AUTHOR'S NOTE (and it won't hurt my feelings if you don't read it): This is the last part of the Denny's Cycle, all of which were written in a bit over two weeks. Exploded out of me, you might say. If your next remark was "Yep, and it shows in the prose! What a turkey!" I don't want to know about it. I want to thank everybody who wrote to me to tell me how great I am and how much they liked the stories. It really bolstered my confidence and was certainly more appreciated than the sorts of things people say to me in my daily life.
 

Walter Skinner sat forward in his chair and stretched, wearily. It had been a long day, so far, which showed no signs of ending or otherwise easing up on him in any way. He wasn't displeased, exactly, but he was definitely not the epitome of good cheer. The chair in which he sat was not strictly his, first of all. Something terrible had happened to his chair overnight, the result of some altercation on the part of the cleaning staff which no-one was willing to reveal to him no matter who was the victim of his glare. He would have to wait for a replacement, he learned, and until then he had a loaner from the clerical staff. It was hard, and low, and it had no arm rests. He knew he was being petty. If the worst thing that could befall him was the arrival of a lackluster chair, he was doing very well indeed.

But that had happened before his temp had made a pass at him. He had been innocently looking over some budget projections for the VCU when she had entered his office and shut the door with a portentous thud. He had had time to do no more than give her an inquiring look when she had crossed the room to him and dropped herself into his lap.

Too startled to do much more than open his mouth, he did only that. She apparently took it as a signal, and fastened her mouth to his as if she meant to extract his fillings. He had detached her from himself with a wet smack. And he'd had to propel her, for the love of Christ.

This alone was not enough to turn his day into a fiasco, of course.

That had been achieved with the help of any number of incidents. Agent Pendrell was rumored to be suffering from the clap, and Skinner had already heard seven names as the possible culprit. Nobody mentioned Scully, to his relief. He could only imagine trying to explain that to Mulder.

That was another thing. Mulder.

Walter spent more time with neighborhood cats than he spent with that man, taking endless late-night walks to combat this restlessness that had settled into him since he and the agent had become involved. If forced at gunpoint to tell someone where Mulder was, the best he could do right at that moment was to say he figured the man was somewhere in the United States. And that was a guess.

Mulder had taken Scully to Louisiana four days before to investigate a number of strange deaths among the Cajun community. Walter had not heard from him since. God alone knew where they had gotten off to. Only TWA even knew if they had actually gone to Louisiana. Give a man like Mulder a credit card and a week away from the office and there was no telling what might happen.

So he stood, finally, not content to stretch only his back. He reached up high, heard something crack and didn't want to know what it was. He let out a soft sigh. What with his smoking friend, the bad chicken in the cafeteria, being trapped on the elevator for half an hour with an escaped mental patient who had apparently eaten garlic for breakfast, exploding pens, paper cuts, misdirected phone calls from religious canvassers... there wasn't a hell of a lot else that could happen to him now. And not much that might surprise him if it did.

He thought for a moment. He could be downsized. The J. Edgar Hoover building could collapse into an undetected sinkhole beneath the foundation. Bill Gates could buy the government. Hm... at least then they might finally get some new computer equipment in the offices... He smiled faintly. Since he and Mulder had taken this new step in their "acquaintance," he had been with him on a social basis only twice. Even so, Walter was starting to think like him.

The next thing he knew he'd be imagining Michael Jackson running for president. He was just working out the visuals on that one when his door swung open again.

"Forgive the intrusion, sir, but Kim wasn't at her desk."

Walter turned around in time to watch Scully and Mulder shamble into his office. Both agents' clothing was liberally coated in grime, blood, and something... else. Both looked completely exhausted. The only thing that distinguished them was that Scully had a cast on her arm. Mulder's was on his leg. Walter felt as though he had been plunged into some kind of surreal universe. He stood there, staring at them both, and they carried themselves for all the world as if they frequently came to him in this state. As if it was second nature to them. Scully was completely composed, as usual. Mulder was unusually quiet.

Walter decided to play along. It might, after all, be nothing more than a hideous hallucination. "Would you mind very much telling me where the hell you two have been all week?"

"Sir, we were in Louisiana. New Orleans."

"The Big Easy," Mulder added.

