: she sincerely hoped that he did have other friends, or even one friend in particular... No, it was jealousy that he might have found some normal sociable activity on which to spend the last bit of his vacation time, when her own life seemed to consist of work, household chores and sleep.

If Mulder did have a life beyond the X-Files, it wasn't making him very happy at the moment, she thought. Maybe when Skinner was back at work she should have a word with him. The two men seemed to have become closer through their recent ordeal, maybe the AD could find out what was making Mulder so restless and moody lately. She remembered Mulder's extraordinary behaviour at the hospital: insisting on staying at Skinner's bedside. At the time, she'd dismissed it as a natural solicitude for the man who had saved his life, whose life he had saved. Now, thinking of how many times he'd found it necessary to run up to the fourth floor or contact Kimberly over the last couple of days she suddenly wondered if... no, it couldn't be... could it?

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

Skinner was pacing again. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, he made a circuit of his living room. The activity helped him think but he was desperately tired and could hardly steer a course between the pieces of furniture. He should sleep, he should eat, he should get cleaned up and he should go into the office... He was a grown man, for God's sake, not some frightened child. He had to take up the reins again, resume a normal existence, bury himself in work and forget Fox Mulder. Yes, work was the answer. With sudden nervous energy, he left the room and headed upstairs.

Krycek, watching from his position amongst the distant trees, began to gather his equipment: something was happening. Now might be his chance.

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

Mulder ignored the soda machine in the corridor and headed straight for the stairs. He climbed them two at a time, suddenly feeling hopeful. He exited the stairwell on the fourth floor with a crash of the heavy door, eliciting disapproving frowns from two admin assistants walking sedately along, their arms full of files.

Apart from the beginnings and ends of the day, when people were arriving and leaving, there was always a hushed, intimidating quiet on the executive levels of the Hoover Building. The fifth floor, where the Director had his suite of offices, was even more sepulchral, but here, where the AD's and their assistants worked, there was an air of impenetrable bureaucracy at it's most ponderous. Hurrying was out of place here, as was frivolity, or emotions of any kind, unless you counted painstaking, nit-picking, interminable attention to detail.

Mulder had spent some of the most unpleasant moments of his professional life in these hallowed hallways; sitting on a hard sofa in Skinner's outer office, waiting to be summoned to the presence, or hovering outside some briefing room before having to explain himself to yet another panel of stonefaced top brass. For too long, he'd lumped Skinner in with those other men of straw, not taking the trouble to see how often Skinner had gone out on a limb for him, or soothed the ruffled feathers of his fellow AD's after some costly exploit of Spooky Mulder's.

Like this latest mess, he thought, ruefully, as he turned the corner to Skinner's outer door. He's going to have some major soothing to do after this little adventure. His hand on the door to Kimberly's sanctum, he paused. He thought about why he was here. If Skinner is still absent from work, he must be more ill than I realized. He needs someone to look after him, even if he doesn't know it. I don't care if he throws me out every time I turn up, I'm going to keep turning up until he agrees to see me, to talk to me. He can't forbid me to care about him. If he's come into the office, then at least I'll know he's well enough to face my arguments. Either way, I'm going to make him see the truth: that I love him and I think he loves me.

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

Krycek waited until he saw Skinner leave the house before he approached. The big man was immaculate in dark suit and starched shirt, but he looked diminished, weary: dark circles under his eyes. He's not worth it, Skinner, hissed Krycek to himself. Mulder was a weak wreck of a man, forever harping on his sad childhood, pursuing a doomed idea of uncovering a global conspiracy. Hardly a man at all... just a boy with big ideas. Krycek remembered how Skinner had called him "Boy" and how that had hurt more than that gut punch. He'd wanted to show Skinner then exactly how much of a man he was, how he was man enough even for Walter Skinner. He could recognise an alpha male when he saw one and he wanted the chance to match that dizzying virility with his own passion, to meet strength with strength, to take and be taken by that magnificent man.

Of course, since that night he was somewhat less of a man, some would say. He glanced down at the prosthetic that replaced his left arm. He'd refused to let it affect his life, though, or his way of surviving, and none of his many partners had seemed to mind the disfigurement that much. He compensated for it in other areas. Krycek grinned wolfishly to himself and watched the AD drive away, leaving the house in darkness.

Gaining access was a challenge but not impossible. Skinner had installed a first-rate security system, but Krycek had a lot of experience in circumventing the best, and within 40 minutes he was sliding back the patio doors and stepping onto the cream carpet of Skinner's living room.

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

Kimberly was standing, arms laden with files and looking harassed when Mulder entered the outer office. He relieved her of the sliding heap of buff folders and raised his eyebrows speculatively at her.

"He's on his way in now." She said, sounding worried. "He called from his car and said he wanted all the case files for the past three weeks on his desk for when he arrived. He sounded very grim, even for him. I hope he isn't coming back too soon. I sent a load of files over to him the other night at his request, but he may not be prepared for just how much paperwork can accumulate in three weeks. I don't think he's ever been away from work for that long before." She glanced up at Mulder, looking as if she thought she might have said too much.

"I think I'll wait until he arrives." Mulder thought he managed to sound remarkably calm, considering how much of the mountain of paperwork was relating to him. "I want to see how he is, anyway, and maybe I can help out."

Kimberly stared at him doubtfully. Mulder could imagine her thinking it was strange enough that Fox Mulder had been taking such an interest in his boss's whereabouts for the last day or so, when he usually tried his best to avoid the AD's presence, but now he was offering to help out with the paperwork?

She was still regarding him dubiously when the door opened behind them and Skinner himself strode in. Mulder swung round and let his gaze take in the sight of the man he loved. It was all he could do not to reach for Skinner there and then, regardless of who saw. Walter looked dreadful. Well, he looked wonderful: tall and imposing in his perfectly tailored suit and restrained tie, immaculately clean-shaven and still tanned from his week in Antigua. But Mulder could see beyond the GQ image of executive power. Skinner's eyes were hooded, seeming even more deep-set than usual in his drawn face. His cheeks were sunken, his collar seemed too big for his neck, his lips were pale... he also looked as if he was fiercely controlling some strong emotion.

"Agent Mulder. I'd have thought my office was the last place you'd want to be, in the circumstances." Skinner winced at the words that emerged from his own lips. Striding past Mulder, he acknowledged Kimberly with a tired smile and headed for the inner door.

"Should you really be here, sir?" Kimberly asked, following him into his own office. Mulder tagged along, leaning on the doorframe before Kimberly could shut him out. Skinner set his briefcase down on a desk swamped with dozens of buff folders, and hung his suit coat over the back of his chair. Mulder could see that his boss had lost more weight and without stopping to debate the wisdom of what he was doing, he stepped around Kimberly and leaned over to Skinner.

"You look awful, sir. You're not well enough to be back at work yet, I'm sure. Why don't you let me..." An icy hiss interrupted him,

"I'm perfectly capable of judging my own state of health. Agent Mulder, and I think you have helped quite enough with this already." His hand swept over the mass of files and his voice was very quiet.

"I'll expect your full report on this whole mess on my desk by 6pm and I'll see you in this office for a de-briefing tomorrow morning at 8.30am. That will be all."

Kimberly looked disconcertedly between the two men. Mulder kept his gaze fixed on Skinner's bowed head and backed out of the room.

He should feel angry at Skinner's harsh words, but instead he only felt an aching concern. He could see Walter burning himself up with the determination to deny everything, and he couldn't bear to see their chance for happiness slip away because of one man's self-blindness. He knew he could make Walter happy, knew that Walter made him happy. Even bitter and remote like this, Walter was all he wanted, all he could think about.

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

Krycek was enjoying himself immensely. He'd been through every room in Skinner's home and learned a lot more about his unwitting host than he'd ever hoped to. It was a comfortable house, not lavishly furnished, but with some quality pieces and a surprising number of objets d'art. He had studied the prints and paintings with interest, wondering how many of them were Skinner's own taste and how many were things his ex-wife had chosen and he had just kept after the divorce. There were hundreds of books too: Krycek had inspected the shelves in the living room and upstairs in the study but not lingered. What really interested him was the few books strewn over the sofa table downstairs.

Even if he hadn't been observing Skinner for the past few days, it was obvious how the man had been passing the time: the refrigerator and cupboards were virtually empty, there were a few coffee mugs by the sink, but no plates. And an impressively large collection of empty liquor bottles. The huge bed in the master bedroom was neatly made, the pillow dented as if someone might have lain on the covers briefly, but no one had turned back the comforter. Downstairs there was mail tidily collected on an inlaid cabinet near the front door, all unopened. In the bathroom he'd found a bottle of prescription tablets, but it was nearly full. There was one set of towels in the laundry basket, still slightly damp from Skinner's pre-work shower and a wet-shave kit was lined up on the pristine counter top. Krycek was willing to bet that Skinner had hardly stirred from the living room in days.

That was where all the real clues were: the photograph albums, the boxes of letters, the open books. He'd spent a long time looking at these things, moved in spite of himself by the glimpses of a man's past contained therein. A past and a present: there were crumpled and abandoned notes littering the floor around the sofa, half sentences, violently scratched out. Some of the sheets seemed to be lists: he picked one up that said: "career, genius, danger, future, better heroes". What on earth did all that mean? And poetry, couplets scribbled so forcefully he could see how the nib of the old-fashioned fountain pen had splayed on the paper, doubling the ink strokes.

"I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on."

Scrawled on a sheet of writing paper, the last phrase roughly underscored...

"How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid."

Thick and black, then the pen drying and the marks merely savage gouges in the paper...

"And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
This was my destiny and in it was the voyage of my longing,
And in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!"

Beautifully penned, every letter perfectly formed, on heavy cream paper, folded once, as if to fit into an envelope, but there was no matching envelope.

Krycek felt an unaccustomed twinge of sympathy as he reconstructed this trail of desolation. Inexplicable as it was to him, it seemed that Skinner actually cared about Mulder, maybe even loved him. Or thought he loved him. Wait until he experiences real passion, Krycek gloated to himself at the thought: wait until he's in my bed and we'll see how much he pines for his pet Fox.

He made sure to leave all the papers, books and objects precisely where he'd found them, but he didn't bother to erase fingerprints. Let Mulder just try and follow his tracks, he'd only meet his humiliation that much sooner. One last task before he re-set the alarms and let himself out into the dusk again: he took an ampoule of colourless liquid from his jacket pocket and dripped a measure carefully into the opened whisky bottle on the table.

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

It was nearly 10 p.m. when Skinner arrived home. He sat in his car in the driveway too tired to get out. Too reluctant to face an empty house. Eventually, he made himself move. He noted his unopened mail, but left it lying. He didn't want to deal with bills or correspondence, didn't want to think about anything but sleep right now. Standing listlessly in the living room, the evidence of the past few days of depression confronted him; the photographs, papers, the open whisky bottle. He'd hoped to clarify his feelings by facing them, but all he had done was open up old wounds and rub salt into new ones.

He'd loved Jacko of course. Resisted it at the time, denied it for all the years since. Fox Mulder and his damned curiosity had unearthed all the guilt and self-loathing he thought he'd buried. Fox Mulder himself had started feelings in Skinner that were all too reminiscent of what he'd felt for Jacko. God, it was all happening again: the panic at the thought of hurting someone who had reached out to him. He'd been terrified of hurting Jacko and handled that by pulling back, by avoiding his lover. When DR2 was broken up and he'd had the chance to request Jacko's assignment to the same new unit as himself, he'd let it pass and been only too grateful for them to be separated. He hadn't even had the grace to talk to Jacko about it, so panicked had he been by the strength of his own feelings.

A new unit, new recruits to knock into shape, new responsibilities... he'd been a model officer and a thoughtless bastard of a lover. He'd written a single, stilted letter to Jacko, not saying any of what he wanted to say, and shoved the aches and longing down into that dark place where he kept the things he couldn't face. Of course, only weeks short of the end of his tour he'd walked into that ambush with the rest of his men and met his death. That would have been fitting, only he hadn't died.

Hovering between life and death, looking down at his shattered body lying in that jungle, he'd only been able to think that he was better off dead, that he'd let down another bunch of guys, and that at least he'd spared Jacko this by sending him away. Later, as he lay in one of an endless sequence of hospital beds, he'd got the news that Jacko was dead too, from blood poisoning after stepping on a bamboo-stick booby trap. It was almost the last time he'd shed tears over anything. Hating himself for being the worst sort of emotional coward, for causing pain to someone because it was easier than being honest.

He'd wept brief bitter tears for Sharon after her death, but it was almost the same pain over again: he was still hurting people by being so much less than they thought he was, by being afraid of emotion, by being unable to give himself. Since then, his life had been mere existence, a dogged submersion in work and in the pursuit of some notion of justice, that had been every bit as soulless as Sharon had accused him of becoming. A fitting punishment for a man who was incapable of love.

Skinner realised he'd pushed the possibility of sleep even further away with all his brooding. Seeing Mulder today had been far harder than he'd expected. Unbearable to hear himself snap and snarl like that, but he didn't dare let any softness seep into his voice or his eyes. For tomorrow's meeting he would have to be armoured against his own feelings. Mulder deserved to be loved, but by a better heart than his. Incapable of love. Even as he labelled himself he knew it was no longer true. Unworthy of love was the stark truth. Just as well, then, that Mulder's hero-worship would soon die a natural death. No future there. Grabbing for the whisky bottle, Skinner scowled and headed for the stairs. Maybe oblivion could be induced.

Two hours later he woke up with a start, his head pounding, every joint aching. He felt as bad as he had when he was first out of the hospital. So much for working all the hours and hoping to blot out all thoughts of... Maybe now was the time to take some of those fancy pills he'd been sent home with. He certainly couldn't sleep with this pain and he needed to be as alert as possible for that 8.30 meeting in the morning. He swung his legs down off the bed and padded off in the direction of the bathroom. He knew he probably shouldn't mix medication with alcohol, but right now, he didn't much care if he lived or died. He just wanted the pain to go away. All the pain.

