Voices, by LynnZo (lynnzo@yahoo.com)

Pairing: M/Sk. Rated: R

Summary: Walter meets his inner demons, and they nag him into a specific action. This one is incredibly lightweight, has 3,497 words, and absolutely no plot. That makes it a PWP, folks.

Disclaimer: The characters of Walter Skinner and Fox Mulder are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox television. This story is non-profit, my whole life is non-profit, and there is no intention of infringing on any copyrights. Any resemblance between these characters any and real persons, live or otherwise, is a miracle…an unintentional one.

Thanks go to Anne for a kind beta, although why she ended up singing, "Tiny bubbles" is anyone’s guess.

Skinner stretched on his feet, feeling well-fed, well-entertained, and generally at peace with the world. He looked over at Mulder, more than half-asleep on the couch, and grinned privately to himself. All that intensity dimmed by a large meal and long evening, Mulder looked almost--domestic.

"Mulder," he said, more to wake him than anything, "I’d better be going."

Mulder squinted one eye at him, then hauled himself up off the couch in one surprisingly fluid motion. He snagged their empty beer bottles on his way up, and carried them into the kitchen to the trash can while Skinner slid into his overcoat. Mulder wandered over to the door with him in the easy silence, but he hesitated with his hand on the doorknob and turned.

Skinner was speaking, all the things you normally say at the end of an evening such as this, "Thanks for the beer, and the game. It was a good one."

Mulder didn’t open the door, didn’t back away as Skinner’s last step carried him up to the door. He’d kicked his shoes off earlier in the evening, and without them he definitely looked up at Skinner, and somehow he let his upper body sway just a bit into the other man’s. Skinner responded without thought, leaning into him for an instant, before he caught himself and stopped. Blinking a bit, he stared at Mulder. Had Mulder intended….? Surely not, he was just shifting his weight, to open the door. Skinner shook himself internally, Wake up, Marine. You’re projecting.

Mulder’s hand turned the doorknob and pulled it open, and the moment was lost. Skinner cleared his throat a little, nodded, "Goodnight, Mulder."

Mulder’s voice was quiet, "Goodnight, sir."

Skinner moved through the door and it closed softly between them. He listened for a second, there on the outside, but heard no sound of locks clicking behind him. Something kept his feet glued to the floor, and he stood there, waiting, but either Mulder wasn’t moving or this rattle-trap of an apartment building had better soundproofing than it seemed, because there was no noise from within. Within. Skinner wished fiercely for a moment for second chances, to be inside again, those last few seconds. He smiled grimly at himself and made his feet move him down the hall. Fantasies won’t get you anywhere.

Fantasies. He stopped by the stairs and looked back again, disgusted with himself and his indecisiveness. Skinner hated indecisiveness. Yet here he was, at 11:00 on a Thursday night, lurking like some stalker outside the apartment of one of his agents, male agents, wishing desperately he’d had the nerve to take advantage…to ask…to learn at last, if there might be a chance. That was it, wasn’t it? Take advantage. That’s what kept him here, pacing in the hallway. He couldn’t take advantage of someone who worked for him. It was reprehensible, and at the very least could cost him his job for sexual harassment.

Yet the little voice in his head, the voice that was Walter, not "Assistant Director Skinner," kept whispering seductive thoughts in his ear. Even if he said no, Mulder would never bring him up on charges of sexual harassment. Hell, in the mix of aliens, mutants, man-eating bugs and general weirdness that was Mulder’s life, this wouldn’t even qualify for a file folder in his arcane tracking system. And Mulder had asked, had asked him over to watch the game, which was guy-speak for ‘let’s spend the evening together.’ If one of them had been female, it would have been a date. Female, hell, even in his thoughts he couldn’t quite admit it. It had felt like a date, all evening it had, something indefinable telling him this was not a normal evening in Mulder’s life, that Mulder didn’t do this often, that this was something special.

He lingered, there, by the stairs, lost in indecision.

***

Mulder sighed a bit as he heard Skinner’s steps take him away down the hall. He moved away from his door, quiet on stocking feet, and wandered idly into the living room to clear away the take-out cartons. He switched off the television, shutting up the incessant droning of the "post-game wrap-up," and the room was suddenly quiet, and still, and empty. Something drew Mulder to the window, to look down over the street, where he could see Walter’s car parked on the curb. Walter. In his mind he let himself say it, Walter. He’d said it sometimes, out loud, when they were working closely, when he needed to get through the mask of Skinner and to the man inside. But he couldn’t have said it tonight, in the peaceful ruckus of take-out food and the game on television and the bizarre abnormality of a normal evening at home for Fox Mulder and his…friend…Walter Skinner.

