Assistant Director Walter Skinner strolled into his office feeling upbeat, optimistic, and generally pleased with life. It was a rare thing indeed for him to have to work to keep a grin off his face, and rarer still to remind himself to refrain from breaking into song. Everything looked fantastic to him today. The dreary carpet looked plush and inviting. The office coffee tasted like some kind of mythic elixir. The fine lines around his mouth didn't look quite so grim.

"Good morning, Kim," he said to his assistant.

She beamed at him. " Good morning, sir." She looked relieved, actually, and Walter decided he had been too volcanic of temperament lately. He knew himself to be ill-tempered on a good day, and in his lucid moments he recognized that people had been avoiding him in the last few weeks. He would have to watch himself more carefully. He didn't want to deal with an in-box full of requests for transfer, and he was feeling so euphoric that it was conceivable he might start tossing around salary increases willy-nilly. Life was good.

He slipped out of his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair, taking the time for one last stretch before he sat down at his desk. He booted up his computer, waiting with a faint smile for his startup sound, currently a clip from the theme song of Thunderbirds. Instead of that worthy composition, he was met with the sound of something far more personal to him.

"Yes! Walter, oh God, oh Christ, yes!" He jerked in his seat, his gaze flashing toward the door. Whoever had done this had adjusted his system to match Mulder's own impressive volume. No-one burst through the door. It didn't sound as if Kim was laughing outside. Walter looked back at his screen. A well-timed screen capture of himself and Mulder coupling in the Denny's handicapped access stall adorned his desktop. The shot was close to perfect, he had to admit, accentuating Mulder's smile, Walter's mouth fastened to his neck, and the AD's hands, one on Mulder's cock, the other gripping his side, his arm looped tightly around the agent's waist.

Walter no longer had to fight a smile. He picked up his phone.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully, has Agent Mulder arrived yet?"

"Yes, sir, he's right here. Would you like to speak with him?"

"No. Just tell him I want him in my office right away."

Silence. "Yes, sir."

Walter thought about erasing the sound file, trashing the picture, but it wouldn't be as significant to Mulder to have it described. And anyway, a shred of his mood remained, and if you let go of the situation for just a moment, that was a damn good screen capture.

Mulder's view of " right away" and Walter's clearly differed somehow.

The agent did not appear until a good twenty minutes after Walter had made the request. He looked relaxed, which was unusual enough. He cradled a box of donuts in the crook of his left arm.

"Hi."

"What have you got this time?"

"Jelly."

"Powdered sugar or regular?"

"Regular. I wouldn't have brought them if they were powdered. Much as I like the idea, I couldn't send you into a meeting with a donut moustache."

"You are devoted to me, aren't you?"

"Mere words can't describe it."

He smirked. " Another momentous occasion."

Mulder set down the box in front of him. " Don't you want one?"

"I'm still waiting for the fat and assorted chemicals from the last batch to work their way out of my bloodstream."

He shrugged, seating himself across from the AD. "What did you want to see me about, sir?"

Walter turned his monitor at an angle that was convenient for them both. He switched his computer on again.

"Let me guess: you downloaded that new strip poker thing."

"I only got the ending."

"What--"

"Yes! Walter, oh God, oh Christ, yes!"

The agent blinked. "Was-- uh, was anyone with you when you did this the first time?"

"No. But I think everyone on this floor heard it. The son of a bitch even adjusted the volume. Look," he said, pointing at the screen. "You're missing the best part." The screen capture popped up again.

Mulder's expression was a peculiar combination of fascination and revulsion. "Did you come in at all over the weekend?"

"No."

"So he could have done this any time after eight on Friday night."

"I checked. The files were created around five Saturday morning."

"You think it's internal?"

"It's possible."

"Could be the donut guy," he said, frowning in concentration.

"No way."

"Why not? Don't you think it's a little weird that the donuts started coming around the same time you got that video?"

"This isn't a fucking eclair, Mulder," he said, stabbing a finger at the screen. "What if Kim had switched this on before I got here?"

"A man loses something like eighty-five percent of his authority in the office when people find out who he's sleeping with."