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

The bluish light of the television screen washed over Mulder's face. The VCR was rewinding the third tape and Mulder couldn't remember a single one of the so-called "erotic" encounters that had played out in front of his unseeing eyes. He was weary with turning the same thoughts over and over: Walter at the office looking ill and strained, Walter carrying him out of that ravine like the ultimate action hero, Walter lying asleep looking like every wet dream he'd ever had, made flesh... Jesus, don't think of flesh, not of his flesh, not of your own, aching to be touched... to touch him... Christ, the man was stubborn. Why was it so hard for him to believe that someone loved him? How could he be so good at the heroics, so capable, so caring, and so fucking blind about what had really happened?

Because the feelings weren't all just on his side. Mulder had tortured himself over that for long enough, cursing himself for falling in love with the straightest man he'd ever known. Then he'd looked at the evidence, used his skills as a profiler and begun to see a different story. With the chopper clattering outside and Scully heading their way with fire in her eyes, it hadn't been the best moment for a heart to heart, but that "thank you... for everything" had been charged with far more than the obvious. It could have been "thank you for saving my life", "thank you for pretending you didn't hear me call your name in my dreams", but Mulder knew there was more to be said.

There'd been other moments like that, moments when there had been a communication between them that went beyond words. And of course, he now knew that Walter Skinner wasn't an unrelentingly straight arrow. He'd loved Jacko, even if he couldn't admit it to himself. Mulder believed that Skinner loved him. He thought of Bach and firelight, of bed sheets and moonlight, of uncertainty masking itself as brusqueness, of stupid, self-denying... what? Propriety, the damn rulebook, misplaced protectiveness? If only the pigheaded, wonderful man would see that Mulder didn't give a damn about propriety or the rulebook, that he didn't want to be protected from finding out that Walter was only human, that he knew what Walter was and loved him for it. All of it.

He wanted to confide in Scully, to pour out all his hurt and desolation to his partner, but he knew he could tell her only a fraction of the story. Walter's past, Jacko, they weren't his stories to tell. How could he explain the way he felt about Skinner, how he understood why Skinner was acting the way he was, without betraying things his boss had confided in him only with reluctance? Besides that, he wasn't at all sure how Scully would react to finding out that he had fallen in love with Walter.

He knew that she cared about his happiness, as he did hers. They neither of them had had much chance of a life outside of work and he would hope that she would see how much this meant to him, how serious he was about it. Of course, that might be the very thing that worried her: that he was in so deep, when the object of his adoration, the man he loved, their boss of all people, was apparently trying to walk away from it all. He could hear Scully's voice of sanity telling him it was all a terrible idea, that he would be hurt, that every rational consideration should tell him this was a recipe for disaster...

How could he tell her he didn't give a shit about rational or sane, that he would risk just about everything to make this work. Just about everything. That was the crux, he realised. Would he give up his search for the truth, his quest for Samantha, would he leave the Bureau and the X-Files to be with Walter? At this point he honestly didn't know. He knew how he felt, how he was suffering now, without him. How much satisfaction or reward would there be in a life so incomplete?

Today, when Skinner had frozen him out with that curt dismissal, he'd felt like shaking him and then kissing him. They'd never even kissed, not really. He could remember the roughness of Skinner's parched lips against his own, that night in the weather station, he could remember the weight and mass of Skinner's unconscious body in his arms... Mulder turned his face against the warm, smooth leather of the couch and tried to imagine it was a bare scalp or a muscled shoulder. Behind him "Bath-house Big Boys" began to replay.

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

Trying to focus on the display of the bedside clock, Skinner grabbed for it and fell out of bed. The red numbers calmly shone 02.07 as he lay groaning. He felt like shit. His ears were ringing, his sight even more blurred than usual and his body felt as heavy as lead. Those tablets were less then useless. It was nearly three hours since he'd taken them and he felt as bad as ever. Rolling groggily to his knees, he hauled himself upright and snatched at his glasses on the nightstand. He hooked them on but had to put his hand up against the lenses to double check because his vision was no better than before.

What was going on? Swaying drunkenly, he made it to the bathroom and sat heavily on the toilet lid. One sight of himself in the unforgiving halogen lighting and the big mirror and he immediately felt worse. His face was grey and haggard, his T-shirt was soaked with sweat and worst of all, he could see two of these pathetic visions peering back at him. He tried to lean closer to the mirror and the room spun round him. He closed his eyes and held onto the counter top for dear life, while he struggled with the cap of the pharmacy bottle and dry-swallowed two more of the tablets.

His icy feet brought him to his senses again, and he realised he must have nodded off, still sitting on the toilet lid. How long had he been there? Long enough to get chilled and feverish, his body told him. Some hot tea would help, and then he'd go back to bed. Sleep it off. He made it to the head of the stairs and almost fell as a wave of vertigo washed over him. God, he was as weak as a kitten, and why did his arms and legs feel so heavy, so hard to move?

The kitchen clock said 03.19 when he could stand steady enough to make the numbers stop sliding. The best part of an hour to get downstairs, sheesh, he was in worse shape than he'd realised. He felt suddenly dizzy and nauseous and staggered to the sink. Bending over the bowl, dry heaving, he felt as ill as he could ever remember feeling. Turning the cold water on, he pulled his glasses off and dipped his head to wash his clammy face. The stream of water seemed to twist off horizontally and he couldn't judge the distance from his cupped hands. He reached for the glasses and his uncoordinated fingers dashed them off onto the floor. The roar in his ears was deafening now and the crack of his head against the cabinet door hardly registered as he slid down onto the tiled floor, unconscious.

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

Krycek looked over his shoulder into the rear of the ambulance and grinned smugly. The kidnapping had gone perfectly. He hadn't even had to get Skinner downstairs; the man had helpfully passed out on the kitchen floor. Manoeuvring the big man out to the vehicle had been tricky on his own but now he had his prize. He'd seen at least one set of curtains twitching as he loaded the gurney in the back, and it had been a stroke of genius to use the cover of an EMT to get Skinner away. Of course that wunderkind Fox Mulder would figure it out eventually, but he was prepared for that. All he needed was a day, or even a few hours for the drug to wear off and for Walter Skinner to accept what fate had thrown in his lap: a more-than-willing participant for his macho games. He wouldn't simper like Mulder, or fawn at the AD's domination. He'd match Skinner punch for punch, power-game for power-game. He was a player worthy of the man and Skinner would see that as soon as Krycek took him for the first time. It was still dark enough to make his route to their destination relatively safe. "Relatively safe"- those words rang in his ears from another time and place. Walter Skinner was going to discover just how relative and how safe, very soon.

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

Scully thought that if Mulder aimed one more rubber band at her she'd put him over her knee and spank him. She was trying to study some slides of blood cultures that the lab had just sent over, relating to a possible new case: a series of mysterious deaths in Seattle. The magnifying lamp was angled to illuminate the detail of the slides as well as possible in these less than ideal conditions, but she was going to give in and take the whole lot back out to the lab at Quantico if she had to field one more projectile from her partner across the room.

She was glad that Mulder's de-briefing was a solo affair this time. It was unlike Skinner to keep them waiting for a meeting, but whatever the reason for his delay, by the time he did arrive he would undoubtedly be in a less than cheerful mood and all too ready to take it out on Mulder. Especially since the subject of the de-briefing was Mulder's recent foray into the jungle.

Mulder had seemed almost keen to get to the meeting at the appointed time, a wonder in itself, but just as she was settling down to use his desk for her own report-writing, he'd reappeared, looking subdued and...if she didn't know him better, she'd have said anxious. Her curiosity piqued, Scully had studied him covertly. He flung his notes down on a chair absently and began to pace. Then he started gnawing on his lip, then raking his hair with long, distracted fingers, then checking his watch every few minutes. Finally, she'd given in and asked him outright what was going on. He'd been cagey, said only that Skinner hadn't shown up and that Kimberly was worried. She's not the only one, Scully thought.

When Mulder rang upstairs for the third time in an hour, she'd had enough. She laid down her pen deliberately and closed her notebook pointedly.

"I'm sure Kimberly will let you know as soon as Skinner arrives. You could be checking the site reports from Seattle if you want something to fill in the time. We can get on the 2pm flight if we get the 302, so we don't have a lot of time."

Mulder just looked at her as if she was speaking Swahili. And continued to sit staring at the phone, while making cat's cradles from yet another rubber band. Scully stood and smoothed down her skirt briskly.

"I'm going for a coffee. Can I bring you anything?" No response. "Mulder?"

He looked up at her finally, and she felt a wash of concern at the tension in his face. Suddenly words poured out of him:

"The thing is, I know he's still not well. He shouldn't have come back so soon. Why hasn't he called in though? What if he's ill... really ill again? I think I should check, Scully..."

He was already out of his seat and reaching for his car keys when Scully put a steadying hand on his arm and blocked his flight. She was beginning to think she saw what this was all about: fantastic as it seemed, it fit the facts... If she was right, it was a hell of a thing to come to terms with, and she needed to process the idea a lot more before she talked to Mulder about it. They did need to talk, but right now he needed to be calmed down, needed to be given something practical to do.

"Mulder, you can't go haring off to the AD's home as if you were his keeper." She saw the startled and yet wistful look that flickered over Mulder's face and knew her guess was right. "He's a grown man and even if he is ill, and you don't know that he is, then he won't appreciate you bursting in on him." Another pained expression, as if she'd touched a sensitive spot. Oh Lord, this was worse than she'd feared. "Let's go up and see Kimberly first. Get all the facts and then decide if there's anything we can do. Okay?"

She urged him towards the door, taking his keys out of his unwitting hand and tucking them in her own pocket. No good him driving in this state. He'd zone out and head straight into the Potomac.

On the fourth floor, there was no news and Kimberly was looking harassed. She greeted the two agents as if they might throw her a lifeline. Scully looked between the anxious faces of her partner and Skinner's PA and sighed.

"Okay, I grant you this is unusual. Kimberly: how was the Assistant Director when you last saw him?

Mulder looked sardonically grateful that she was taking his worries seriously at last. He nodded at Kimberly,

"Tell her what you told me, Kimberly."

"Well, it was about 6.30pm yesterday... I'd offered to stay and start processing some of his paperwork, but he insisted I go home. He asked me just to get him a coffee and looked settled in for a long night."

"And how had he seemed during the day?" Scully prompted.

"He was very quiet, even for him." Kimberly cast an uncertain glance at Mulder, as if wondering how far she should go in speaking about her boss. He nodded again. She went on, with more emotion.

"He seemed so single-minded, got through masses of his accumulated papers. I don't think he even stopped for lunch. I poked my head in around noon and he didn't even hear me the first time I called out. He looked as if he'd no idea what time it was. I offered to get him something from the cafeteria, but he said no, just some Tylenol for his headache. When I got back from my lunch he was standing looking out of the window and again he didn't hear me speak.

"He looked..." She paused, searching for the right word, "...sad. I wondered if something had happened while he was on vacation. I mean apart from him having to go after you..." She glanced at Mulder, covering her mouth apologetically, but Scully intervened, crisply:

"Quite. He didn't seem ill, though?"

"Well, no, not exactly. Just tired and kind of... subdued. Like his mind was elsewhere. Do you think he's ill again?" She looked distressed.

"Well maybe he overdid it yesterday, tried to push himself too much too soon. I expect he just slept badly and is catching up now. You've tried ringing his home?"

"Oh yes. Deputy Director Mullins was looking for him and I rang his home and his cell-phone. The cell was turned off, and I got his voice mail at home. I hope he is just resting up."

"I'm sure that's all it is, Kimberly."

Scully took Mulder by the elbow and started moving to the door, but the PA stooped her and handed over a paper.

"I guess you might as well have this. Mr. Skinner must have signed it late last night. There's a note indicating it's to be processed after your 8.30 this morning, but as that's deferred..."

It was their 302. The authorization to pursue the investigation in Seattle. Scully imagined that Skinner had intended to set some very clear limitations on Mulder's scope on this case, limitations to be outlined at the aborted meeting this morning. Still, he had signed the form... she'd just have to try and restrain Mulder's excesses herself.

She took his elbow in an even firmer grasp, and was walking him out, when Kimberly spoke again:

"I'm just not used to him not being here. He's a good boss, Agent Scully. I know he has a reputation for being difficult and surly, but it's undeserved. He's very fair and he's always so polite. Thoughtful too - when I had the 'flu..." She broke off, embarrassed to have said so much. "I just don't like to think of him being ill alone."

Scully could feel Mulder's reaction. His indrawn breath as if he was going to speak, but thought better of it, and a twitch of his arm as if he wanted to run right over to Skinner's apartment now. She was surer than ever now, that her suspicions were right, but here was not the place to start discussing her partner's uncharacteristic and intense interest in his superior's state of health. She smiled reassuringly at Kimberly and steered Mulder out of the office.

They got ten yards down the corridor and Mulder stopped.

"See Scully, something's not right. I've got time to stop by before our flight..."

"Mulder, you are not going to disturb Skinner at home, especially if he is trying to sleep. There's nothing to suggest that anything is seriously wrong. Don't you think you take up enough of the man's time as it is, without harassing him in his own home?"

Mulder looked rebellious, but she gave him a warning glare and he kept silent. It was going to be a long flight to Seattle.

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

Krycek surveyed his surroundings with satisfaction. The insurance pound was in a rundown area of the industrial zone; an anonymous fenced lot with a shabby warehouse attached. One in a block of such lots, many with abandoned vehicles outside. There were dozens of impounded cars and vans here, and even several more ambulances, handed over to the insurance company when some small business went bust. Occasionally, some of the smarter vehicles would be auctioned, but most of them sat here rusting, held against debts that would never be repaid. There was nothing worth stealing and no security worth mentioning.

No one was likely to find them here anytime soon, even Mulder, and they'd be gone in a day or so, as soon as he and Skinner had come to an understanding. He looked over to where the unconscious man lay. A mattress on the floor and few blankets for warmth were hardly suitable for a love-nest but they would do for now. The younger man lowered himself beside Skinner and laid his hand on the man's brow. Still feverish. It was daylight now and he could see how pale Skinner was. He was a little concerned. The effects of the paralysing drug should have worn off by now, but Skinner still lay motionless.

Krycek's fingers trailed down the side of Skinner's face, across the firm lips, and along the stubbled jaw. Looking down the length of the big man's body, he wondered whether to unwrap his present now. Maybe not just yet - he'd had a busy night and in a few hours Skinner would be awake and a lot more fun to play with. One hand ran possessively over the muscles of Skinner's chest as Krycek licked his lips lasciviously. He dragged the blankets over them both and settled himself half-lying over the bigger man. Sleep now, play later.