"Doing what? Celebrating Mardi Gras?"

"Mulder discovered a link between the disappearances. Following a lead led us into the bayou after a man called Carl Delacroix, who had been conducting experiments on the victims under the guise of gris gris."

"The man makes a hell of a gumbo, sir."

The words came out of him in the same unearthly rasp as his last. Up till now Walter had attributed it to a bit of a cold, but it didn't sound quite right. "What's wrong with your voice, Agent Mulder?"

He jabbed Scully with an elbow. "It's residual damage to his larynx, sir. When Mulder was discovered attempting to free one of Delacroix's captives, Mister Delacroix tried to strangle him."

"Of course he did." He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Where were you during this little drama, Agent Scully?"

"Stealing a boat, sir."

"Naturally." He could have guessed that one himself, given time. Tell me, is the elusive Mister Delacroix also responsible for your broken leg, Mulder?"

"That was more of a joint effort, sir."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"Can I get something to drink first, sir?"

"I'll find you something, Mulder," Scully said, getting to her feet.

"Diet Coke?"

"Thanks."

"Not so fast, Agent Scully." She froze, halfway to the door. "I know where the vending machines are. You have five minutes, no more, no less." Her back was to him, but he could see Mulder's face clearly. He had some idea of the look she had given her partner.

"How have you been?" Mulder's baiting expression was gone.

He glared at his lover. "Kim is out with stomach flu."

"Didn't you get a temp?"

"I certainly did. Everything was going splendidly until she slipped me the tongue at eleven o'clock this morning."

"Raw animal magnetism," Mulder rasped. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Well, that excuses it. I don't know what I was thinking, asking her to leave."

"You're just selfish, is all."

He raised a brow. "Are you suggesting I dole out my affections to everyone who asks?"

"Everyone? What kind of figure am I looking at, here?"

"You wouldn't share me," he said, confidently.

"Well, I wouldn't have agreed before, but if we're talking about a lot of people--"

"Mulder."

"Seriously. I mean, if I'm going to be seeing things like lovestruck necrotizing fasciitis patients on the national telethons whose dying wish is one night with my one and only..."

"Mulder."

"Come on. Wouldn't you like to know you spread a little happiness in the world?"

Walter crossed the room to him and tipped his head back. Two sets of bruises marked his neck, culminating in one large, angry patch over his throat. He frowned, briefly, then gave his lover a nasty smile. "Strangled, hey?"

"Yep."

"Are you running around on me?"

Mulder snorted. "Go ahead, Walter. Flay me with my unsavory past. Use things I told you in confidence against me. Kick me when I'm down." He gave the AD a considering look. "Are you trying to get in touch with your feminine side?"

"Keep it up, Mulder. I may succeed where Delacroix failed."

The agent grinned at him, then leaned back in his chair with an agonized groan. "Man, I'm flogged," he said.

He looked it. Walter scowled. "Whose blood is that?"

Mulder looked down. "Delacroix's, mostly. I think."

"Not yours?"

"No, no, that's the blood on my leg."

"I thought your leg was only broken."

"Only broken, hey?" He pulled back what was left of his slacks to reveal a huge white bandage on his thigh. "I think the idea is, if they can't kill me, they can at least make sure I never walk again."

"Mulder..."

"Can't go chasing off into the forest in a wheelchair, can I?"

"I don't know," Walter said, absently. "The motorized ones have those big tires."

"You sure aren't going to be my sympathetic ear, are you?"

"What the hell were you thinking?" He almost shouted it. "You dump Scully to go on getaway vehicle detail while you tackle some dismembering psychopath by yourself! What did you have with you, Mulder? Your fucking flashlight?"

"It's a Mag Lite, sir. They're made with titanium."

"This isn't Batman, Mulder! You don't have any armor, and these people can't be cured or killed by the end of the issue! We don't send you out in pairs so you can make sure to spread the carnage out over the largest possible area! Jesus Christ! Did you think about it at all? Did you know there wasn't a second man in the bayou waiting for Scully? Did you know there wasn't someone else waiting for you?"

"You haven't even read my report yet. How do you know I didn't follow bureau procedure to the letter?"

"Sell that bridge to somebody else, Mulder. I've bought enough of your bullshit to last me a lifetime."