"Somehow I think the respect of my subordinates would be the least of my concerns." He glanced up. "Except where you're concerned. You're too insolent by half."

"Only half?"

"Banter all you like. The fact remains that this isn't going away. How long will it be until a JPEG pops up in every mailbox in the network?"

"Look on the bright side, sir. At least it isn't a QuickTime movie."
 
 

Walter stood outside Mulder's apartment door, staring vacantly at the key in his hand. Though the agent had given it to him with great fanfare, Walter had never used it. He had never before had occasion to. He rarely even drove past Mulder's place when the agent was out of town, and he didn't make a habit of dropping by unannounced. Tonight was something of an anomaly. Breaching the apartment felt strange to him, almost wrong. But he had a half-assed idea of waiting for his lover, a sexual ambush, and what had he been given the key for otherwise?

As a gesture of trust, it didn't count for much. People broke into Mulder's apartment with such regularity that the man might as well have set up a concession stand in the hallway. Things between the two of them seemed to hint at something more lasting and more meaningful than dinner and the occasional lay.

For all their light-hearted joking about love, there was something there. And for maybe the first time in his life, the prospect didn't terrify him. He and Mulder had more in common outside of work than he would ever have imagined. And they had trust between them, in spite of their rocky beginnings. Mulder gave his trust as carefully and as rarely as most people gave their love. Having both was something unimaginable and grand.

He let himself into the apartment and was immediately struck by how empty it seemed without Mulder there. Even depressed, even unconscious, he gave off some kind of dynamic energy that announced him everywhere. Given the fact that that energy was almost exclusively channeled into his work and his sex life, Walter felt twice charmed. Mulder was vital, and he had helped the AD recover that same quality in himself.

Walter helped himself to a can of beer and began to snoop. As with his office, Mulder's apartment revealed his personality not so much in the decor, but in the objects that occupied it. Both his book and music collections were almost schizoid in composition, not clearly dominated by any one sensibility, but rather, bombarded by all of them. Marilyn Manson shared shelf space with Rachmaninoff and Bruce Springsteen. Tom Robbins was heaped in the same pile as Dorothy Parker and Stephen Hawking.

Mulder had a hell of a lot of books. The very idea that he could probably recite each one word for word was daunting.

He ventured into the bedroom next, and froze in the doorway. Mounted above Mulder's bed was a massive, poorly rendered portrait of Elvis Presley, oil on velvet. And not just any Elvis, either. This was the Junk Food Elvis. This was the white-jumpsuited, almost-dead-on-the-toilet Elvis, complete with porkchop sideburns and fine beads of sweat. He was in full snarl, this King, gripping his microphone viciously, daring the world to enroll him in Weight Watchers and accounting courses.

Walter didn't have to glance in Mulder's mirror to know he looked horrified. This picture had not been there when the AD had last stopped by. Either Mulder's perverse nature was more perverse than he realized, or this was a sign of his declining mental health. The worst of it was, Walter couldn't decide between the two.

He couldn't possibly wait here. If he locked himself in the bathroom and attempted to drown himself in the bathtub, he would be haunted by Elvis still. Without Mulder there to explain the monstrosity to him, the apartment was unbearable to him. He retreated to the living room and yanked out his cell phone.

"Mulder."

"It's me. Where are you?"

"Somewhere outside of Wisconsin, I think. There's an obscure cult that worships the creators of old board games--"

"Mulder, I don't have time for this."

"You get a pack of Mulder/Skinner playing cards or something?"

"No. I'm in your apartment."

"I got the cards?"

"Mulder, why is there a life-size velvet portrait of Elvis Presley in your bedroom?"

The agent was silent.

"Mulder?"

"Uh... Walter, are you drinking my beer?"

"Yes."

"Did you take one of the red cans, or the blue cans?"

"What's in the blue cans?"

"Nervous?"

"Are you evading my question, Agent Mulder?"

"One of us is hallucinating, Walter, and no matter what people are telling you, it isn't me."

Walter reentered the bedroom. " I'm telling you, Mulder, I'm looking at a huge, godawful picture of Elvis."

"Are you sure you're in the right apartment?"