It was too close, too personal when it was just the two of them together. Alone. He waited by the window, painfully aware of his own failures, his own limitations, and watched hopelessly for the other man to emerge from the front of the building, to get in his car and drive away, another wasted chance.

But the street remained deserted. Mulder waited a long moment, surely too long, where was Skinner? Mulder was already a little alarmed when he heard it, a step at the door behind him. He knew that step, and he turned, and was moving to the door before the thinking part of his brain could even say the name. Walter.

***

Walter put his hand on the doorknob, and turned it decisively. As he expected, it turned easily. He stepped inside.

There. Mulder was there, coming at him from the living room, moving quickly, and Skinner had no time to say more than, "Mulder, I…" before Mulder was there, at the door, reaching for his arm to drag him far enough through the door that it closed behind him. Behind them. Inside, Skinner’s little voice whispered seductively in his head. Inside.

Skinner reached out, which was unnecessary because Mulder was already in his arms, already there and Skinner couldn’t help it, he grinned and would have laughed out loud with the relief, and the joy, but right then it would have taken too much time, and he needed all breath, his attention, to kiss Mulder.

Mulder’s lips were soft, softer than Skinner would have expected, and yielding, letting him in, letting him explore, with teeth and tongue and breath and hands. Skinner’s hands on the back of Mulder’s head held him, hard, although Mulder wasn’t struggling. Skinner lifted his head a bit to breathe, and Mulder’s nose bumped the side of his cheek, Mulder was shaking, badly, and at once Skinner pulled back a bit.

"Mulder…?" His voice was soft between them, but he still saw Mulder jump a bit at the sound. Mulder was gripping his arms just above the elbow, holding himself up, shaking. Shit. He looked absolutely scared to death. What had he done? Skinner backed off a bit more, hands sliding out of Mulder’s hair (Soft, so soft that treacherous part of his mind whispered, even as he brought himself back under control). "Mulder!" He couldn’t help it, he shook him a little, wanting desperately suddenly to know that Mulder was in there, was here.

But Mulder’s eyes weren’t closed, he was staring somewhere at Skinner’s chin. His mouth, and he just stood there a moment, shakes subsiding a bit as Skinner’s hands slid down his arms, soothing, gentling. He breathed. Damn, this was intense, too intense, and suddenly Walter Skinner, Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, lost his nerve.

His hands slid off Mulder, reluctantly, and pushed him gently away. Mulder’s eyes, huge and seemingly scared, met his, a question. Skinner needed out, away, this was too much, and he rushed into speech quickly, too quickly.

"Mulder, I’m…sorry. If this wasn’t….what you wanted, if you can’t handle it. Just…let me know. It won’t happen again. I’m…sorry." He ran out of words, looking down at Mulder, at his lips, wet now, and still open slightly as Mulder breathed. Breathing in the scent of Mulder, and Skinner, and… Shit. In another minute he’d be kissing him again, if he didn’t leave. Now.

Skinner stepped away, back to the door. "I’ll…see you tomorrow. Okay, Mulder?" And he was gone. Gone, and down the hall and down the stairs and in his car and halfway down the block before he realized that Mulder hadn’t said a word.

***

Skinner rested his head on his hands and sighed in relief. Another day over, and his last, hellish Friday-afternoon meeting had had to be rescheduled, freeing him at the relatively early hour of 6:00 pm. Tonight, Skinner was going to take that as a sign, and just leave. Go. Home, where he could climb into a hot shower and wash the remains of this day off his skin, out of his mind. Fridays were always hectic, those who could afford to take the weekend off working desperately to clean their desks before the weekend, others, like Walter, trying to pull together the paperwork they would need for a long weekend at the office. But today had been different. Skinner’s eye had been on the clock, all day, and his heart….

His heart was back, last night, with Mulder. Feeling the softness of Mulder’s hair in his hands, the way Mulder had raised his head to be kissed, the texture of his mouth, his surrender as Skinner finally, finally had him. Had him. Right up until he’d run, scared to death. "When the gods want to punish you, they answer your prayers," he’d found that this morning, on the ridiculous, "inspirational page-a-day" calendar someone had given him last Christmas, that he’d dutifully put on his desk, pulling off a page every morning, then ignoring it.

But today it had taunted him. Last night, he’d had all he had ever wanted, in his arms, in his mouth, and he’d run. Like a teenager. Skinner was disgusted with himself, and glad it was finally, finally, late enough he could leave the office. Go home, take himself that much further away from Mulder, whose presence in his basement office had been a constant ache, an itch, all day. He wondered, idly, doodling on a notepad, just how many steps it was from his office down to Mulder’s...