"I'm all right, Walter. That's what you want to know, isn't it?"

Walter turned his back to the agent, crossed to his window to look outside. Washington has the highest murder rate in the country. It isn't good enough for this man that he could killed at home easily enough. He has to try to get himself killed as violently as possible, by someone who can make sure the body is never found. At this rate, that person may be me. He sighed. "I didn't know where you were."

"Neither did I, for a while," he smirked. "I can take care of myself."

"I know that." He rubbed his neck, roughly. He was feeling the beginnings of what he knew would become a colossal headache. "If I hadn't already had the most horrendous day I've seen in years--"

"I'd be dead already."

"So perceptive."

"You ever done it with a guy in a cast?"

Walter spun around, a suitable retort at the ready, at the exact moment Scully returned with Mulder's drink. "Diet Coke," she said.

"Thank-you, Scully. You're a good woman."

He shot Walter a look, what he was beginning to see as a Mulder Look, flirtatious, mocking, challenging.

"If that's settled," Walter said, "Let's hear your report."
 
 

Every time he visited Mulder's apartment, he was struck again by how perfect it was for the man. Aging, ill-lit, and smelling faintly of mildew and not-quite-Pine-Sol, it was exactly the kind of building in which one might conduct shady dealings. And clandestine meetings. The kind in which octogenarians froze to death by accident and alcoholics fell asleep with cigarettes in their mouths, causing tragic gas explosions. The only place that might be more suited to Mulder's basic propensity for perversity would be a trailer park.

He rapped lightly on Mulder's door, a courtesy, really. He would hear it if he was awake. If he was not, Walter didn't want to rouse him. He felt an unreasoning pity for Mulder just then, and anyway, experience had shown him the agent had a less than effervescent demeanor when awakened against his will. He gave Mulder enough time to hobble to the door. This did not occur. Finally, he dug out his lock picks and got to work. This he had done before, albeit under slightly different circumstances.

He found Mulder laying on his side, stretched into what had to be an uncomfortable position, his gun trained on Walter's head as soon as he entered the room.

He relaxed immediately. "Thank Christ," he said. "I've seen Girl Scouts who could take me in this condition."

Walter picked up the prescription bottle that sat on the coffee table. "Scully set you up with the good stuff, eh?"

"Any opportunity to make a fool of me."

"I doubt it. You do a fine job of that yourself."

"Did you mug any bag ladies on your way in, Walter?"

"Slim pickings tonight." He took the gun from Mulder. "You should have said something when I knocked."

"What if you'd really been a dismembering psychopath?" He winced, trying to pull himself into a sitting position. "Jesus Christ. You'd think I broke my damn back."

Walter lifted him by the shoulders, as gently as he could. "It wouldn't kill you to accept some help now and again," he said. He sat down next to the agent, and let his head fall back against the wall.

"Oh, just let yourself in. I'm weak and helpless."

"And it hasn't improved your attitude." He tugged off his glasses and began the arduous process of working away his headache. He rarely did this in front of witnesses. People who saw him roughly massaging around his eye sockets quietly avoided him for weeks afterward.

"Coffee," said Mulder.

"What?"

"For headaches. I know it sounds wrong, but it works. Coffee, chocolate..."

"Tylenol..."

"Sex..." He smiled invitingly.

Walter swallowed. "Are you still trying to foist me upon some unsuspecting leper, or are you just feeling masochistic?"

Mulder heaved a gusty sigh. "You know," he said, "You never give much thought to the importance of having two healthy legs until you're in a homosexual relationship with a man whose very smile could inspire you to the slaughter of innocents."

The AD raised a brow. "As your grandpappy used to say?"

"No, with him it was always Jesus this and Jesus that. He was pretty big on the New Testament."

"Who isn't?" Mulder shifted slightly and cupped Walter's head in his hands. "What are you doing?"

"Phrenology," he said with a grin. "You still have some unresolved mother issues--" Walter tried to pull back. "Hold still. Come on, I was only kidding."

He placed his hands so the heels were at Walter's temples and the thumbs rested along his forehead. Gently, he stroked his thumbs back and forth, with just the right amount of force. It felt good, but not in the way he'd expected. There was nothing sexual in Mulder's touch, nothing leading. This was meant to be more therapeutic than flirtatious. He worked his way down to Walter's cheekbones and worked the area purposefully, an expression of deep intent transforming his features.