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

Skinner felt like death. His left arm and leg were numb, everywhere else felt stiff and sore and his head felt as if it would drop off if he moved it. Experimentally, he tried to lift his right arm and nothing seemed to happen, except his joints shrieked an agonising protest.

He kept his eyes closed and waited until the worst of the pain had subsided into a merely inescapable ache. He had vague memories of trying to get downstairs for some reason. Had he fallen, knocked himself out and broken his arm? He was going to have to move if he wanted to get help... if only his head wasn't still pounding... what sort of headache lasted so long and resisted all medication? Ah yes, now he remembered a bit more: Tylenol at work, whisky before bed, at least two double doses of his hospital painkillers during the night... no wonder he'd fallen downstairs. And now he was paying the price: an awesome hangover and some broken bones. More time off work.

Wishing he could at least massage his throbbing temples, he opened his eyes and the daylight pierced him like a sword. Squinting against the assault, he tried to focus on the source of the light and found his head wouldn't move. Broken back? Oh God, that would be poetic justice. You finally decide to let your emotions loose, wallow in self-pity and in the realisation that you've ruined yet another chance of finding love, drink yourself into a stupor and manage to end your career and your non-existent love life in one fell swoop. That's impressive, Walt.

Retribution at last. Twenty-eight years too late for Jacko, two years too late for Sharon, two days too late for Mulder. He'd hurt them all. And loved them all. There, it was said, loved them all. Of course he'd loved Jacko... the memories came crowding in. A sandy, tousled head against his shoulder, a crinkled smile, an adoring presence at his side every day. Jacko, even younger than he, had known what he wouldn't accept: that love was love, there were no rules, you couldn't plan it, it just happened. He'd loved Sharon too, no doubt about that. He'd admitted that, of course, but he still hadn't done a very good job at it. He'd thought he was protecting her, keeping her safe from the evil that could snuff out a life as easily as it had taken Jacko's. But all he'd done was make Sharon feel alone, feel cut off from him, feel as if she took up space in his life he gave only grudgingly...

And Mulder... it was past time to say it. He loved Mulder. Loved him long before he went into that jungle to search for him. Loved him as long ago as that nightmare with the murdered hooker... and now he'd ruined that love too.

He lay still for a while, exploring his pain, knowing he deserved it. After a few minutes it occurred to him that something was wrong with the window. Unable to swivel his head, he could see only a slanting segment of it, but it was a narrow vertical, smeared with grime. He'd been neglecting himself and his surroundings he knew, but his windows weren't that dirty and in any case both the living room and his bedroom had wide windows, nothing like this shape... So where was he? By rolling his eyes until they ached as much as the rest of him, he could see a sagging stained ceiling with the empty fittings for strip lights, a panelled partition wall with peeling green paint, and what looked like an old wooden filing cabinet.

He couldn't lift his head enough to see his own body, just a tiny patch of one shoulder where his head was slightly tilted to one side. White T-shirt and something drab green over it, like an army-issue blanket.

He'd tried everything to move even a little finger, but nothing worked. He literally couldn't move a muscle. His body felt as heavy as wet sand and about as much use.

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

Mulder sneaked a glance at his watch as he drove: 12.52pm. He wasn't going to make that flight to Seattle. Scully would hunt him down and skin him alive for dumping her yet again, but for once he didn't care. No way could he get on a plane to the other side of the country without knowing that Walter was okay. Over the past few hours he'd come to a decision: he would sacrifice his career, leave the Bureau, give up the X-Files to be with Walter. The thought made him feel shaky, but not so shaky as the thought of a life without Skinner in it.

He turned into Skinner's tree-lined road and pulled up outside the neat quiet house. He could see Skinner's dark sedan parked in the driveway, which reassured him a little. Let's not assume anything, he told himself and rang the doorbell. He waited a few moments, then got out the key Skinner had given him and used it. A tiny flicker of guilt was speedily pushed aside and he stepped into the hallway.

Utter silence. Nothing obviously untoward, but the feeling of an empty house. Mulder walked to the foot of the stairs, calling Skinner's name. Visions of Walter comatose in bed sent him racing up, two steps at a time. Empty bedroom, empty bed. Covers flung back as if someone had just got up. Mulder sank down on the edge of the bed, sliding his hand over the cold sheets. Maybe he's in another room. He kept a whisper of hope alive as he leapt up and headed for the bathroom. Which would be worse: to find the man he loved too ill to cry out, or not to find him at all? The bathroom was as empty as the bedroom, Skinner's shaving kit laid out neatly on the counter and an open bottle of tablets. He'd check them later, he had to keep searching.

Downstairs again, after a glance into the guest room showed it exactly as he had left it only days ago: the bed roughly made, the closet door still wide after he had angrily flung his few clothes into his bag and left. The living room was uninhabited too, and that just left the kitchen. White tiles, white cabinets, all immaculate, nothing to see, except... a pair of wirerim glasses crushed up against the baseboard. He looked in alarm at his own feet, had he stepped on them just now? No, they were further along than he had stood, but someone had trampled them. Carefully, he picked them up. Shards of glass from one lens tinkled onto the tiles, there was a smudge of red on the edge of the twisted frame. Fear like a stone settled in his belly. Suddenly something about the fragile, intimate object seemed unbearably poignant and a hoarse "No." broke from him. Slamming his fist into the counter, he railed against whoever had done this, against an unseen evil that had endangered Walter just because he had dared to align himself with Mulder's cause.

His hands were shaking, tightening on the mangled frame of the glasses, until he got control of himself and laid them down while he ran cold water into a glass he found by the sink. The glass nearly undid him again, juddering against his teeth as he tried to drink. In his mind's eye, Walter's hand holding this glass.

Carrying the glasses with him, needing the connection to Skinner, he revisited every room in the house. Forcing himself to look for clues, hating the selfish emotion that made it hard to breathe as he looked through the closets, fingering Walter's immaculate suits and orderly piles of pressed shirts. Walter's scent was everywhere, on the towels in the laundry basket, on the pillows on his bed... He sat on the bed and sorted through the things on the nightstand. A sheet of summary notes for the meeting he and Skinner should have had this morning. He picked out the words "unwarranted expense" and '"other pending cases" scrawled in Skinner's unmistakable hand. A new John Le Carré novel, a nearly empty whisky bottle, the Neruda again, a page marked. Wishing he didn't need to do this, he read:

"If I die, survive me with such a pure force
you make the pallor and the coldness rage;
flash your indelible eyes from south to south,
from sun to sun, till your mouth sings like a guitar."

He couldn't read on, his eyes burning with hot, unshed tears. A sudden unthinkable thought struck him and he ran to the bathroom, snatching up the bottle of tablets. He counted them out into his palm. Twenty left, more than two-thirds of the bottle. Surely not enough gone to... he shouldn't even think that Skinner would contemplate suicide. The man was a rock, sane and solid and sensible. He pocketed the tablets. Strength and fortitude were what Walter had. His face crumpled with emotion again as he drummed reassurance into himself.

No clothes missing that he could tell, not even jeans or sweats. Shaving kit still there, glasses still there. Medication still there. Skinner had not planned to leave, or had planned to make it look as if he hadn't planned... Mulder's head was spinning with alternatives. Downstairs again, he leafed miserably through the albums and books and crumpled notes in the living room. He switched on the answering machine in case there was anything helpful and heard Skinner's deep, measured voice requesting callers to leave a message. That voice. His voice. Mulder dropped his head into his hands and didn't register Kimberly's anxious enquiry following on from Walter's words.

It was clear that Skinner had been in a bad way these last few days. Mulder could read the evidence of desolation as clearly as if he'd witnessed it. If he had needed any confirmation of his conviction that Walter loved him, here it was. He refused to contemplate the idea that they wouldn't get a second chance to each say what they felt. If Walter were dead he would know it. There was nothing scientific about that, just a gut certainty. He felt drained with worry, raw with longing, thickheaded with helplessness, but somewhere inside was still a grain of hope. He squeezed the wirerims in his coat pocket and vowed not to ever give up.

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

Skinner heard distant footsteps and felt his heart rate climb in anticipation of finally meeting his captor. By his reckoning, he had been alone here for over two hours. The sun had moved across two of the narrow windows that Skinner could see and he found he could move his head just slightly now, a range of maybe only 10 degrees, but still something. Maybe he wasn't permanently paralysed. As good as, for the moment, though. Helpless, a pawn in some game he knew nothing about.

The footsteps came to a halt outside the room and he heard a chain rattling and the screech of a metal door opening on rusting hinges. An all-too-familiar voice reached him:

"So... Sleeping Beauty has woken up at last. Time to steal another kiss, I think."

Skinner's mind was reeling. Krycek! What the hell was he doing back in DC? No chance for further speculation, as strong fingers dug into his shoulders and he was hauled up into a sitting position.

"Let's get reacquainted, shall we, Walter?"

A hand forced his head back and a hard mouth descended on his. It was such a shock, he almost choked on the invading tongue. Krycek tasted of bitter coffee and something smoky. Skinner focussed all his will on trying to clench his teeth hard, but his muscles refused to co-operate and Krycek was relentless, scouring Skinner's gums and palate with strokes of his demanding tongue, keeping a bruising grip on Skinner's jaw with his left hand. The helplessness was unbearable.

Finally, he was released and fell back heavily onto the mattress. Sitting back on his heels, Krycek surveyed his prisoner. His hair was longer than Skinner remembered, shaggy and falling over his brow, he was thinner too and there was something stiff about the way he rested his weight on his left arm...

"Not bad, Walter, but a little unresponsive. I thought you'd be ready for some fun by now." He lifted Skinner's arm and let it fall inertly back. "What did you take, Skinner?" He sounded angry now. "What I put in the whisky wouldn't have done this, what else did you take?" He leaned down menacingly, his bitter breath washing across Skinner's face. "Never mind. I'm sure you'll warm up nicely once I get started on you." He ran his hand down Skinner's chest. "Oh yes, this is going to be a lot of fun..."

He stood and straddled Skinner with his booted feet, looking as if he was contemplating a delicious buffet.

"Time to inspect my toys, I think." His grin was feral, his green eyes alight with speculation. He dropped to his knees, still straddling Skinner's thighs and reached round to a back pocket. He flicked open a nasty looking knife and trailed it along Skinner's biceps.

For the first time, Skinner was glad that he couldn't react. In his mind he was sure that he was going to die, slowly and painfully. All there was between him and this man was hatred and violence. They both had scores to settle and fate had decreed that this time the luck was with Krycek. Skinner would die and this particular game would be over. If he had his faculties, he'd make it as hard for Krycek as he could, he wouldn't die quietly. But he could barely blink, let alone throw a punch, so he imagined it would be lingering and messy. The thought sickened him.

Krycek put his hand inside the neck of Skinner's T-shirt and gathered up the length of the sleeve, slicing it through with the knife. He repeated the action with the other sleeve and peeled the front half of the shoulders away from Skinner's body. The blade skimmed along the exposed collarbones, then like some manic sushi chef, Krycek severed the front of the shirt into two parts and whisked the dismembered garment off. His hand kneaded the muscles of Skinner's chest. Skinner noticed for the first time that he was wearing black leather gloves.

"Very nice, Walter. Getting value for money from your health club membership, I see." He stroked possessively across a nipple and pinched hard.

"Quite the macho man. No hair on top, but plenty here. Maybe I should shave you, huh?" He grabbed a tuft of dark curls and sheared them off with a slip of that slender blade. "Let's see what else we have here..." A dangerous sibilant purr.

He shifted lower on Skinner's legs and slid his gloved hand down over the hard belly and inside the waistband of the dark grey boxer briefs. One leather-sheathed finger ran along under the band, lifting it teasingly away from the skin, its owner watching Skinner's face intently.

"Or maybe we'll try and guess what's in the parcel first..." He cupped his hand around the bulge of Skinner's genitals and squeezed. Skinner closed his eyes. The rough massage continued and Skinner shut his mind to what was happening. Why couldn't the bastard just slit his throat and be done with it?

Krycek had one hand on his own crotch and was massaging himself through his jeans, in time with the squeezes he gave Skinner. He was panting and rocking against Skinner's thighs, but suddenly he stilled.

"I'd heard you were a big boy, Walter. Too much man for little Foxy-Woxy I'm sure. Let's see if you're man enough for Alex."

One last grope and two quicksilver slashes and the briefs were dissected and thrown across the room where the ruined T-shirt had gone. Skinner was naked. Krycek was beaming.

"Oh they lied, Walter. You're not big, you're a fucking stallion."

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

Mulder had collected his few finds - the tablets, a dark hair he'd found in the kitchen sink, too long to be Walter's, and the bottle of whisky from the bedside table, all secured in evidence bags. He locked them in the trunk of his Taurus and scanned the neighbourhood. It was a quiet road, most of the occupants out at work at this hour. A movement caught his eye. Someone was beckoning to him from behind the curtains of the house directly opposite Skinner's.

He walked up the driveway and the door opened as he reached it. An elderly lady, bent and leaning heavily on a cane, grabbed his wrist as he tried to show her his ID, and pulled him after her into the house, with surprising strength. She led him into an elaborate parlour and pushed him down into an armchair.

"You're looking for Mr. Skinner." It was a statement, not a question, and was accompanied by a piercing look from pale blue eyes. Mulder nodded and tried to introduce himself again, but the woman was bursting to tell him what she knew and waved his badge aside.

"I'm glad to see he has someone to worry about him. I can't believe a lovely man like that hasn't got a wife. But I've seen you here before, haven't I? Work with him, is that it? I love to see you young men in your smart suits, young people take no pride in their appearance nowadays... a clean-cut young man in a nice suit is a pleasure on the eye. Your Mr. Skinner is always so well turned out, even on the weekend..."

"Ma'am..." Mulder could see this monologue running on for hours and meanwhile Walter was God knew where... "Have you any idea where Mr. Skinner is?"

"Why yes, young man, that's what I'm telling you. He's in the hospital."

Oh God, he's had a relapse, Mulder felt successive panic and relief and panic again. Being in the hospital was better than some of the possibilities he'd been facing. But surely he wouldn't go without his glasses, or any clothes?