He sighed heavily. " The empty Ding Dong packages gave it away. Jesus Christ. Why don't you come here, look at this picture, and tell me it isn't there?"

"That's more Scully's area of endeavor than mine. Can I call you back?"

"What?"

"Do you have your cell?"

"Yes. Mulder--" The agent hung up on him.

Walter left the bedroom and settled down on the floor beside Mulder's stereo. Hesitating only slightly, he withdrew something by the Doors and popped it in the CD player. With the beer in his system and Jim Morrison filling the room, he began to feel Monday's euphoria again, Elvis or no Elvis. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

Slowly, a fantasy began to form in his mind. He and Mulder were at Strawberry Fields in Central Park, making love in the grass in the middle of a hellish electrical storm. The rain pelted them viciously, but they were too caught up in each other to notice. His cell phone dragged him out of his musing.

"Skinner."

"Sorry, Walter. False alarm."

"When are you coming home?"

"Your voice sounds funny. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

He paused. " Walter, are you listening to one of my Doors albums?"

"You object?"

"Of course not. Listen, I don't think I'm going to make it back tonight. Not before morning, anyway."

"What are you doing?"

"I'd rather not say."

"I don't care."

He sighed. " I'm staking out Dunkin Donuts."

"What the hell for?"

"I'm going to catch this bastard."

"Before he strikes again? Do you understand how ridiculous you sound?"

"This is out of hand, Walter. When I'm not dreading my next cruller delivery, I'm waiting to find out the VC boys received t-shirts with pictures of us fucking on them."

"Is this a secure line?"

"I know you think I'm wrong about the connection, but I have to find out."

"Suddenly this has eerie echoes of hundreds of conversations we've had before."

"I should go."

"All right. Another time."

"I'm sorry."

"Not yet. But you will be."
 
 

He found Mulder slouched in the driver's seat of his car, staring balefully at the donut shop across the street. A Thermos lay in the passenger's seat, nestled in comfortably among several Twinkies wrappers and a box of Pop Tarts. If Mulder didn't run so often...

Walter tapped on the window, startling him. The agent let him in, saying nothing as the AD cleared out his seat and settled in. He handed Mulder his own Thermos. " More coffee?"

"Thanks. What are you doing here?"

"I'm going to keep you company."

"Ah."

"Ah what?"

"I know you. That's WalterSpeak for I'm keeping an eye on you so you don't wind up in the drunk tank."

He smirked. " Or bleeding to death in a ditch somewhere."

"Whatever." Mulder opened the Thermos and sniffed appreciatively. "Starbucks."

"I know a guy who knows a guy."

"So I've heard."

"I don't remember the last time I did a stakeout."

"A lot has changed since then."

"Fuck you, Mulder."

"I'm not kidding. Etiquette, for example, has changed a lot."

"How so?"

"With regards to the relief man, it's now good form to provide his partner with sexual gratification."

He raised a brow. "I don't recall that memo crossing my desk."

"Ignorance of the law is no excuse." He grinned provocatively. Walter scowled. The bastard knew why he was there. He was taunting him.

"So. What's the bare minimum required?"

His smile faltered. "What?"

"I'm just asking, you understand, but I have to admit, my curiosity is piqued. What's the standard? Hand job? Blow job? Or do you abandon your post so the two of you can be alone somewhere more spacious?"

"It depends."

"On..."

"How cute the relief guy is."

"Has Agent Scully ever been asked to comply with this regulation?"

"Not with me," he said. "But I still think she's pregnant."

"I can get her on the phone any time."

"It might be worth her cold-cocking me to hear you ask her."

Walter relaxed in his seat and watched Mulder. It was just dark enough to diffuse colors. In that light, he radiated something, something almost indescribable, beautiful. Not quite innocence, not quite experience. Just a beauty and intelligence that made Walter ache. "Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"If I was your relief man..."

Mulder smiled. "That's an easy one."

"Well?"

"We'd have to make do with the car. I wouldn't be able to wait for the spacious two-bedroom with fireplace."

"Mulder--"

The agent reached over him and yanked his seat lever. Walter fell back almost flat, impeded only by the seat behind him.