"Anything to cop a feel, eh, Mulder?"

His hands stopped. "When was the last time somebody made your head the focus of a good feel?"

"With the possible exception of my grandmother--"

"Don't go there, Walter. Please." He released the AD slowly. "Better?"

"Yes. Thank-you." He kissed his lover softly. "It's only right that you should be responsible for banishing my headaches, since you're the one who creates them, most of the time."

"Do I blame you for authorizing the trip that sent me into the loving arms of Carl Delacroix?"

"You hadn't actually said so, no."

"All right."

He paused. "I thought you'd be at my place."

"You have the better TV," he conceded. "But I would have missed the ambiance." He squirmed around painfully till he was sprawled along the entire length of the sofa, his abused leg hanging off the side, his head resting against Walter's thigh. "I know you like playing free and easy with the lock picks, Walter, but your building has slightly better security than mine."

"You want a key?"

He smirked. "I'd prefer to break in, actually. Lends the affair a little intrigue."

"Christ knows it's deadly dull as it is."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"Always the soul of discretion." Mulder's eyes were closed, his smile almost beatific. Apparently he was content for the moment simply to be still, and quiet, and to refrain from harassing Walter about the latest hell-fiend he'd heard about or the significance of bananas in some movie he'd seen. It was disconcerting, actually. Must be the painkillers.

"Walter?"

"What?"

"Have you given any more thought to that cast thing?"

He blinked. "That's what you were thinking about just now?"

"Sure. Why? What were you thinking about?"

"How odd it was that you were quiet. Now I'm sorry it crossed my mind."

"How complicated can it be?"

"I'd prefer not to discuss it."

"The only way I can think of, I might cave in your skull in an unguarded moment."

"What did I just say?"

The agent sighed. "Why don't we talk about dinner, then?"

"We'll order in."

"That's no good."

"Why not?"

"Because, if you coddle me today, you have to coddle me every day until the cast comes off."

"Right. How many times have you broken that leg, Mulder?"

"This is the third."

"Yet you managed to survive both breaks previous to this without any help."

He got up. Paced. Mulder was a devious man, and his head had been far too close to Walter's unfortunately susceptible flesh. And he was fine, great, within inches of escape, when he made the mistake of turning around. Mulder lay where he'd fallen, his head propped up by a hand now, a lazy, taunting smile on his face. Even with the cast and the bandage on his leg, he resembled nothing so much as a pin-up boy for the local fireman's calendar. His biceps bulged just so, his hips had just the right twist to them, and his eyes... Mulder's eyes, always potent, were saying things their master would never say. But then, he didn't have to.

"You're a miserable bastard, Mulder." The agent swung his legs over the side of the sofa. "Forget it," Walter said. "We're staying here."

"Come on. I'm stir crazy already." He grabbed his crutches and got to his feet in a movement that should have been more graceful than it was.

"Are you coming?"

"No."

"That's going to make driving a bitch. I'm kind of woozy."

"Then walk."

Mulder struggled into his jacket, staggering a bit. "I think walking is out, too." He headed for the door anyway.

"Goddamn it," Walter muttered, and followed.
 
 

"As long as we're looking for added excitement in this relationship, why don't we start thinking about a decent restaurant?"

"The cuisine starting to get to you, Walter?"

"A man of my advancing years has to start thinking about his heart," he said with grave dignity.

"One foot in the grave," Mulder said.

"Right."

"What are you, forty-five?"

"Forty-seven."

"Hm. I can see why you want to live your life to the fullest. While you still can, so to speak."

"Mock me if you have to. I would just rather not make a habit of eating things that leave a pool of congealing fat on the plate."

"So try one of the Heart Smart entrees."

He snorted. "A place like this has no business calling anything an entree. Any more than it has offering a house wine."

"You're a food snob."

"No I'm not. I'm a sensible man who feels that if I have to look certain death in the face, it should be something I couldn't have avoided. Cancer. Murder."

"Wayne Newton, live in concert."

"Just eat your..." he glanced at Mulder's plate. "... whatever the hell that is, and be quiet." He poked at his salad. "I might like to have a decent meal again at some point."