Skinner caught himself in disgust, closed the file in front of him, and methodically cleaned his desk, putting all the confidential files away under lock and key, carefully not thinking. About anything.

When he stepped out of his office, already pulling on his overcoat, Kim looked up in surprise.

"Leaving, sir?" She glanced at the clock on the wall.

Skinner gave her a rueful smile, "You should go, too. I hear it’s supposed to snow again this evening, you don’t want to be caught in it." That was awkward, horribly awkward, she’d think he’d lost his mind. But he had, some part of his brain was already counting, six steps, how many more to the elevator, even as he told it, firmly, he was going home. Not any place else, home.

Kim raised a handful of pink message slips, waved them at him, "Do you want your messages now, or should I just leave them on your desk for tomorrow?"

Kim never doubted he’d be working Saturday. Somehow that stung, a bit. How long had it been since he’d take an entire weekend off? He switched his briefcase to his other hand and reached for the message slips, glanced over them quickly. "There’s nothing here that can’t wait, just leave them, I’ll deal with them later."

She nodded agreeably and checked her desk calendar. "Don’t forget you have a meeting with the Director on Monday at 9:00 am, and, do you know yet when this afternoon’s meeting will be rescheduled?" Pen poised, she glanced up at him.

Skinner wasn’t listening. He could read enough, upside down, to recognize Mulder’s name, there on her calendar. He stared at it, swallowed, "Mulder? It says, Mulder?" That was smooth, the voice in his mind mocked him, and he nearly groaned aloud. Another day of listening to the voices in his head, and he really would need a vacation.

Kim was nodding. "Yes, Agent Mulder called for you about 5:00. I told him you had a 6 o’clock meeting, and wouldn’t be free until 7. Would you like me to call him and tell him you’re free now?" She was already reaching for her telephone.

Skinner shrugged, nodded, then shook his head. Focus. "No, I’ll...call him myself. Thanks, Kim. See you Monday." And he let his feet carry him away, the little voice in his head still counting, seven, eight, nine, he couldn’t shut it up, couldn’t stop, and as his hand pushed the "down" button on the elevator he knew where he was going, but for once the voice was quiet, and he didn’t think. Just waited for the elevator with the softness of Mulder’s kiss on his mouth.

***

The door to Mulder’s office wasn’t locked. He pushed it open with a thrill of déjà vu, and stepped inside, unsurprised to see Mulder sitting there, alone in a pool of lamplight, peering closely at something on his computer screen. "Mulder."

Mulder didn’t startle, didn’t jump, just looked up, calmly.

And smiled.

That annoying little voice in his brain screamed, "heart attack!" as Skinner felt a sudden, clutching tightness in his chest. Breathe, Marine, he told himself, and he just stood there, blinking in the warmth of Mulder’s smile. Breathed.

Mulder was moving. He reached up and shut off his computer, without even saving whatever it was he’d been working on. He reached out, just as deliberately, and switched off his desk lamp, grabbed his coat from the rack on his way past, and came to a stop, finally, just half a step from Skinner’s frozen body.

"Ready?" he asked, pushing his arms into the sleeves of his coat.

Skinner just stared at him. Mulder’s eyes were twinkling with repressed excitement, he was reaching for his briefcase, reaching behind Skinner to flip off the overhead lights, reaching for the doorknob, swinging open the door so they both stood silhouetted in the light from the hallway, and talking. Talking.

"I thought, maybe Mexican tonight, what do you think? There’s a place not far from here that does take-out. I’ve stopped there a time or two on the way home, it’s pretty good. Not too much..."

The words just flowed over Skinner like water. He turned, pivoted, to keep Mulder in his line of sight as Mulder put his key into the door, ready to lock it once they were both out. Gone was the man from last night, who had submitted to him mutely, lips wet and reddened from his kisses. This Mulder had a plan. Mexican, apparently, and some other stuff that Skinner should be listening to, if his last functioning brain cell hadn’t been too busy going insane.

"Hey, earth to Skinner?" Mulder grinned, almost sympathetically, reached out and grabbed his arm, and tugged. Skinner moved, rediscovering his feet, anchored at last by a warm hand, gripping his arm firmly.

Mulder pulled him through the office door, let it swing behind them, and twisted his key. He stashed it in his pocket, never letting go of Skinner’s arm.

"Walter." His voice was quiet, in the stillness of the hallway. "I don’t think the hall is bugged. Not that I can tell, anyway."