"Mulder--"

"When was the last time you did it in a car, Walter?"

"Absolutely not." He fumbled for the lever, but Mulder had the advantage. He was out of his seat and pinning Walter to his own before the AD had time to react. Walter sighed. "What about your stakeout?"

"I'll top you," he murmured, kissing the AD behind his ear. "That way I can look out the window the whole time, and if I have to, I can get out of the car in a hurry."

"With an erection and your pants down around your ankles?"

"If you were stalking me, wouldn't that stop you in your tracks?"

Walter was already hard, and Mulder took full advantage of his position to exploit and torment him. He gave the AD a long, wet kiss, his tongue darting into Walter's mouth only to dart out, then back in to linger there. Walter began to see the drawbacks to being acquainted with a man who knew him so well. Suddenly, a quick tryst in Mulder's car on a still-busy street in the declining daylight didn't seem as insane as it should have.

It wasn't that busy, he reasoned, when Mulder's hand slipped inside his pants. And it would be dark soon enough. "Mulder, this is crazy."The agent divested him of his tie. "Mulder, come on. Would you just think about this for a minute?" Cool air bathed his chest when Mulder parted his shirt, bending awkwardly to kiss his skin. In spite of himself, he arched up to meet the agent's mouth, barely concealing a sigh.

"We were taking a risk at Denny's, Mulder, and we've been paying for it ever since. To do something like this--" Mulder rested his ass against the dashboard and took Walter's cock in both hands. "This is insanity."

"Live a little, Walter."

"Fine. Can we please live somewhere else?"

"I want you now," he purred. He rocked his hips gently against the AD's, one hand on the door handle, the other braced against the back seat.

He kissed Walter hotly, a devastating kiss, and the AD began to understand he was about to do something he hadn't done since he'd had a full head of hair and the Beatles were still together.

"Mulder..."

The agent let out a world-weary sigh. With tremendous effort, he raised his head to meet Walter's eyes. "What?"

"What the hell did you have in your Thermos?"

Mulder slipped Walter's glasses off and set them on the dashboard. "Walter, have you ever noticed that I'm always the aggressor when we have sex?"

He raised a brow. "Maybe I need you to master me."

"I'm serious. Whether I top you or you top me, I always have to talk you into it."

"Have you considered that you have a tendency to get frisky in semi-public places?"

"Frisky, Walter?"

"For want of a better word. I have nightmares about you accosting me at an instant teller booth."

"That might not be so bad."

"So you say."

The agent tugged at the waist of Walter's slacks. Once again the AD put up some token resistance. This was foolish, certainly very illegal, but it was also just a little exciting. So, while his rational mind told him to fight this, the rest of him said go ahead and fight, but not too hard.

"Where's your spirit of adventure?"

"My spirit of adventure is a video tape that's probably making the rounds at the Bureau as part of the employee conduct blooper reel."

"Raise your hips."

He did, and Mulder slid his pants down to his feet, taking his briefs along for the ride. He was breathing heavily now, and Mulder had not even gotten started. The darkness outside was complete, but Walter felt monumentally exposed. Tension seeped into his muscles a little at a time. With every breath, he waited for somebody's octogenarian maiden aunt to stroll by with her Corgis and find him there, naked and defenseless, Mulder looming over him with an air of sexual menace in his eyes.

"I'm supposed to be on a stakeout," he said, smiling faintly.

"I tried to tell you."

"You're the only person I know who could distract me like this."

"Ironic, isn't it?"

He bent awkwardly to claim a kiss. "I think you're going to have to undress me, Walter. This isn't working out as well as it does on TV."

He smirked. "Just what kind of cable package do you have, Mulder?"

He made short work of Mulder's sweater, yanking it over the agent's shoulders and allowing Mulder to crush him when he tugged it up over his head and off. Naked skin met naked skin, and in spite of himself, he undulated against Mulder, savoring it. The agent levered himself up again and made a show of looking Walter up and down. Suit jacket and shirt lay open and forgotten, his pants tangled hopelessly around his feet, his erection rubbing tortuously against the rough fabric of Mulder's jeans.