"You could do that. I hardly ever see you outside of work."

"That is exactly my point. This place is a blight on an evening with you."

"It's not that bad."

"It sure as hell isn't good. Look at this." He raised his fork, displaying a small, potentially lethal object that had been found among the lettuce leaves. "What is this?"

Mulder squinted at it. "I... don't know."

"Yeah, well, I'd bet the cook knows what it is. And I'd bet what he tells you it is is not what you thought it was."

The agent leaned back in his seat. "What we need," he said, "is a Mulder/Skinner dictionary."

"What?"

"What you're saying is that Denny's Family Restaurants are, collectively, a festering cesspool from which no good will ever come."

"Right."

"Right. But what you mean is that since we never see each other and we have to skulk around like rats when we do, the least the fates can do is provide you with a good steak and some glazed carrots."

"And those round potatoes," he murmured.

"Yeah, I like those, too." He looked thoughtful. "Washington is a big city. We shouldn't have to skip town to find a place that isn't being watched."

"What? No sentimentality?"

He smirked. "They never close," he said, ominously. "We can always come back."

"Thank-you. That thought should make my remaining days on earth all the sweeter."

"You have to work on your cynicism, Walter."

"That's a pot/kettle situation if I've ever seen one."

"I'll be right back." He stood shakily and lurched toward the bathrooms, looking for all the world like his broken leg had something to do with his ongoing battle with alcoholism.

Walter eyed the agent's plate. He had some fries left. Only a few of them were noticeably discolored. He stole one and bit into it cautiously, certain he would encounter a fingernail or an eyeball or some toxic waste.

He didn't feel faint. His vision wasn't blurred. He could still feel his feet. Gradually the AD began to consider the possibility that he was more biased against Denny's than was absolutely warranted. Not that he would ever approach a meal there without some trepidation, but it needn't be a night in Auschwitz unless he made it so with a foolhardy menu selection.

By the time nothing was left of Mulder's fries but the green ones and the ketchup-soaked ones, Walter had begun to wonder where his lover had gotten to. There was an emergency exit near the washrooms, for example. The kitchen was close by, as well. Maybe he had taken Walter's suggestion that they question the cook about the contents of the AD's salad to heart and infiltrated the place. Under any other circumstances he would wait for Mulder to return. But the man was not exactly agile at the moment. He might have slipped on some soap and fallen face down in a urinal.

Walter rose and headed for the men's room, his stride purposeful. The place was deserted.

"Mulder?"

"I can't believe it took you this long to come and check on me. What if I'd collapsed?" The widest stall door swung open and he poked his head out. "Come here and have a look at this."

"I don't think so."

"Come on." He grabbed Walter's arm and pulled. "What do you think?"

Mulder stood in the handicapped-access stall, which was easily at least three times the size of the others. Equipped with long bars positioned for the use of every possible needy person, it was immediately apparent why the stall had captured Mulder's attention.

"You are a sick, sick man, Mulder." The agent reached behind Walter and pulled the door closed, locking it.

"Absolutely not."

"It's perfect. You know it is."

"What do you want to do for the next six weeks, Mulder? Screw me in every handicapped bathroom in the greater DC area?"

The agent flattened himself against the wall and pulled Walter in.

Against everything he was, against inhibition, against reason, Walter let him. Let him pull his hips flush with Mulder's, let him suck his earlobe so persuasively... oh Christ this is twisted. Mulder had Walter's pants open and his hands inside, stroking his cock expertly, all traces of wooziness gone.

"What's the strangest place you ever did it, Walter?"

He thought, as best he could, under the circumstances. "It was the first time I ever had sex with a man," he said, his hands roaming Mulder's chest. He brought his lips close enough that he could feel the heat of the agent's own, but he didn't finish the kiss. "I was still a field agent, then. My partner and I were taken captive and locked in a box car headed for Toronto." He did kiss Mulder then, a long, wet, sensual kiss, sucking the agent's tongue and plundering his mouth with his own. Mulder moaned.

"We should trade places. I don't want to strain your leg."

"The hell with my leg." Walter's pants fell to his knees, and Mulder kneaded his ass.

"What about you?" the AD said, sliding down to kneel before him.