"Did you see him leave, Ma'am?"

"Yes, dear. If you didn't interrupt I'd tell you the whole story."

Mulder sighed. It was probably easier to just let her tell her news in her own way. It was more than likely the most exciting thing that had happened to her in ages and she was relishing the telling of it.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. I'm just worried about Mr. Skinner. He's my boss at the FBI and he hasn't been well lately."

"Oh I know all that, dear, I've not lost my marbles yet you know. Mr. Skinner talks about you sometimes - you'd be Agent Mulder, right?"

"Yes, Ma'am, and I'm sorry for assuming..."

"Now you're doing it again. I'm trying to tell you, if you'd let me get the words out." She fixed him with a formidable glare, then seemed to see his agitation and patted his hand.

"There, there. You don't want to take me too seriously. I can see you're anxious about your friend. He doesn't look after himself you know. I told him the other week that he was working too hard, that he should take a vacation, somewhere nice and warm. Well he told me he was going to some tropical island, but it didn't seem to do him much good - put him in the hospital, as I heard it.

"He's very good to me, you know. Looks in on me every few days, checks on me if he sees my curtains still drawn. Last winter when I had that fall, he was the one who found me, got the ambulance and all. He's a real gentleman, your Mr. Skinner, for a young man. Reminds me of the young men when I was in my hey-day... If I was a few years younger I'd set my cap at Walter Skinner, no mistake..."

She slipped into reverie, smiling to herself and smoothing the lace ruffles on her dress. Mulder wondered whether it was worth the risk of interrupting again. All her "your Mr. Skinner"s were getting to him. He'd opened his mouth when she started up again:

"I got up at about 4am to make myself some tea. I don't sleep well these days, my arthritis plays up in the night and it's worse if I stay in one position... So I was just standing in the window here, seeing if the rain had stopped and I see this ambulance pull up outside Mr. Skinner's. I was worried because I knew he'd been ill recently and he'd only gotten in from work a few hours before - like I say, he works far too hard. Then I was thinking, selfish I know, but when you're my age... anyway, I was thinking that he'd said he would come across and look at my roof on Saturday and if he was ill... well, I hate to think of him being ill, but that roof is such a worry. He really looks after me, you know. Gets my groceries along with his own, fixed my security system just like the one he has, there are some villains out there these days you know..."

Mulder couldn't stop himself butting in:

"So the EMT's took him away in the ambulance?"

"I'm just getting to that, Agent Mulder. I saw the young man wheeling a gurney into the house and I thought, oh dear he must be really ill if he can't walk, and maybe I should tell someone - I guess I was thinking of you, dear, seeing you around so much lately, but I didn't know how to let you know... next thing, the young man is back out with the gurney and I can see poor Mr. Skinner looking not at all well. And only one blanket over him on a cold night like it was, and having to lie out in the air while the young man struggled with the doors and all, you'd think they'd send two of them, wouldn't you?"

"Excuse me Ma'am, there was only one EMT? This could be very important Ma'am." Mulder was sitting forward trying to keep his voice calm, not to betray the tension he felt.

"Just the one, wasn't that what I just said? He must have been new at the job, too, he didn't seem to know how to load the gurney in the back. Even I know that, I love those hospital shows on TV... I hope Mr. Skinner is going to be all right. You know he picks my daughter up from the airport when she comes to visit, such a kind man..."

Mulder was struggling not to grab the old dear by the shoulders and shake the information out of her...

"Ma'am, did you by any chance happen to notice the name on the ambulance?" Holding his breath, praying for some good luck...

"Northfield. I noticed because my daughter was dating a Wayne Northfield last year and he was a real nice young man too - not so smart as you and Mr. Skinner of course, but he was assistant manager of a big store in Kansas City and although I'd hoped, I don't think Mr. Skinner was taken with my daughter, seemed to me like he had his mind on someone else..."

"Thank you. Ma'am. You've been very helpful. I wish more people were as observant as you. I'll be sure to give Mr. Skinner your good wishes when I see him."

"Oh, you're off then? I could make you a cup of tea? You young folks are always rushing everywhere... I'm glad I could help. You go check on Mr. Skinner now, and tell him not to think of my roof, I dare say it will wait another week or so..."

Mulder backed gratefully down the driveway, the old lady still nodding and waving. He climbed into the car and gave himself a moment to process what he knew and what he suspected.

He'd be willing to bet that Walter was not in any hospital. He'd probably been drugged and then whoever it was had come back and boldly taken the unconscious man away in the ambulance. But only one kidnapper? If this was a Consortium plot, surely they'd send at least two, to make it look authentic and in case Skinner struggled. One man acting alone then... Unless this was related to something in Skinner's past, something not connected to the X-Files, there was only one name that came to mind. Mulder couldn't begin to fathom why Alex Krycek would risk his own safety to come out of hiding and take some petty revenge on Skinner, but who knew what went on in that ratbastard's twisted mind...

Mulder thought about the whisky bottle and the tablets and the black hair he'd bagged as evidence. If that hair was Krycek's they'd get him on the DNA, but that would take days through channels... He really didn't want to make this official. It would only make more trouble for Walter and the bureaucratic machine moved too slowly in any case.

He called Kimberly and told her to sign Skinner in for another sick day. He deflected her questions as best he could, grateful when she picked up on his deliberate vagueness.

"I'll fend off the enquiries, Agent Mulder, don't you worry. Just you find him." She sounded vehement.

Mulder was beginning to realise that other people knew the Walter Skinner it had taken him so long to recognise. He had a lot of lost time to make up for and if he was right and it was Alex Krycek behind this, Walter was in deep shit. It was time to turn to very unofficial channels. His cell-phone rang just as he was about to key Frohike's private number.

"Mulder, it's 1.58, the plane leaves in two minutes. I take it you're not coming to Seattle?"

Oh shit. Scully. No point in trying to fob her off with excuses.

"No Scully, I'm not. One of W... um, Skinner's neighbours saw him being taken off in an ambulance in the early hours. It just looks suspicious..."

"It's okay, Mulder. I understand. I hope it's good news."

Mulder was stunned.

"Thanks, Scully. I don't know what to say."

"He's a good man, Mulder."

"Yeah. He is. You'd better go. I'll let you know... thank you, Scully."

The connection was broken and Mulder just sat, swallowing down the tightness in his chest that he realised he'd been carrying about for hours, maybe days now. Scully was... amazing. And Walter was... the tightness was back, and he speed-dialled Frohike.

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

Think about baseball scores, think about tax returns, think about all the reports waiting on his desk. Think about anything but the probing fingers and the hot mouth that were exploring him with intimate thoroughness. Skinner was in purgatory. With the most exhausting effort of will he could make a single muscle in his arm or leg twitch, but the limb wouldn't move by so much as a inch. He could blink, roll his head a little, swallow with difficulty, but that was it. Whatever effect the cocktail of medications and alcohol had had on his system, it was taking far too long to wear off. His head was clearer, but that had taken nearly twelve hours, as near as he could judge, and it actually made his ordeal worse.

He could feel every lick and nibble and tweak of Krycek's mouth and hands on his naked body. He had no control over his own muscles, but they were far from inactive. The stimulation was having its effect, however much he loathed himself for reacting to it.

"That's better, Big Boy, signs of life at last... I knew you couldn't resist me."

Krycek was licking down the hollow of his armpit and across to his right nipple and suddenly he bit the sensitive flesh hard. Skinner felt his back arch at the pain, but Krycek tongued the nipple and blew on the damp flesh, making it peak. His hand was sliding down Skinner's belly.

"Lovely. A real FBI Calendar Boy, aren't you? I only got a glimpse last time, before you banished me to the balcony... That wasn't very hospitable, Walter, but I understood. Foxy Baby was there, and you didn't want to make a scene... Well, we're alone now and I'm going to show you some real Russian hospitality..."

Krycek sat up and waited to see if Skinner would look at him. Skinner kept his head resolutely turned as far away as his protesting muscles would let him. An iron grip on his already bruised jaw turned him back to face his tormentor.

"Don't be shy now, Walter. You're going to be such fun to play with."

The pincer grasp left his jaw and he saw Krycek slowly peel the leather glove off his right hand. Two hands, one bare, one still gloved, spread his thighs and a long finger stroked along his flaccid penis and flicked against his scrotum.

Oh Christ. Let me not get hard for him. Think of cold showers, think of paperwork, think of meetings...

A warm palm cradled his cock, lifting it. A fingernail was drawn lightly along the underside, grazing the vein, the slightly rough pad of the finger touched the bunch of nerves just behind the head.

Skinner arched off the bed, involuntarily, and the gloved hand descended on his bare hip and held him down. Again the bare hand caressed his cock and it was no longer as limp as it had been.

"To think you've been wasting this on Mulder. Really, Walter, I thought you had more taste... Such a delicious piece of meat..."

Meetings, think of meetings. Boring budget meetings, expense reports, oh Christ no, that made him think of Mulder and...

"Oh Walter, you are enjoying yourself aren't you? Such an improvement! This deserves a pat on the head at least..."

Skinner saw Krycek lick the palm of his hand, and tried to roll his head away. It was painfully forced back to face the glittering eyes of his captor. With deliberate slowness, the damp hand enfolded his twitching penis and began to polish the crown. Rhythmic strokes, hard and then soft, working him masterfully.

He didn't understand what Krycek's game was. Why the sexual teasing, why not just torture him and then kill him? Except this was torture, of the worst kind. All those references to Mulder... what could Krycek know? Was this to get revenge on him or to punish Mulder? Don't think of Mulder, don't think of his fingers on your cock, of his eyes watching you...

Green, ice-cool eyes watched him like a cat toying with a mouse. Then the dark head dipped and the stroking hand shifted to fondle his aching balls, as a warm, wet tongue lapped the moisture from the slit of his unwilling erection. He fought the familiar tightening in his groin... he wasn't going to last much longer...

"Don't fight it, Walter, you're doing so well... I always knew you were a hard man. It's time to bring Ivan out to play, don't you think?"

Skinner could only watch as Krycek began to unbutton his jeans.

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

"Make some more coffee, Mulder. It'll be a while yet." Frohike's voice was understanding and he gave Mulder a reassuring shove in the direction of the kitchen.

"How's he doing?" Byers looked up from the printout that was cascading over his knees and around his feet.

"Not so good. I don't know if he's hoping or dreading it'll be Krycek." The little man pushed his glasses up on his nose, and cleared his throat awkwardly. "That Russian slime has a history with both him and Skinner, there's no knowing what he might do..."

"What's this thing with Skinner anyway? I thought Mulder didn't trust the guy." Langly didn't even turn from the screen where he was flicking between hyperlinks faster than the eye could read.

"Where have you been, Langly? Even I've noticed the way Skinner's name has been cropping up more and more in Mulder's conversation. And remember that check he got us to run on that covert 'Nam outfit? That was Skinner's lot. The guy's a war hero, not to mention a hunk." Frohike smirked as two pairs of eyes swivelled to his in astonishment.

"What can I say? The man is prime beef, a serious stud, the most fucking alpha male I've seen in a long time..." He grinned again and muttered something about seeing how the coffee was coming. Byers and Langly looked at each other, shrugged and tuned back to their computers.

Mulder and Frohike were carrying in the steaming mugs when Langly's "Got it!" nearly made them drop the lot. They all huddled round the screen where the blond's finger jabbed triumphantly at a name: Bowright Surety Inc.

"Got what, exactly?" Mulder sounded tense and less than impressed.

"This outfit handled the Northfield insurance. When the company went belly up last March, they took possession of all assets until the debts could be cleared. Those assets amounted to four ambulances, a few thousand dollars worth of medical supplies and some office equipment. The office stuff was sold on and the medical supplies bought up by one of the big hospitals. Two of the ambulances were acquired by Carswell Health Services last month and the remaining two are still sitting in Bowright's block of the insurance pound on Kendall, down by the container depot." Langly looked inordinately pleased with himself.

"So let's go check it out..." Mulder was halfway to the door already.

"You don't imagine Krycek is still sitting in the ambulance at the pound, making tea for Skinner, do you?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Langly wished he could take them back. Mulder's shoulders sagged and his face twisted in a grimace of pain.

"I imagine all sorts of things he might be doing with Walter, believe me. And no, I don't expect finding him could be that easy, but I have to try. Hell, what else can I do?"

"It's okay, Mulder. We understand. There may be something to find there anyway." Frohike stepped in, his hand on Mulder's shoulder. "Byers, you carry on checking the hospitals and chivvying your guy on the DNA results. Langly, you get back to seeing what you can find on Krycek's movements lately. I'll go with Mulder and you keep us informed." He steered Mulder to the door. "C'mon, Mulder, we'll find him in time. He's not going to give up on you that easily."

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

Scully slammed the SAC's office door and left the man on the outside still halfway through his grovelling apology. Hours on a crowded plane and then an interminable drive from the airport because an overturned tanker had closed the expressway. She'd almost killed SAC Craggs with her bare hands when he'd sheepishly informed her that the killer had been caught by the local police two hours previously and so there was now no case for her to investigate.

She thought of Mulder, getting himself in a state about Skinner and felt a stab of guilt. She hadn't exactly taken him seriously and even if Skinner was only ill again, rather than something worse, Mulder was genuinely worried about him... She'd done a lot of thinking about Mulder and Skinner on the flight. Looking back over the last few weeks in the light of her new insight, it all seemed so clear.

Skinner rushing off to the jungle to rescue Mulder had been unexpected, but in retrospect, she'd noticed less friction between the two men, even before that crisis. When the helicopter lifted off from that hilltop she'd wondered what her two companions weren't saying, but Skinner had been so weak and Mulder so hyper, she'd had her hands full getting them back to civilisation, and she hadn't pursued it. Naturally, she hadn't failed to notice Mulder's extreme reaction to Skinner's relapse, but she'd put that down to delayed shock, and the gratitude of one whose life had been saved. It was obvious now that something far more serious had been brewing.

The two men were in love. She had no doubt of it. She was surprised how little shock she felt. So much was explained by that simple fact. Yet, if it hadn't been for Mulder's bizarre behaviour over the last few days, she might never have known. When she first realised, she'd been hurt that her partner hadn't felt able to confide in her, but she realised that admitting you'd fallen in love with your male boss was not the easiest confession to make. More than that, as she thought about things, she came to the conclusion that it was a very new situation, that the men themselves were only just getting used to the idea. When was the right moment to tell your partner that you were spending the rest of your vacation playing house with the boss?