"This is a good look for you, Walter."

"I'm glad you like it. The way things are going, it's probably going to turn up on a calendar one of these days."

He unbuttoned Mulder's jeans and slipped them from his hips. He wore a gift from Walter beneath them, a pair of blue silk boxers with the FBI insignia repeated across them. They had been quite a find. All the same, they went the way of the jeans. He stroked the agent's ass with proprietary hands, kneading it, easing their groins into contact. Mulder's arms quivered on either side of him.

"You need to work on your push-ups," Walter said.

"You want to do this again, do you?" He grinned wickedly and let go, collapsing on top of the AD with a moan.

Walter gripped his head and pulled him down for a long kiss, tongues battling, sucking, teasing. In unspoken agreement, their hips began to move in tandem, cocks bumping together delightfully. Mulder's arms slipped beneath Walter's back to bring them closer still. He moaned into the AD's mouth. Walter's ass chafed on Mulder's upholstery. Mulder's squeaked against the dashboard.

"My new alert sound," Walter breathed.

"And you think I talk too much." He eased a hand between them to stroke Walter's cock. The AD bucked into his hands, maybe a little too hard, given the situation. Mulder hit the dashboard with a thud.

"This is getting comical," Walter said.

"Wait till my head starts thumping against the roof before you laugh. Turn over."

Walter complied, albeit gracelessly. His only satisfaction came from knowing what Mulder's reaction must be to his squirming. At last he was on his stomach in the seat, his cock crushed against it. He braced himself against the back seat as Mulder had, and the agent's own cock bumped against his ass. Mulder slid sensuously along the AD's back, presumably trying to make it up to Walter for this experiment now that he had definitely won.

"So help me God, Mulder, if you really do leap out of the car now, I'll shoot you dead in the Dunkin Donuts parking lot."

The street was deserted now, but the parking lot across it was dotted with vehicles. Nobody could possibly see them from that distance, or if they did, it was unlikely they could determine what was taking place. Mulder slid his fingers into Walter's ass without warning.

The AD yelped. " Jesus Christ," he said. "You have lube in your glove compartment?"

"I told you," he said, licking Walter's ear. "Relief guy etiquette. I also have condoms, a couple of cock rings, extra handcuffs, Motion Lotion--"

"That's more than enough, thank-you." Mulder moved the fingers expertly, scraping lightly against Walter's prostate, stretching him gently. Walter rocked against him. Mulder's cock burned his skin, but the agent made no move to push inside. He just continued the assault with his hand, stroking Walter's cock now and again, nibbling his neck.

"You're working for them, aren't you?"

Walter laughed. "I never pictured myself as one of those double agents whose job is to seduce the competition."

"That's because you have no idea what you taste like. I hope."

"You're a sick man, Mulder."

He froze.

Oh, fuck. He really is going to get out of the car. "What?"

"I may be sick, but you can't say you aren't contributing to it."

"I'm just doing my job. I believe in God and country--"

Mulder began pushing inside him before he could finish the sentence. Walter thrust against him, and Mulder slipped further inside, breathing ecstatically. When he was all the way in, he wrapped his arm around the AD's waist and slowly began rocking back and forth.

"I'll betray my country for this," he moaned. "UFOs are really weather balloons. Kathie Lee Gifford is not an alien hybrid. Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. McDonald's hamburgers taste good... oh..."

"Let's not get carried away..." Mulder stroked him in counter-rhythm to his thrusts, moving faster now. " Oh, the hell with it," he moaned.

"That's the idea."

Walter thrust against him, moaning, and true to his word, Mulder's head began thumping against the roof of the car with every back-stroke, moans of pleasure mingling with indignation. "Faster."

"I'm going to cave in my skull," he gasped.

"Faster," Walter insisted, and Mulder complied, his hips slamming against the AD's. Walter was barely able to stay propped up on his hands now, the added weight of Mulder's body creating a strain on his muscles. He bucked against Mulder, frantic, heedless of the octogenarian, of the donut stalker, of the asshole with the camera, of his superiors, heedless of anything but the feel of Mulder inside him and the orgasm that loomed.