"What?"

Walter tugged at the waistband of Mulder's boxers. The agent sighed happily at the feel of the silk sliding down his body. "Your strangest sexual encounter."

"When I was still a profiler, I met this woman, she was-- ohh, God..." he moaned. Walter sucked and the agent's cock slid deeper into his mouth. Mulder began to thrust back and forth, his eyes tightly shut, head thrown back. Walter fondled his balls before pulling away.

"You want me to stop?"

"No... please..."

"Don't beg. It's demeaning. Just keep talking. Quietly."

"They didn't show us this one in Debate Club."

"I was president of mine."

"I believe you."

He hovered over Mulder's cock. "You were a profiler, she was..."

"Psychic. Not one of those two-bit palm readers, either. She could read thoughts, from five hundred miles-- Christ! Oh..."

Walter raked his teeth alone Mulder's length, nipping gently at the head. "Keep talking."

He took a breath. "Away. Five hundred... miles... Walter..."

"Mulder..."

"Give me a break! Oh..."

"Your choice, Mulder."

"She knew what I liked," he gasped. "I never had... to tell her. She knew just how to do it... too... God..." Walter released him again. "I was talking."

"I know. But I didn't ask you who the strangest person was."

"That's lucky. I'd probably have picked you."

"Watch it."

"Don't stop. I'll talk." The AD sucked at Mulder's head, mercilessly. "Oh... it was at a psychic... fair... in the Village... Walter..."

"Go on."

"Shit... she had a long... table... for her exhibition... the tablecloth was long enough to touch... the floor..."

Walter let him go again and stood. "You had sex under a table in the middle of a psychic fair?"

His eyes were glassy. "Yeah."

Walter smirked. "Why didn't you just say so?" He kissed Mulder hotly. "What are we going to do if an honest-to-God handicapped man comes in?"

"If you stop now, I'm going to kill myself."

"I may not have a choice. I don't wander around the city with tubes of lubricant on my person."

Mulder grinned. "I guess that makes me the strangest person you've ever had sex with." He fumbled around inside his jacket until he found it.

"You planned this, didn't you?"

"Fantasized, hoped, but never planned. Here." He handed the tube to Walter.

"You wouldn't rather..."

"I don't know if I could. Don't you want to?"

"Oh, I want to."

Mulder gripped the access bar and parted his legs. Walter squeezed some lubricant into his hands and slid two fingers into Mulder's ass. The agent pushed against his hand, moaning.

"Shh..." he began thrusting his fingers in and out, slowly, savoring every twitch, every shiver. His own erection was becoming painful, but he only noticed it in an oblique way. Fox Mulder in a flush of passion was quite something to behold.

"Walter... I'm not begging, exactly..."

Walter settled himself behind his lover and began what had to be the most agonizing, maddening, intensely pleasurable penetration of his life. He knew that as far as the fundamentals went, this was not different from either of their previous encounters. Yet whether it was the location, the position, or the anticipation, this was not the same at all.

He quickly built up a rhythm his balls slapping lightly against Mulder's, his hand stroking Mulder's cock in time with his thrusts. The agent let out a throaty cry when Walter bit his neck, but they were beyond caring if anyone heard them. All there was was sensation, and a certain sense of desperation. Mulder's bracing arm was trembling, almost but not quite overtaxed.

"Faster," he urged.

"I'm no psychic."

Walter was fucking him mindlessly now, caught up in the feel of Mulder's back, and his ass, in his cries and his muscles tightening around the AD's cock as he came hard, nearly heaving himself backward to intensify their contact. Mulder threw his head back.

"Jesus Christ!" He staggered badly, and Walter slipped out of him, shooting along the wall and Mulder's torso.

"What the hell was that about?" he panted.

Mulder yanked his pants up and careened out of the stall, gun drawn. "God damn it!"

Walter arranged himself and stepped out of the stall. "What's going on?"

"I saw somebody. When I fell back. Looking down over the top of the stall."

The AD felt himself whiten. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing he could think of to say had more than one syllable or a Prime Time application.

Mulder raked through his hair. "I haven't told you the good part yet."

"What?"

"I'm not sure, I wasn't paying attention..." he gave Walter a sickly smile.

"What?"

"I think he had a camera."