That was unfair. They weren't playing. It was a hard row to hoe that they had chosen. Both their careers were on the line and recalling Mulder's heartfelt thanks in their last conversation, she guessed he'd thought their partnership was on the line too. Then there was Mulder's quest - she still thought of it that way, despite her own commitment to it. It had cost all of them a great deal over the years, Skinner not least. What if this latest crisis was yet another instance of the bad guys using them against each other? What relationship could withstand the guilt of each party being at risk because of the other? Her partnership with Mulder had only just survived on a few occasions and it was uncomplicated by sex. Bizarrely, thinking about her partner and her boss, she could see what they would love in each other. She owed both these men her support, not her doubts. She called Mulder's cell-phone.

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

Skinner had found the perfect distraction. Alex Krycek's hand might be forcing him to orgasm, Krycek's cock pressing against his thigh, but in his mind he was somewhere else entirely, on a beach maybe, or at his cabin. Somewhere with Fox Mulder. He couldn't stop thinking about Mulder, so he'd decided to give in, to make imagination reality. He regretted the way it made Krycek think he was turning him on, but if it kept him alive...

It was so hard to think... skilled fingers stroked the tightness of his cock, thumbing the beads of moisture welling from the tip, spreading the slickness over his hot shaft. Krycek was working his own cock to hardness with his gloved left hand. He seemed to be merely holding it, but the crown was purpling with the touch.

Skinner closed his eyes and thought of Mulder. Of the smell of his sweat as he carried him through the dripping jungle, of the feel of his skin as he rubbed liniment into abused muscles, of the incredible wonder of feeling another man's hard-on and knowing it was for you. He fixed his mind on the warmth of Mulder's hand holding his, of kisses and tears falling over his lips and eyelids, of a hundred long looks packed with secrets and longing and denial...

He could hear a low moaning and realised it was coming from himself. His vocal cords were loosening. He tried to make a word:

"Ffff... Fohhk..." His throat wouldn't cooperate

"Fuck? Oh I'm gonna fuck you Walter Skinner. That's what this is all about. I've been waiting for this for a long cold time, thinking my warm thoughts and waiting my chance. I'd kind of pictured a more equal situation, but even as a submissive, you're a rare treat. You look like you're really getting into this and the best is yet to come, in a manner of speaking... I'm gonna fuck your face till you can't swallow any more, then I'm gonna turn you over and fuck that sweet ass of yours till you bleed."

He grinned, wolfishly, and gave Skinner's engorged penis a vicious twist. Skinner made a noise that seemed to please Krycek a lot.

Mulder, in the moonlight, leaning over him... he'd woken from a dream to find it come to life in front of him. Mulder, torso like rarest marble in the pale light, a beautiful classical statue, too perfect to touch, too dangerous to dream of...

Two brutal, irresistible pumps on his cock and he was gone, creaming over the hand that held him, over his own sweat-slick belly. His throat gave up the sound at last:

"Fffox!!!" And that heavy, gloved fist smashed into his jaw, slamming his head sideways, spraying blood from his split lip across the mattress.

"What the fuck?" A backhand to punctuate the expletive. "Who the fuck do you think you're with, you fuckhead? There's no fucking Mulder here, Boy, no more fucking Mulder for you ever, Boy, do you hear?"

Fists driving into him, cheekbones and ribs and stomach juddering under the blows on each "fuck". Nowhere to escape to, no way to defend himself, all he could do was keep grinding out that name, the name he thought of him by inside his head, something pure amidst all this filth, spitting blood and leaving his throat burning...

"Fox, Fox, Fox, Fox..."

"Shut the fuck up. You're my fuck toy now, Boy. I'll fill that fucking foul mouth of yours with something better than that fuckstupid name..."

Hard thighs across his chest, pinning his arms, the inhuman left hand clamped excruciatingly on his right ear, holding his head immobile. Fingers opening his battered mouth and Krycek's salty cock rammed, balls-deep, against the back of his abused throat.

Unable to breathe, Skinner felt the blackness settling over him. Unable even to choke, he felt the clotting blood closing off his nose and the smell of it, combined with that of the sweat and semen made him retch, am instinctive, convulsive spasm that pushed Krycek's swollen cock a life-saving inch out of his throat. Sucking in air, he coughed and Krycek laughed nastily:

"A bigger mouthful that that pencil-dick gives you, huh? Now play nice, Boy, and you'll get seconds."

Again he tried to will his jaw to snap shut on Krycek's flesh, again his helplessness mocked him. It was a matter of detaching himself. Retreat inside his head and just remember to breathe. Don't feel the hairy balls against his chin, don't taste the unloved flesh on his tongue, don't smell his own blood heated by his assailant's arousal, pushed into his own mouth on every savage thrust...

Skinner endured. Now would be a good time to do that out-of-body thing, he thought. Go to that quiet place and choose death this time.

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

Frohike was driving like a madman. Mulder had to brace himself against the door as they took a corner like a chicane on a racetrack. He clicked off the cell-phone and glanced at his friend.

"Scully's coming back. The case was a done deal by the time she arrived."

Snarling at the late evening traffic, Frohike threw a grin sideways at Mulder as he swerved around an elderly couple in an even more elderly Ford.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? You said she was okay with you and Walter..."

"Yeah... she is. I can't believe she's taking it so well. Me and Walter...oh God, I hope there still is a me and Walter..."

"Hang in there, man. He's one tough cookie, your main squeeze."

"My what? Oh man, don't ever call him that to his face, will you?"

Frohike chuckled, glad to have made Mulder laugh for a change. They were deep in the industrial zone now, a maze of towering storage units, darkened office blocks, chain-link fences and floodlit compounds patrolled by guard dogs. There was very little traffic and the mostly-silent lots were hard to identify. Mulder twisted round in his seat, scanning their surroundings. Grim-faced again.

"Didn't you say it was near the container depot?"

"Yeah, look for the cranes, those huge loading arms should be visible for blocks. And floodlights, it's a twenty-four-hour operation."

Mulder was biting his lip, his knee jiggling with a nervous tic, his fingers drumming on the door panel. Trying to keep the dark thoughts at bay, the mental images of Walter dead or dying.

"There! Go right... next one down, no - blocked, this one, here!"

The car swung up to the vehicle-filled lot and screeched to a halt at a padlocked entry. Mulder leapt out and shook the heavy padlock and chain desperately. To his surprise, the padlock fell open and the chain rattled through the links of the gate and onto the potholed grit roadway. He pushed open the two wire gates and waved Frohike through. As he jogged after the car, his phone beeped again.

"I knew it. That bastard... well if we get him, we've got him. Hey John, thank your friend at the lab, I owe you both."

Frohike climbed out and came over to him.

"That was Byers. It is Krycek. Can you see the ambulance? God, it's vast this place..." Mulder sounded grim.

"They've got all the larger vehicles over there, I think." Frohike waved an arm. "You take the right and I'll take the left side." He ran off, leaving Mulder still getting his bearings.

How could they hope to find Skinner? Krycek could have transferred him to a dozen other vehicles since he was seen in the ambulance this morning. They could be anywhere in the city, in the state, in the country, by now. Mulder made himself stand still and close his eyes for a moment. He slowed his breathing and brought Walter's face into his mind. Strong, gentle. Warm brown eyes, gorgeous mouth... Mulder looked deep into Walter's eyes in his mind and felt a thread of a connection still. Walter was still alive, he knew it.

He ran towards the section where vans, buses, an assortment of other vehicles, all more or less battered looking, was lined up. He heard a low whistle from over to his left. Frohike was waving to him.

"Here are the two Northfield ambulances, but look there..." He gestured to a warped metal door in the side of the low warehouse building. The hasp was folded outward, the line of shadow down the doorframe showing the door was standing slightly ajar. Together, the two men ran up to the unlocked door.

"Two unlocked entries, that's too much of a coincidence. If he's in here, then he's either got very sloppy or he just doesn't care." Mulder looked at Frohike for his reaction. Neither of them voiced the third alternative: or it's already too late.

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

Krycek had cleaned himself up, slept for half an hour and now was pacing about the room, as pumped up as an athlete before a big race. His jeans still hung open, and his cock was already hardening again. Every time his adrenaline-fuelled circuit of the room brought him level with Skinner, he stroked his own cock. Skinner still lay motionless, daubed with his own blood and with streaks of dried semen, his own on his legs and belly, Krycek's on his face and chest. He watched Krycek with dull eyes, breathing shallowly, each lungful a painful rasp. Probably a broken rib, he guessed. He was still alive. Despite his best efforts to find that bright light he had seen once before and this time walk into it, he was still here in this hell on earth.

Jacko, Sharon, Fox Mulder. Three lives he had touched and walked away from. Three chances, more than most people got. Three failures. This was a fitting end, in the dust, in no-man's land. Krycek was standing over him, pushing down his jeans again, brandishing his cock, laughing his dark laugh.

He felt Krycek rolling him over, willingly buried his face in the filthy mattress. He flinched at the touch of a hand on his bald head. The hand moved over his scalp seductively.

"I've always wanted to do this. It's warmer than I expected. Does Foxy like his slaphead?"

There was a sound from outside, a distant but distinct metallic clinking. Krycek rose and strolled to the grimy window.

"Ah, company's coming. We still have a few minutes, though, I think. Plenty of time to have my wicked way with you..."

He squatted beside Skinner again and caressed his bare back, over and over, sweeping a firm hand from the broad shoulders to the narrow waist, pausing, then curving over first one, then the other, buttock. He cupped both ass cheeks and squeezed hard.

"Gorgeous skin," he muttered.

Pushing Skinner's thighs apart, he settled between them, jeans around his ankles now, thigh to thigh with the bigger man. He spread Skinner's ass and trailed one finger down the cleft, circling the tight anal entrance.

"You're sure you're not cherry, Walter? I don't suppose that cat-dick of Mulder's makes much of an impression. You look quite virginal to me... well not for long."

He spat on his hand and smeared the saliva over his fingers, spat again. Bent and licked slowly along the cleft of Skinner's ass. Skinner groaned.

"You'd better not be calling for your Foxy-baby, Walter. I've still got that knife, remember?"

Skinner felt the heat of Krycek's cock against his anus and tensed. There was a low whistle from outside. Unmistakable, near. Krycek slapped Skinner's ass and pulled back from him.

"Sorry, Walter. Looks like no dessert for you today. I have to be leaving now. I planned to take you with me, of course, but I've no use for a cripple. I guess you and pretty-boy are made for each other. Both of you a disappointment."

He rose and stuffed his fading erection back into his pants. Footsteps were pounding along the corridor outside. He pushed open a window and simply dropped through it into the night.

Skinner's head dropped forward onto the mattress and he started shivering.

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

Mulder and Frohike ran along the corridor, flinging open doors as they went. Frohike reached the office first and wrenched open the rusty door. He took in the scene before him and then stepped back into the corridor.

"Mulder. Here." Quiet voice, wishing it had better news to bring. As Mulder stepped up beside him in the doorway, Frohike gripped the younger man's shoulder. Mulder looked stricken, leaning against the door, his head whipping back and forth between the way back out in pursuit of Krycek and the sight of the man he loved lying bleeding and naked. He was frozen in an agony of inaction. Frohike nudged him forward into the room.

"Give me your gun and then GO! Go to him. I'll get the bastard." He

took Mulder's gun and turned, then ran off back into the dark lot.

Mulder stumbled forward and fell on his knees beside Skinner. He could hear Skinner's teeth chattering, and he almost laughed. He was alive, he was alive.

Taking off his big wool overcoat, he lay down next to Skinner and covered him. Skinner turned his face slowly towards the gentle touch and Mulder winced at the sight of his torn mouth and all the blood. He drew the back of a finger down Walter's cheek.

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm here," he whispered, not even sure if Skinner could hear or understand. The other man's eyes were dark with pain and Mulder wanted to hold him tight and never let anybody hurt him again. Instead, he had to think - to be practical. He took out his cell phone and called Scully:

"Come and get us, Scully. Byers has the address. Hurry."

He clicked the phone off and turned back to Walter, drawing him tenderly into his arms. He kissed the smooth head tucked under his chin and didn't care that the tears spilled quietly down his face. Skinner shifted uncomfortably in his arms, still shivering.

"I'm sorry. Am I hurting you? I'm sorry." Mulder felt so helpless. He knew Skinner was in pain, and his mind was racing furiously as he ran through a checklist of what might have been done to the man he loved. The cuts and bruises were clear - but the fact that Skinner had been naked when they found him brought a sweeping tide of anger and gnawing worry to Mulder's subconscious. What had Krycek done to him?

"Walter, did he...did he hurt you? Oh what the fuck kind of question is that? Of course he hurt you. I mean..."

Mulder tightened his arms around his boss and Skinner gave a low moan. His dark eyes communicated nothing to Mulder and he wouldn't speak. Mulder did not dare question him further. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answers to his questions.

He was grateful beyond belief when Scully appeared. She ran over to them and stopped short.

"Mulder...what the hell?"

She gazed down on Skinner and for a moment her professional mask dropped and Mulder saw her concern, then the doctor was in place and she was kneeling beside the stricken man, checking his injuries.

"Mulder, did you call the paramedics?" she asked.

"Yes. No. God, no. I called you. I wasn't thinking. Shit...We need to get him to a hospital don't we?"

"Yes."

"Shit...he's not going to die is he? He won't talk to me, Scully." Mulder said desperately.

"Well I can't check for internal injuries here, but I think it's very unlikely he'll die, Mulder. As for speaking, he's in shock, deeply traumatised and in pain. I think he's also been drugged. His pupils are dilated." Scully rapped this out with a medical detachment that somehow brought Mulder back down to practicalities.

"We have the ambulance outside. The one he was brought here in. I'll go and get a stretcher from that. I'll drive him to the hospital myself."

Mulder gently disengaged himself from Skinner, grateful to be able to do something useful to help the man, and ran at full pelt out to where the ambulance stood. He quickly located the keys, just as Byers drew up.