"Walter..." Mulder stiffened above him, groaning softly. Walter felt him convulsing inside him and hit the edge himself, burying his face in the head rest as he came harder than he ever had in his life.

Oh Christ, he thought. God help me if I have to start getting fucked in public to have a really good orgasm. Another wave hit him and he moaned, thrusting back against his lover. Mulder fell on top of him, breathing heavily, kissing

his neck.

"Mulder," he said after a long moment.

"What?"

"Did you ever see that news item about the couple who were arrested for having sex against the counter in a lineup at Kentucky Fried Chicken?"

"No."

"We can't do this again. I'm too old. It's not good for my heart."

He felt Mulder smiling against his skin. "I would have said it was improving your health. You've been almost jovial lately."

"It's the booze."

"Ah." He slid off the AD and began the arduous process of getting dressed. He looked hopelessly rumpled, sated, and inviting... No. No fucking way are we doing this again. Not here.

Walter had just buttoned his shirt when there was a tap on his window.

He jumped. Shooting Mulder an accusing look, he rolled down the window. "Can I help you?" he said to the teenaged boy who stood on the sidewalk, a look of horror frozen on his face.

"I got a delivery for Fox Mulder."

"Fuck!" Mulder said. "Give me the box." The boy passed it to Walter, who in turn passed it to Mulder. The AD dug out his wallet and handed the boy a five.

"Thank-you."

"No problem."

Silence reigned in the car as Mulder opened the box and looked inside. "I was right here, for Christ's sake. I was right fucking here."

"Maybe he ordered them another day."

"Right."

"Do you think that kid saw anything?"

"Maybe you buttoning your shirt, me zipping up my pants. Not a lot."

"Enough."

"He didn't have a camera, anyway. I doubt we'll see the Mulder/Skinner jeepin' mouse pad."

"We'd better get out of here."

"Meet me at my place?"

"Did you honestly think I could miss you seeing that picture?"
 
 

Part of Walter had actually hoped he really had been hallucinating the velvet Elvis painting on Mulder's bedroom wall. And this part of him was sorely disappointed to see it hanging still. Elvis Presley. There was a guy who had probably been fucked in cars hundreds of times. Nobody had ever been as cool as Elvis in his heyday. Except maybe the Elvis of King Creole. That Elvis was a twerp.

Mulder was frozen on the spot, staring at this picture as if it was the most horrifying thing he had ever seen. Walter was stunned by this reaction in his lover. He faced down mutants and aliens and creatures from beyond with enviable and inexplicable aplomb. Yet this picture engendered in him a strange paralysis. "That's... that's... Elvis."

"I told you so."

"That's obscene!"

"I told you so."

"Bad enough to break into a man's apartment," he said, " But to break in and leave this behind... Jesus, that's sick." He gave Walter a confused look. "You'd think someone would have noticed this guy coming into my building carrying something that big."

"Maybe not. You aren't the only weird tenant in this place. You should see some of the people I run into in the hallway."

"Why... why... why would someone do this?"

"I don't know, Mulder. I'm just relieved the someone wasn't you."

Mulder flipped open his cell phone and dialed. "Hi, it's me. No, I'm fine. Okay, I'm not. Have you been abusing your key privileges? Are you still mad at me about that Slinky thing? No. I have a fucking huge painting of Elvis Presley on my wall. Velvet." He winced, holding the phone away from his ear. Walter could hear Scully laughing from feet away. "You did it, didn't you? God, this is so twisted. I can't believe it. No. No. Fine." He folded his phone and glared at Walter. "She didn't do it."

"Would you admit it if somebody asked?"

"Probably not. Shit," he said, shaking his head. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know. But we're having dinner at my place from now on until you get rid of that thing."

"I'll take care of that right now." He leaped up on the bed and wrenched the picture from its nail. Without warning, the room was filled with the sound of accordion music and Elvis singing Wooden Heart.

"Make it stop," Walter said. "Please."

Mulder lay the painting on his bed and squinted at it. He tore the paper that lined the back and yanked out a small recording device. The music stopped. One thing was certain: whoever they were dealing with, be it one person or more, they were completely insane.