Skinner looked over at him, over, not down, Mulder and he were very nearly the same height, fully dressed. Fully dressed. He smiled, unable to help himself. Fully dressed. He could remedy that. He cleared his throat, finally, finally knowing what he wanted. And sure, sure now, that Mulder wanted it too.

"Mexican. Sounds great. Let’s go."

Mulder grinned back at him, and turned loose of his arm, finally. "Not going to bolt again, are you?" He stepped back, a little tentatively, then turned and started for the elevator, glancing back to make sure Skinner was following.

Skinner was. "Not unless you go all quiet again. You scared me, Mulder, I thought…"

Ding! In tacit agreement, they rode the elevator in silence, both knowing that elevators were routinely monitored by Security, knowing that there was probably no one listening. Probably.

Skinner spent the time trying to think of something better to say than, ‘your place or mine.’ He failed.

Once on the parking level, Mulder fished his keys back out of his pocket and waved Skinner off with a grin. To any observer, they would look just like any two colleagues parting at the end of a long week. But Mulder was talking, quietly, and he was close enough in the stillness of the garage that Skinner heard him clearly. Of course, the fact that in his mind, every inch of his body was currently plastered up against every square inch of Mulder’s, helped a great deal.

"I’ll get the food. Anything in particular you want?" Skinner shook his head numbly, in his fantasy, he was kissing Mulder again, and his hair was soft, so soft in his hands….

Mulder, this Mulder, was still talking, seemingly casual. "Say, Skinner, which road do you usually take when you go…home?"

Brilliant. The boy was brilliant. Hadn’t everyone always told him Mulder was brilliant? There in one question, one innocuous question, he’d said it all. Everything Skinner had failed to come up with on the elevator, there in front of him. He smiled, really smiled, and felt the floor shudder beneath his feet. It might have been just a car circling on the upper level, but Skinner felt grounded, really here for the first time since last night, when he’d closed Mulder’s door behind him and left himself outside.

"The loop. I take the loop, Mulder." He knew he was grinning helplessly, couldn’t bring himself to dial it down. Brilliant, the little voice inside him was repeating.

Mulder grinned back, "Okay, then," and he was gone.

Skinner looked around him vaguely, most of his attention gone with Mulder. Car. Here was the car. Home. He could do that.

***

Skinner had had barely enough time to peel off his suit and pull on some jeans and a sweater when the doorbell rang. He took his time coming down the stairs to answer it, telling himself firmly that 47-year-old men do not run on the stairs. He unlocked the locks, and opened the door.

Mulder was there. Still grinning, grin widening as he took in the sweater and jeans. "Hey, no fair getting comfortable," and he breezed in, carrying not one but two bags of Mexican food.

Skinner eyed them, a little nervously, "Hungry?" He took the bags and carried them into the kitchen while Mulder took off his coat. When he came back out, Mulder had taken off his suit coat, his tie, and kicked off his shoes as well, but he was still standing by the door.

A little surprised, Skinner walked over, reached out his hand for the discarded clothing, "Here, I’ll…"

In an instant, Mulder dropped it all on the floor, grabbed Skinner’s hand and pulled, hard, twisting. Skinner landed with his back against the door, and Mulder quickly followed up on his advantage, leaning in and plastering himself against Skinner, holding him there, still.

"Mulder, what..."

"Shut up, Walter." Mulder’s grin had turned predatory, and Skinner’s heart thumped, once, hard. Although the voice in his head was quiet, for a change, Skinner’s thoughts wandered briefly into the ‘heart attack’ scenario when Mulder worked one knee between his legs and rubbed, hard, against his erection. "You want to know what I’m doing? What I’m going to do?" Mulder was still grinning, still rubbing. "I’m going to turn you on until you can’t walk, Walter. Then I’m going to walk away and just leave you hanging. That’s what I’m going to do."

Ah. Skinner cleared his throat, dragged his eyes up to Mulder’s. "Ah. Sorry about that?" he offered, a little tentatively. "You were just so…ah…quiet." It was becoming increasingly hard to talk, and Mulder was still grinning, breathing hard, but perfectly in control. How had Skinner lost control so completely?

"You said that already. Quiet means ‘no’ in your vocabulary?" He slowed his grind, rested more of his weight on Skinner’s chest, resting, breathing. "Let’s get this straight, Walter. Quiet is good, quiet means ‘yes’ and quiet means ‘if you stop now I will take out my gun and hit you with it.’ Is that clear?"

Skinner couldn’t help himself, he had to kiss Mulder again, or he knew that voice in his head would come back. And if that voice came back, he’d go insane. "Yes, Mulder. Quiet means yes, Mulder."

And then Mulder was reaching up - up! - to kiss him again, and there were no more voices.

***end***