"Thank god." Mulder thrust the stretcher at the other man and started pulling him towards the warehouse.

"Where's Frohike?" Byers asked.

"Shit. Shit. You take this and go and help Scully. I'll find Frohike."

Much as it pained Mulder to leave Skinner's side, he knew he couldn't leave Frohike to deal with Krycek alone. He drew the gun he kept in his leg holster and began searching the area. It didn't take him long to find them. After a few minutes he heard the sound of someone talking. He tiptoed closer, and hid behind a parked van, listening to what was being said.

"And that was when I met Marguerite. She taught me everything I know about the arts of romance and the tango. Have you ever tried the tango? Great dance. Where were we? Oh yes, this was 1972. Or was it ' 73?"

"I don't fucking care." a sullen voice replied.

"Am I boring you? So sorry about that. I just wanted to pass the time until Mulder gets here."

"Well he's here now."

Mulder edged around the corner of the van to see Krycek lying on the ground on his front, with Frohike sitting on his back, pointing the gun Mulder had given him directly at the back of Krycek's head. If Mulder hadn't been so furious, the sight might even have amused him.

"You bastard, you fucking rat bastard." Mulder exploded into a chaos of action, getting hold of Krycek and shaking him, slamming his fist into the other man's jaw, but still not managing to wipe the smile off of his enemy's face.

"What's the matter, Foxy? You pissed because I took what you wanted? Because I had what you haven't tasted?"

"You..." Mulder drew back his fist for another punch and then dropped it, the misery coursing through him in a wave. "Why?" he whispered brokenly.

"You aren't the only one who wanted him." Krycek shrugged. "And you sure as hell weren't taking him. Why let a good thing go to waste?" He leered.

"He's a good man. To do something so despicable..." Mulder shook his head. "I hope it was worth it, Krycek, because it's going to prove to be the most painful mistake you ever made." He pulled the other man's hands behind his body and handcuffed them there.

"Ooh, you going to play rough with me, Mulder? Huh?" Krycek laughed. "I don't think so. You and he are both the same. Both soft. I made him hard for me though, Foxy. I bet that's more than you've ever done."

"Shut. Up." Mulder said through gritted teeth, grabbing Krycek's jacket and hauling him back towards the ambulance.

"Mulder, he's just trying to get a rise out of you..." Frohike said, glancing nervously at his friend. He'd never seen Mulder like this before and he wasn't sure what the other man was going to do.

"I got a rise out of Wally-baby," Krycek crowed, struggling in Mulder's grasp, a crazed grin on his face.

Mulder snapped. He stopped suddenly, and threw Krycek to the ground, then he stood behind him and held his gun to the other man's head.

"Any last requests, Krycek?" he said in a dangerously soft tone. "I'm taking requests right now. You've got about 10 seconds to make yours."

"You won't do it." Krycek licked his lips nervously.

"Self defense." Mulder hissed. "I have a witness, don't I, Melvin?"

"Yes, Mulder. You sure as hell, do." Frohike shrugged, casting a malicious grin in Krycek's direction. "Shame though. We never got to 1975 and that was the year my life really took off."

"Oh shut the fuck up." Krycek snarled. "He's just playing. You know that."

"Oh but I don't know. He looks pretty riled to me." Frohike glanced at Mulder, who dug the barrel of the gun into Krycek's neck to illustrate the point.

"What did you do to him, Krycek?" Mulder asked in a dangerous whisper. "Tell me, honestly, and I might decide not to kill you."

"I..." Krycek looked up into Frohike's eyes, trying to read some clue to Mulder's behaviour in them. He found none. "I gave him a drug. Put it in his whisky. Boy, you sure drove that poor bastard to drink quickly, Mulder. He was drowning in the stuff."

"What was the drug?" Mulder reached forward and put his hand into Krycek's pocket. "Is this it?" He fished out a vial.

"Yeah." Krycek said sullenly. "He must have taken something else with it though - sleeping tablets maybe, because he couldn't move when I was...playing with him." He gave a snorting chuckle. "Well, one part of him moved, if you get my meaning..." he broke off with a cry of pain as Mulder's gun struck him across the side of the head. Hard.

"What did you do to him?" Mulder asked again.

"I jerked him off. Then I stuck my cock in his mouth and he deep throated me. He seemed to enjoy that." Krycek ducked his head forward to avoid another blow but none was forthcoming.

"If he enjoyed it so much, why did you beat him up like that?" Mulder asked, trying to shut his emotions off from what he was being told. "Or maybe he wasn't co-operating?"

"He co-operated." Krycek shrugged. "He didn't have any choice."

"So why did you hit him so much?" Mulder said insistently, pressing the cold metal of the gun into the back of Krycek's neck until the other man's face was in the dirt.

"Because he was fucking irritating me, okay?" Krycek hissed. "Stupid bastard didn't realise a good thing when it kidnapped him," he smirked, trying to glance up. Mulder just pushed his neck further down, until he was quite literally eating the muddy gravel.

"I'll ask you again. Why did you hit him?" Mulder demanded for the third time.

"Because he wanted you," Krycek snapped. "Satisfied now? He kept fucking calling for you. He should have just shut the fuck up and then I wouldn't have hit him. I didn't want to hit him. I wanted him to want me. I wanted to fuck him..."

"But you didn't." Mulder released the pressure on Krycek's neck and the other man sat up, breathing heavily.

"In another few minutes I would have done. But you and the cavalry had to show up didn't you?" Krycek said bitterly.

"I think I've heard all I need to from you."

Mulder brought the gun down on the back of Krycek's head and the other man fell sideways, unconscious. Frohike helped Mulder to drag him back to the car and bundle him inside. The ambulance had already left. Mulder speed dialled Scully and found out which hospital she was taking Skinner to and told her he'd join her as soon as he could.

"In the meantime, we have someone to lock up," he told her grimly, speeding towards the Hoover Building as fast as he could in order to off load his prisoner and get to Skinner's bedside.

The only thing that sustained Mulder through the next few hours until he could be with Skinner again, was the thought that the other man had called for him. I was right. He loves me, but the stupid idiot just won't admit it to himself. The thought that Skinner loved him made him feel warm inside, but he was still beset by nagging worries. Supposing this whole thing with Krycek had traumatised Skinner so much that he turned against Mulder? Blamed him even, in some way?

Mulder ran through the hospital like a whirlwind, finding Scully seated by Skinner's bed.

"Déjà vu." She said with a wry smile. "We've been here before, Mulder."

"Yeah. But we're never going to do this again," he said firmly. "How is he?" He glanced down on Skinner's pale form, the bruises on his flesh seeming all the more livid against the pallor of the other man's skin.

"Sedated," Scully told him gently. "He's going to be all right though, Mulder. He's got a broken rib and some bad bruising, but he'll be fine. With some rest, some good nursing..." She gave Mulder a stern glance.

"I can do nursing," Mulder protested.

"Just don't..." Scully put a hand on Mulder's arm. "Don't expect too much, Mulder. I don't know how things are between you, but he might not be ready...he might never be ready."

"I know." Mulder smiled at her wanly and she nodded and left the room.

It was five hours before Skinner awoke. Mulder spent them making a mental map of the other man's face - every line, every feature, every small fold of skin. He memorised the texture of Skinner's fingers, which he held clasped between his own, and gently kissed as he watched Skinner's lying so still.

"I'm not letting you get away from me," he murmured. "You know what you want, you just don't know how to ask for it. I'm not taking any more crap from you, Walter S Skinner. It was me you were asking for. Me you wanted. And me is sure as hell what you're gonna get. " With that resolved in his mind, he settled down and waited for Skinner to wake up.

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

The first thing Skinner saw when he regained consciousness was a pair of anxious hazel eyes. Then he heard a voice he'd both longed and dreaded hearing. An unnaturally cheerful voice.

"Morning, Walter. Or should that be afternoon?" Mulder glanced at his watch. "Would you like something to drink?" He poured a glass of water and held it to Skinner's lips, allowing the other man to take a few sips.

"M...Mulder." He managed a gruff whisper. Speech was still painful, his throat raw and his jawbone bruised. "What are you doing here?"

"Rescuing you. Makes a change from you doing the same for me." He saw Mulder trying a watery grin.

"Rescuing? I was...?" The memory assaulted Skinner and he closed his eyes. He started to retch. Mulder's arms slipped immediately around his shoulders, soothing him.

"It's okay. The rat bastard is safely locked up - and trust me, he's got a monster headache after what I did to him."

"What you did...?" Skinner repeated, his eyes wide again. For a moment he knew that he was letting Mulder see his horror at what Krycek had done to him reflected there.

"Yes," Mulder whispered softly, still holding him.

"Mulder, leave me," Skinner rasped, pulling out of Mulder's embrace. The tenderness was more than he could take right now. More than ever he was unworthy of it. He felt cold, physically and emotionally, holding onto normality by a thread. He hunched in the bed, pulling the sheet up to his chin, his back to Mulder.

"No." Determined. Mulder wasn't going to let him retreat this time. He heard Mulder round the bed and crouch down beside him. Wearily he opened his eyes again and saw the stubborn jut of Mulder's jaw.

"I'm not leaving you again, Walter. Look at the shit you got into last time I left you. You clearly can't be trusted on your own."

Trust. There - it was said. Mulder couldn't trust him after all. He'd let the enemy use him, in the worst way. What good was he to Fox as a protector when he couldn't even keep himself out of the hands of a thug like Krycek? He'd forfeited any claim to Mulder's respect when he'd lain there and let his body react to that... his mind recoiled from the memory and he longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness to fall on him again. So tired, he was so tired. If he could just be left alone...

"Please..." God, he sounded so pathetic.

"Ssh." Mulder touched a gentle finger to his bruised lips. "I know all about it. You don't need to tell me now. Tell me when you're ready. When you need to. In the meantime I'm staying. You're allowed to be weak sometimes, Walter. It's okay to accept comfort, to lean on someone else. You don't always have to be the tough guy, being strong for everyone else."

Skinner closed his eyes, and his body began to shake. How ironic he thought, I'm allowed to be weak now. If Mulder only knew... He felt himself held close, heard the whispered words, as full of love as ever.

"Whenever you're ready, big guy. I'll be here. Like I said, I'm not letting you out of my sight, ever again."

How was he going to bear such understanding, such unshakeable belief?

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

After five days the physical evidence of Skinner's ordeal was healing

but to Mulder he seemed more unreachable than ever. He accepted Mulder's presence listlessly but he had hardly spoken since he'd come round. Mulder couldn't read what was going on behind the sad dark eyes. He was worried.

"I'm taking you home," he announced. "And we are going to talk."

But it wasn't so easy. They sat at opposite ends of the long sofa and Mulder didn't know how to penetrate that stoic armour. He knew about the ways rape victims dealt with their trauma, he knew the psychology of victim guilt, knew about the feelings of self-disgust and worthlessness that could follow such an experience, but that knowledge wasn't enough now. This was too personal, it was his friend, the man he loved, who sat silently at the table as they ate their meal, who gave no clue to his own feelings, who had withdrawn to some place Mulder felt he might never reach. He wanted to just take Walter in his arms and show him that nothing had changed in his heart, but the big man flinched if he so much as put a hand to the broad shoulder. He tried logic:

"Walter, you have to talk to me. It's either me or a Bureau shrink, which would you rather? You can trust me, you know that."

A flash of something so bleak in the stony face, that he reached out involuntarily and clutched at Skinner's wrist. The hand was gently withdrawn. He rose wearily and cleared the dishes. Made coffee and set a mug in front of Skinner. He tried anger:

"Don't you think I know that you're blaming yourself? Shit, Walter, I know all about that and it doesn't help. I never thought you were a stupid man, but this is pointless. Talk to me, damn you!"

He almost slapped the other man as he sat expressionless. His frustration seething in the face of such apparent defeatism. He tried appealing to Skinner's pride:

"You've never given up a battle in your life, you can't tell me you're going to let this defeat you now? Where's that Marine spirit, where's the man who saved my life?"

A shake of the head and at last a response:

"He wasn't real, Mulder. I told you before, I'm no hero. That should be obvious now."

He pounced on the opening:

"No, it's not. Nothing is obvious except that you're shutting yourself off again, and I won't let you. I'm not looking for a hero, just for the man I used to know, who never ducked out of a conflict, who was nothing if not honest, who never took the easy path."

Skinner rose abruptly and started pacing.

"You think I'm taking the easy path now? That I'm not being honest?" He flung his head to one side, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "This is my problem to solve, Mulder. I have to live with myself..."

"You're wrong, Walter. You're not..."

Before he could finish his sentence Skinner had crossed the room. The front door closed on his words:

"...alone now."

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

Skinner strode down the street, furious with himself. Too emotional to see straight even. So much churning in his head, he'd been fighting a headache for days, almost revelling in something as tangible as that nagging pain. Compared to the mess that was the rest of his life, a pounding head was almost laughably minor.

At the road end he cut up through the trees to the paths winding behind the houses. He was cold without a coat but the penitential chill suited his mood. There were a few people out walking dogs in the autumn dusk and he really couldn't face meeting any of his neighbours yet, so he angled his route down into the thicker woodland, surprised when he saw lights ahead and realised he was looking down on the backs of the houses. He'd never walked much up here since he moved in, not having the excuse of a dog. He kicked at an empty soda can then noticed there was quite a lot of litter around and the undergrowth in front of him was flattened. A lover's trysting place? Not very salubrious for that. Suddenly Skinner knew exactly who had left this detritus of fast food wrappings.

He lowered himself onto the steeply sloping bank and took in the view through the largely leafless trees. Even without binoculars he recognised his own home and the rectangle of light that was his living room window. He chuckled sourly: so easy. An amateur could have kept him under surveillance and Krycek was no amateur. He'd never even checked out the area when he moved in. Well that just showed how desk-bound he'd become. The first rule of reconnaissance was to secure the perimeter, don't give the enemy any advantage. He'd offered himself to Krycek on a plate.

He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. He had to see about getting new glasses. His spares were an older prescription and probably contributing to the headache. The ground was chilly and uncomfortable, but he stayed where he was, knowing he had to make some decisions before he faced Mulder again. He knew he'd been worrying Mulder with his silence, but he was terrified of the consequences of giving in to Mulder's affection.

His own need terrified him. How much he longed to forget what had happened to him, to let Mulder comfort him, to let him get close again, to tell him how he had faced the truth of his feelings during that ordeal. That dig about honesty had really hurt because he had tried to be scrupulously honest with himself about this. He loved Fox Mulder and wanted to tell him so, but it seemed more unthinkable than ever after what he had done, what he had let that bastard do to him.

How could he tell Mulder that he loved him, knowing that Alex Krycek had made him betray that love with his hands and his mouth and his cock? Mulder couldn't know the truth of what had happened because he hadn't left, hadn't rejected him like the damaged goods he was now. Skinner could visualise the coldness settling in Mulder's eyes when he heard how the man he thought he could rely on had been powerless to resist a fondling hand, the enemy's hand. Yes, he'd been paralysed, yes he'd filled his head with thoughts of Mulder, but didn't that make him even more pitiable, even less like the man Mulder thought he loved?

Skinner couldn't recognise himself any longer. He'd always taken his strength and will power for granted. Used them to meet the challenges of his life and his career. In his own mind they defined him and when they let him down, what was left? What was he? - a bad risk, a liability. Mulder was right, he couldn't be trusted. And trust was everything where Mulder was concerned.

A movement caught his eye and he looked down at that bright patch of light. He could see Mulder standing looking out into the darkness and he was taken aback by the ache in his heart as he looked at the man. That was the hardest thing of all to face: his mind and heart still wanted Mulder, but his body... Mulder's tender touches in the hospital had been almost unbearable. He'd struggled not to flinch at every loving touch and Mulder had been so understanding, not wanting to push, just trying to reassure him. He knew his panic must have shown on his face sometimes and this evening when Mulder's fingers had wrapped around his wrist... hell, the only reaction he'd had was to want to throw up.

How could he want something so much with his head and be so incapable of enduring it? He was screwed, the rational mind on which he'd prided himself had given up on him. All his foundations were crumbling and he knew he had to find something solid and soon, or this would break him. He'd thought that giving full rein to his self-loathing was the answer, but Mulder was still there: loyal, loving, patient. He was supposed to walk away in disgust and let Skinner rebuild his walls, but he hadn't done that. He'd stayed. Skinner didn't know if that was his lifeline or his damnation.

One thing he did know: he had to tell Mulder everything. He didn't expect Mulder to want anything to do with him after that, but that was probably for the best, because he feared that he could never respond to genuine affection ever again. Mulder would walk and it would be over. He hauled himself stiffly to his feet, numb with cold and began to walk back to the road below.

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

Mulder turned on the lamps and wondered for the hundredth time if he should go out and look for Walter. It was nearly dark now and cold out, Walter wasn't fit yet, he would make himself ill again... Oh why won't you let me take care of you for once? he demanded of the absent Skinner. It was only 40 minutes since the man had charged out of the house and Mulder was trying hard not to imagine the worst. He just needs time to think things through, he'll come back soon, we'll sort it out...

"We have to." He spoke aloud. "I'm not letting him go. If I have to wait for ever until he lets me near him, I will." He gazed out at the dark hillside behind the house wishing he could get through to Walter, show him how he loved him more than ever... He heard the snick of the door, glad he'd thought to leave it unlocked, and turned to see Skinner standing in the doorway, looking pinched with cold.

With an effort, he held back from folding Walter in an embrace fuelled by worry and want. Instead he just hovered close by as the big man moved into the room and went to stand at the window.

"He watched me from up there." The voice was low and toneless. Mulder recognised Skinner's need to treat this like a case report, to keep one step back from the overwhelming emotions. At least he was talking.

"Maybe for days. I made it easy for him, I barely left this room after I threw you out. With my training I should have known better. That was my fault."

Mulder opened his mouth to protest that last, but Skinner's look of determination stopped him.

"Seeing you at the office that morning was far harder than I could ever have imagined. I thought I'd shut my feelings away, but I hadn't." The voice got even softer, a whisper of sound: "I still haven't."

He stared fixedly out into the dark night, tight-jawed, liquid-eyed. Mulder felt as if they'd had this conversation over and over in an endless agonising loop. He could see the two of them side by side, reflected in the glass, in another world. He made himself wait for Skinner to continue.

"That is no-one's fault..." The last thing Mulder expected and it gave him the first surge of hope he'd felt in a long time... "but I drank myself stupid anyway, thinking about my life, about Jacko, about Sharon... about you." He turned slowly away from the impersonal reflections to the flesh and blood man beside him, his voice painfully expressive now. Mulder could see that this was very hard for Walter. He held himself still.

"I drank too much, then I took too many painkillers. I don't remember much after... my glasses fell, I passed out... That was my fault."

Mulder couldn't stay silent now: "The whisky was drugged. That slime doctored it. It wasn't your fault." He saw Skinner consider this.

"Okay. Not all my fault. I came to in that warehouse. I tried to move and found I couldn't. I kept trying. Mulder, I didn't want to be there."

"Shit, Walter, why would I think you did?" Because you told him he couldn't be trusted out of your sight, you stupid schmuck. "You were kidnapped for God's sake... you were paralysed. Scully says you were lucky to have lived with that cocktail you swallowed... " Oh fuck, that came out wrong too. "I mean it was only because you were so healthy before..."

Skinner didn't flinch at the clumsy, wounding words. He laughed, a rusty, cynical laugh. "Lucky to have lived... that's one way of looking at it. And I wasn't so healthy before. I'd stopped caring." He paused, seeing Mulder's dismay. "It's okay, Mulder, I'm okay with this, just still processing it all."

Mulder studied him carefully. He did look calm. Not the impervious equanimity that was so disconcerting at the office, but still grounded. What it was costing him to speak about all this, Mulder could only guess at, but Walter was nothing if not indomitable. Somehow, he'd psyched himself up to tell Mulder the whole thing. Mulder wanted to know it all, so he could prove to Walter that nothing could change what he felt about him, but not at the cost of Walter's emotions. He would rather not know than see Walter broken by the telling.

Skinner was speaking again, looking right into Mulder's eyes as if to anchor himself.

"He cut my clothes off me and began to... touch me." He reached a hand to block Mulder's agitated movement, but pulled it back before they could touch. "It's all right, Mulder, let me tell it. I tried to resist, to be detached. He kept talking, talking. I didn't listen, tried not to listen, tried not to react. I'd rather have died than let him think I wanted... him."

Mulder grabbed his hand and held on. The strong fingers tensed but he held fast. They tightened around his at last, painfully crushing, but he welcomed the pain, welcomed that grasp, that contact. Eye to eye and now hand in hand, Walter spoke and Mulder listened. Skinner looked ragged, but when his voice faltered, Mulder squeezed his hand and held back his own threatening tears to get them through this.

"I got to a point where I knew what was going to happen. He made it plain. I couldn't physically fight him, but my mind was still my own, so I, I... "

He swallowed shakily, closed his eyes a moment and Mulder stepped closer, ready to catch the big man if he sagged. Skinner nodded once and went on:

"I thought of you. Not doing what he was doing, but doing what I'd dreamed of. I imagined touching you as I'd longed to, I tasted your skin and felt your breath on me, your hands, your mouth, your..."

Mulder just nodded and let a smile start in his eyes. Now he realised what Walter had been feeling so guilty about. He'd felt ashamed of not having fought back, but he'd been able to rationalise that, accept that it was not his fault. But the shame he felt over having invoked Mulder's spirit in the midst of something so sordid and brutal was weighing him down. It must seem like the ultimate betrayal to Skinner, as if he had sullied their love... He needed to know that this was the very thing that redeemed this nightmare, which proved to Mulder how real their love was. He held the big hand and let the smile light up his whole face. He knew the effect it could have and was glad of it. Never had he wanted to show his love more than at that moment.

"Then I was with you, Walter. And you survived it to be with me. He couldn't begin to understand that love, and he couldn't touch you here," he laid his free hand over Walter's heart, "where we are together."

He felt the tension still straining in Walter, not yet at ease with being touched. It tore at his heart to see the damage that little shit had done. But at least he could now begin to repair it.

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

For a moment, Skinner thought he was going to keel over. He felt... what did he feel? Drained, exhausted... but the headache was gone at last. The vise around his head had loosened, he felt shaky but warmer than he had in a while. Mulder still grasped his hand, and that still unnerved him, but Mulder was smiling too - an incredible joyous smile. That made him feel warmer. What Mulder had said about his deepest feelings being beyond Krycek's touch... could he really understand, accept how Skinner had used the love to survive? Mulder's thumb rubbed across the back of his wrist. More warmth. Less doubt. His eyes were closing with weariness, though it felt a healthier tiredness than the numbed sedation of recent days.

He let that warm hand lead him away. Maybe Mulder would still be here in the morning, maybe that would be the best thing that had ever happened to him. Maybe this time it wasn't too late.

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

Mulder had slept in Skinner's bed throughout his recuperation. He had wanted to be close by, to offer assistance if Skinner needed him, helping him to the bathroom when the other man was slow and shaky on his feet. For a while Skinner had been uneasy with even being held as they lay in bed, and Mulder had respected that, but the one time he had moved to retreat to the spare room, he caught a flicker of something in the dark eyes and realised it was just a line being drawn, not a door closing.

He knew that it was important that Skinner made the first move towards any closer physical intimacy, so that he could feel that he had control over it, in a way that had been so savagely denied him during his ordeal at Krycek's hands. He came back to the wide bed and crawled in next to Skinner, close but not encroaching. Every day the line grew more fluid.

This evening they sat together in companionable silence, watching the television in bed - Mulder having initiated Skinner in his own bad habits. At some point Skinner's head came to rest on Mulder's shoulder, and Mulder laid his own head against the other man's. It was a simple gesture, but somehow it meant a great deal to Mulder. He laced his fingers through Skinner's, traced lines on the palm of the other man's hand.

"One thing I wanted to say...but couldn't..." Skinner began, as they sat there, not looking at each other, heads resting together. "I...lied. I lied to myself and to you. I even lied to Jacko all those years ago. I'm a coward, Mulder. I'm scared of my own feelings."

"You're not a coward. You're the bravest person I've ever known", Mulder said vehemently, moving his head, pulling Skinner's around to face him, looking deep into the other man's eyes.

"No." Skinner would not look at him. "You see, the truth is..." he cleared his throat, his face flushed "...the truth is that I love you. And I pushed you away and in doing that I hurt you. I just need you to know that any hurt I caused to you, I also caused myself, a dozen times worse."

"Hush." Mulder's fingers found Skinner's lips. "The only part I needed to hear, was that you love me. Do you also trust me?" he asked, pulling Skinner's face up gently so that the other man finally looked at him.

"Yes." Skinner's eyes were dark with sincerity.

"Good. I don't want to cause you any pain. I want to take away the memory of him."

Mulder watched as Skinner leaned forward hesitantly, and touched his lips to Mulder's mouth, unsure and hopeful. Mulder sighed, and gently caressed Skinner's shoulder, opening his mouth under the kiss and allowing Skinner to push his tongue slowly inside, probing tenderly. When Skinner drew back, there was a shy smile on his face.

"I've wanted that for a long time," he admitted.

"Me too." Mulder smiled.

"Uh..." Skinner cleared his throat. "What next?"

Mulder couldn't help laughing out loud. "Well I can think of lots of things. Do you want me to show you what I had in mind?"

Skinner grinned, but Mulder didn't miss the anxiety that was evident in the other man's eyes. "I don't want to freeze on you," Skinner admitted. "I can't tell what buttons this will press for me."

"That's okay. We'll take it slow and see what happens. Now you just tell me if I do anything you don't like. You're in control of this, all right?"

"I've always been able to take care of myself, but I wasn't in control with him. I couldn't move a muscle...", Skinner whispered.

"I know. You didn't have any choice. Don't blame yourself, Walter. This will be different. I promise." Mulder ran his fingers gently down the side of Skinner's face, caressed the other man's neck. Then he touched his lips against Skinner's ear, licked his way behind it.

Skinner moaned and pressed back against the pillows. "You know, you are way too over-dressed for this party," Mulder scolded teasingly, finding the edge of Skinner's tee shirt and pulling it over his head, throwing it to the floor. Mulder ran his fingers gently over the rapidly fading bruises on Skinner's ribs and then lightly caressed a nipple, his tongue lapping against Skinner's neck, kissing down his collarbone. His fingers stroked Skinner's chest hair softly, with infinite tenderness, one eye always fixed on his lover's face, making sure he was happy with the caress.

Skinner raised his hands and lightly ran them through Mulder's hair as the other man sucked on his nipples. Then Mulder's hand slipped into his boxers and within seconds that garment had joined the tee shirt on the floor.

"Oh, boy, Walter. This is good." Mulder grinned happily, taking Skinner's hardening cock into his hand, smoothing his thumb along the length of the shaft and over the crown. Skinner started to whimper and Mulder smiled and ducked his face down, taking the warm, hard length of flesh into his mouth. He was surprised when Skinner immediately lost his erection.

"What is it?" Mulder looked up, saw the misery in his lover's eyes.

"He...uh, he made me..." Mulder knew only too well what memories Skinner was fighting: of Krycek's cock in his throat, thrusting at him, the hard, angry length of him pounding into his mouth until he lost consciousness. "You don't have to...I don't want you to..." Skinner said.

"You think I don't want to?" Mulder sat astride his lover's hips, his hands resting gently on Skinner's shoulders. "I'd love to feel you in my mouth, Walter."

"It doesn't disgust you?" Skinner asked.

"No. Shit no. I've been dreaming of it," Mulder told him honestly. "This isn't the same as what happened with him. I love you, and I know that you love me. I won't suck you if you don't want me to, but if you're worried that I'll hate it, please don't be." He leaned forward and kissed Skinner's lips gently. "Hell, I'd be happy just to sit here and kiss you." He grinned.

"I can tell." Skinner glanced down pointedly at where Mulder's hard cock was digging into his abdomen. "And talk about being overdressed..."

"You're right. Tell you what, why don't I slip into something more comfortable?" Mulder laughed, climbing off the bed and turning the television off. "You're not going to need that. I'm going to be providing the floor show tonight." He licked his lips slowly and provocatively at Skinner until the other man snorted and threw a pillow at him.

"Well get on with it then." Skinner grinned.

Mulder winked, and began unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, one button at a time, his eyes fixed on his lover the whole time. When he reached the final button, he opened the shirt wide and slid it sensuously off first one shoulder, then the other, before allowing it to shimmy to the floor. Then he strutted over to the bed, and claimed a kiss from a laughing Skinner before turning around and sticking his butt into the air while he tangled his fingers in his fly. Skinner gave him a slap on the ass.

"Tease," he remonstrated.

"The best things come to those who wait." Mulder grinned, sauntering back to the foot of the bed. He unzipped his fly then zipped it back up again, while Skinner lay weak with laughter on the bed, then he unzipped again and rolled his jeans down to his ankles before jumping around and bending over, gazing at Skinner through his long legs.

"Get 'em off." Skinner started a slow clap and Mulder grinned, kicking his jeans off and hooking one finger through the waistband of his boxer shorts. He quickly lowered the fabric covering his buttocks, exposing his backside to Skinner for a brief instant, then covering it again. Skinner groaned and lay back on the pillows in a haze of helpless amusement. Finally Mulder turned around, and slowly, very slowly, lowered his boxer shorts to his ankles and kicked them into the corner, revealing his cock in all of its semi-erect glory.

"Oh God..." Skinner muttered weakly.

"Coming to getcha..." Mulder crawled his way back up the bed, and took Skinner in his arms, smothering his body with tiny kisses.

"You shouldn't make me laugh, my ribs ache," Skinner protested, but he looked more relaxed than Mulder could remember in a long time.

"Kiss my ass," was Mulder's response, and he meant it quite literally, turning his back on the other man, and straddling him, going down to Skinner's cock which was now definitely starting to get hard again. With his backside in the air, being treated to some nuzzling licks and kisses courtesy of Skinner, Mulder took the other man's cock in his mouth once more, and sucked greedily, swallowing the hard length.

"Oh god...shit..." Skinner moaned, as he was unable to hold back any more. "Damn. I haven't come that quickly since I was a horny teenager," he muttered.

"I'll take that as a testament to my superb abilities in the sack then," Mulder told him, emerging from between Skinner's legs with a bright grin. "You okay big guy?" he asked, gently tweaking one of his lover's nipples.

"Yes," Skinner told him, smiling widely. "Fine." Their eyes met for a moment and Mulder felt a sense of elation. He'd drive that rat bastard out of Skinner's head if it took him every last part of his skill and every ounce of love in him. He took one of Skinner's hands and placed it on his cock, gently rocking himself into it, kissing his lover at the same time.

"I could..." Skinner gestured that he would suck Mulder but Mulder shook his head.

"Not this time, baby. Another time," he whispered. "I like what you're doing there anyway...ooh, shit, I like that..." He came all over Skinner's chest and then looked down in dismay. "Sorry." He made a face and ran to get a washcloth.

"I didn't mind." Skinner lay back and allowed Mulder to wash him. When he'd finished they lay back together on the pillows, still naked. Mulder held his lover in his arms, nuzzling the side of his face gently.

"That was so good," Skinner murmured. "Just what I always wanted it to be. Fox?" He bit on his lip slightly, then met the other man's eyes. "When Krycek...just before you arrived, he wanted to..."

"I know." Mulder silenced his lover with a kiss.

"Jacko and I never... I never have - nobody ever has to me..." Skinner began, uncertainly.

"That's okay. We don't have to..." Mulder began but this time it was Skinner's turn to silence him. He looked up and met Mulder's eyes, flushing.

"No. I know that. But the truth is that when he started...when he was pawing me, telling me what he planned on doing - I knew that I wanted it to be you. I want to feel you inside me." He held Mulder's gaze steadily. "Would you do that? For me?"

"Would I do that? You say it as if I wouldn't want to. I'd love to, Walter. I want to be as close to you as possible. I want to feel myself inside you, to feel our bodies become one...but you're still recovering. Another time..."

"No." Skinner pulled Mulder close to him, his hands running feverishly up and down the other man's arms. "That's just it. I'm sick of other times, of delaying everything all my life. I'm sick of it being too late. It was too late for Jacko, for Sharon. I don't want it to be too late for you and me. Please, Fox." He kissed Mulder's jaw, tenderly and Mulder melted against him, surrendering to the sweet embrace. Walter sounded so adamant, so ready for this. Mulder felt a little light-headed himself.

"All right. But we're doing this slowly."

They would need lube, and some protection, hell, he hadn't been prepared for this yet, did he have anything in his dopp kit? He looked dubiously towards the bathroom and felt Walter's knowing gaze following his thought processes.

"I don't suppose you have...?" He was confronted with a faintly blushing grin.

"Condoms I have. In the nightstand." A canted eyebrow warned him not to question that good fortune. "I know you need something for lubrication - there's Crisco in the kitchen, or I believe I have some massage oil in there..." He nodded towards the bathroom. "And don't even think about asking..." Deadpan expression. Mulder cranked his gaping jaw shut and climbed off the bed to investigate, muttering "Crisco... Crisco!"

He laid Skinner on his front, his butt raised on pillows, trailed a line of kisses down that broad back, and over the taut round buttocks, before pressing one almond-oil-lubed finger gently inside. Skinner moaned and thrust against the finger.

"Harder..." he whispered.

"Slower," Mulder insisted, tapping his lover's ribs. "I wouldn't want to break you."

"As if," Skinner mumbled into the pillow, gasping as Mulder slipped another finger inside him and then a third, moving back onto those fingers, opening himself up to their probing and shivering with delight as Mulder found his prostate and rubbed it gently. After several long minutes, Mulder found his own cock was ready for action again.

"Are you ready?" he asked, one hand still moving steadily inside his lover, the other resting on Skinner's buttocks, cupping them lightly, squeezing and kneading.

"Oh yeah..." Skinner lay stretched out, legs akimbo, his long, bulky body totally relaxed, his skin glistening with sweat and glowing a healthy honey colour against the white sheets.

"Okay, but let me know if you don't like this." Mulder positioned himself over Skinner's opening, snubbing the tip of his sheathed cock into the other man.

"All right...?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes..." Skinner tried to thrust back onto him and Mulder's hard length slipped deep inside, gliding into his lover's body with slick, easy thrusts. "Shit...please...it's wonderful..." Skinner panted, his buttocks moving up in time to meet Mulder's slow thrusting. "More..."

Mulder speeded up, his cock totally enveloped by Skinner's warm flesh, unbearably aroused to the extent where he was soon unable to hold himself back and he came deep within his lover's body.

"Amazing..." Mulder lay down on Skinner's back, still immersed inside his lover, and kissed Skinner's shoulder blades. "I love you," he whispered in the other man's ear.

"I love you too," Skinner whispered back.

They lay like that for a long time, and then Mulder eased himself off the other man, and rolled over beside him on the bed.

"Okay?" He asked.

Skinner smiled. "Oh yeah. More than okay."

At that point, Mulder remembered something he had collected that morning and left in his jacket pocket. Stopping only to deposit a brief kiss to Skinner's head, he ran to get it, wondering what Skinner's elderly next door neighbour would say if she saw him running around naked in his boss's house.

"I brought you something," he said, returning to the bedroom and climbing into the bed next to his lover, taking him in his arms, and handing him the small box. Skinner opened it, and drew out his glasses.

"But I...weren't these...?"

"Yeah. I had them mended. You didn't think I'd give them back to you broken did you?" Mulder asked, surprised.

Skinner was silent for a long moment. Finally Mulder glanced down, and was stunned to see that the other man had tears in his eyes as he fingered the glasses.

"I know it's stupid." Skinner brushed the tears away. "Small acts of kindness sometimes mean more than all the words in the world." Mulder hugged him close and kissed the other man's bald head over and over again.

"I know," he whispered. "And I remember every last one of yours. Every one that said you loved me, even before I knew how I felt about you. Every last time you stood up for me, rescued me, helped me. Your actions have always spoken volumes to me, Walter. I want you to know that."

They lay there in silence for a long time, dozing, just taking pleasure in being so close. Finally Skinner turned to his lover and said softly.

"I'm ready to face the past now, Fox. Will you come with me?"
Mulder took Skinner's face between his hands.

"Walter, of course I will. I don't ever want us to be apart again."

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

It was definitely winter now, the temperature in the shadow of the polished granite wall had an arctic bite to it and their breath froze in the air around them.

Mulder hung back a little and let his two companions walk forward together. He was still surprised that Walter had asked him to come with them, but his lover had been quietly insistent:

"I want you there Fox."

Hog looked back over his shoulder at the younger man and slowed to let him catch up.

"He's okay, son. Hell, he's more than okay, considering... "

They both looked at Skinner's broad back ahead of them on the path. He was walking with that lithe stride that made Mulder's pulse speed and he had the old indefinable air of command back. He looked fit, clear-eyed, vigorous. Back at work, impressing the bosses with his renewed energy, it finally seemed as if the shadow of the past weeks had been lifted. Mulder still felt the need to reassure himself about Walter's health and well being but even he could see the difference now.

They were not the only ones visiting the Vietnam memorial on this bright frosty November morning, but just at the moment there was no-one else in sight so Mulder walked ahead to Skinner's side and put a hand on the bigger man's arm. Walter reached his own hand over to rest on his lover's and looked into Mulder's face.

His broad face was calm and his expressive eyes smiled at Mulder behind the wirerims. Without words he gave reassurance and Mulder let his own hand fall away, satisfied. He chastised himself for wanting to pull his lover into his arms and kiss him breathless, even here. There's a time and a place, he scolded his libido, and this is not it. But looking at that imposing long-legged figure, remembering how he had woken to the caress of those big gentle hands this morning...

The last week had been extraordinary. Walter and he had talked more than they had in all the years they'd known each other. Serious stuff, stuff that most guys didn't... well, Walter definitely wasn't "most guys" and hard as it had been for him, he'd talked. Mulder had discovered the unflinching honesty of Walter's self-knowledge. And the power of Walter's belief in him. It took his breath away.

And the love. In every look and word. In nights spent just holding each other as Walter learned to accept his touches, in their first tentative lovemaking, in mornings standing shoulder to shoulder as they shaved, in shared meals and movies and daily routines. Loving this man was the purest pleasure Mulder had ever known, but being loved by him was... beyond... the most... Mulder gave up trying to find the words and swallowed hard, squinting into the low sun to see where his lover had got to.

Up ahead Skinner had slowed and was scanning the names etched into the smooth black surface. Finding the place he sought, he stopped and turned to face the wall, his hand resting on the carved letters. For a moment he stood, head bowed, his fingers moving over the names, then he straightened and turned to the other two men.

"I'd like you to meet some old friends of mine."

His deep voice soft with memory he read the roll call of his fallen comrades. A Texas farmboy, the son of a Minnesota Lutheran pastor, a brilliant mathematician who had passed up a place at Johns Hopkins to join the Corps... All these men came to life again as Skinner spoke of them, and Dorsey and Mulder stood close and paid their respects.

After a few minutes they walked on, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Hog was in front, and as he reached an angle in the massive slabs of polished stone, he swung back to Skinner. He indicated a spot at shoulder height.

"Here, Walt. Here's Jacko."

Mulder thought it was an odd way to phrase it - it was just a name here, no grave, no remains - but then he realised that it served for these two men, as they remembered. They stood side by side as he stayed back and watched them. Hog was a little stooped over his cane and not so tall now as the straight-backed Skinner. He stood turned slightly towards the younger man, as if offering silent support. After a moment Hog's hand came up to rest on Skinner's shoulder. Such gestures were not jarring here, where affection and loyalty and shared loss were declared in every graven name.

Hog had been here before, maybe more than once. He had made his farewells to Jacko. Now it was for Walter to lay his ghosts to rest. Hog stepped away from him after a while and took Mulder by the elbow, leading him further along the wall, giving Walter his privacy.

Looking back, Mulder could see Walter's lips moving, saw him do that head swing that usually meant he was struggling with some fierce emotion. He wanted to go to him, stand close. He started to move, but Hog's heavy hand gripped his arm and held him back.

"Let him have a minute, son. You've got all the rest of his life."

Mulder felt the flush rise over his face, and could only nod. Hog patted his arm. They moved to a bench nearby and sat in the sun. He kept a watch on Walter and when eventually the other man squared his shoulders and beckoned him over, he was suddenly shy and needed Hog's push to get him moving.

Walter's dark eyes scanned his face and Mulder flushed again, at the sight of such clear affection in his lover's gaze. Skinner turned them both back to the wall, to the letters that spelled out "John M. Jackson." No introduction necessary this time. His voice was husky when he finally spoke:

"Why one person lives and another dies is not for us to know. I have to believe that I survived for a purpose, that I'm still needed."

They weren't touching, but Mulder could feel the connection between them. He wanted to say something momentous, something to convey what he was feeling, but for once words failed him. He grabbed for Skinner's hand and felt the strength in that warm clasp.

When Skinner finally moved away, Mulder stayed, laying his palm over Jacko's name, seeing in his mind's eye that sandy-haired boy who had loved Walter too. The past is another country. The words came unbidden into his head. He'd had a glimpse of that other time and place and felt he could see those young faces, which had not had the chance to grow older. He looked at Skinner, so inextricably a part of his life now, and for a moment considered the providence that had decided that Walter should survive.

Just for a moment he allowed himself to think of how his own life might have been changed if Walter had died. During Operation Crossbow, in that clearing a few months later, in a remote weather station in a different jungle, or in a dusty warehouse here in the nation's capital. He knew that the tangled lines of fate had consequences beyond calculation, but he also knew that however it had come about, he was profoundly glad that he and Walter had found each other.

He looked up at the clear wintry sky, at the birds circling in the vast pale blue, then at the scene around him. Quiet figures walking along the neat paths, a child laughing, the bare trees and the hard earth and the sense of time stretching out behind and ahead of him. So many lives intersecting and touching... He looked at the man whose life was now so precious to him, so essential. As he gazed, Skinner looked back at him and smiled and Mulder felt all the good things in his life like a blanket warming him, feeding him energy and hope and love.

He looked one last time at the name where his hand rested.

"It's going to be all right, Jacko. Yeah, I really think it is." And he turned from the wall and jogged to catch the others up, his shoulder jostling against Skinner's as they fell into stride.

THE END

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