Skinner flexed his arm a little, stretching the tendons. The Range Rover wasn't easy to take through the long lines of cars. They were in a traffic jam, the late summer sun slowly sinking into the horizon in front of them and the odd reddish-orange beam of light putting dark spots behind his eyes. He put his chin up to let the warm breeze get at his neck and past his collar a little and envied Mulder his casual gear. He hadn't had time to change out of his own suit. Without conscious thought, his mind catalogued the way Mulder's sweater went straight to his eyes. Cat's eyes, the pupils shrunken to pin points of golden light, to compensate for the garish evening sky. He was slouching down in his seat, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hair already sticking up in scarecrow-like tufts and a tabloid spread out in his lap, open to the headline "The Amazing Melting Woman of Minnesota". He didn't look like a veteran of any kind of war. Skinner kept up his sideways watch all the way to the house, feeling the familiar compulsions begin to itch at him.
It was located in the west end of Richmond, a well-to-do, quiet neighborhood where the only person who saw them arrive was an impossibly tanned jogger with an elegant cocker spaniel at her heels, who didn't think them worthy of a bark. The houses on either side were set well back from the road, with large bay windows and generous front lawns. Rosebushes vied with old magnolias for the backdrop and tall, leafy oaks lined the sides of the road. By and large, the cars were all dark European sedans, nestled incestuously into each other along the driveways.
Mulder waved a hand vaguely at the view. "Welcome to a whole different kind of suburbia. Here they give the maid the day off before they go in for the double murder-suicide of the week. Bet you didn't grow up someplace like this, right?"
Skinner grunted, not going as far as to respond. It was usually the best thing to do when Mulder went fishing. They finally found No.35 and drew to a stop in its gravelled driveway. While Mulder whistled next to him, he had a furtive look at the keys he was holding, just to be sure. It was a very rich place. It wasn't overly large but from the smooth, yellow walls and the archaic lamp posts that dotted the walkway, money could be seen. Skinner wondered absently through whom the Bureau acquired such things, wondering about the details and the names and job descriptions. Then they were inside the house and it was extravagantly comfortable. Large bay windows overlooked both the street and the side of the house, which opened onto a wide redbrick patio and a pool. Wide leather couches had been placed around the house in carefully co-ordinated splashes of burnt orange and red. Tall vases of freshly blooming flowers were placed on sideboards and tables, riotously colourful. It made Skinner feel lightly sea-sick.
They made their way awkwardly towards the bedrooms. There were two of them at discreet hallway lengths from one another, each one fitted with a large four poster bed. There was more restraint here, Skinner was relieved to note. The sheets were a subdued shade of ivory as were the lace curtains, now billowing lazily into the room as Mulder slid up the windows to let the breeze in. A large walnut desk was at one end of each room, a curious reminder of work in rooms that appeared to be reserved for pleasure.
"Jesus, can you believe this place?" Mulder asked him, all but bouncing on his toes as he opened and closed the drawers in the desk.
"I'm afraid to."
"Oh yeah," Mulder grinned unrepentantly at him. "This must be hell on your nerves."
"I've seen where you live," Skinner replied, thinking of the oddly restrained lampshade in Mulder's living room. "This isn't exactly your style either, Mulder. Don't pretend."
Mulder rolled his eyes. "Don't let a pool ball coat rack fool you. I'm a big fan of decadence. Come on, let's check out the rest of it. A place like this, the bathroom would have to be sinful."
Mulder disappeared down the hallway, talking busily over his shoulder at Skinner who only caught the odd, indecipherable word or two. A snort of laughter prepared him for what he saw as he looked over Mulder's shoulder. Of course there was a spa. It was big enough to seat a herd of elephants.
Skinner raised a bland eyebrow at Mulder's told-you-so grin. "I never knew how little it took to satisfy you."
"I don't get out much," Mulder offered absently, his attention given over to inspecting the towels and soaps and what looked like a pile of skin magazines discreetly stacked in one corner.
It was enough to make a man sentimental, or very nearly. He thought, unavoidably, for a moment, of a marriage where sentimentality had been eschewed in favor of polite reserve and disappointment. Something must have showed in his face more than he meant it to. He became aware of Mulder standing near him, a question in his eyes.
"It's nothing." He shook his head. "Just cobweb gathering."
"Does it remind you of your...of her?"
"Not really. I think she would have hated it, actually. But I don't think she would have wanted to, if that makes any sense."
Mulder smiled but it was a sweet-tempered smile. "Maybe, Sir."
"Walter," Skinner corrected mildly, feeling his melancholy dissipate as the color gathered on Mulder's cheekbones.
Skinner felt impossibly better. And hungry. "Have you eaten?"
Mulder shook his head.
"Good. Do you want to go find somewhere to eat? Maybe put our presence on the map and find our way around, at the same time?"
"Yeah, I'm hungry," Mulder said, blinking in surprise.
It was a warm evening and they didn't need their jackets. There was little conversation as they wandered around aimlessly but their silences were comfortable. Mulder finally approved of a Thai restaurant and they ate ravenously, putting the long day behind them, Mulder speaking once or twice from behind a mouthful of food, jealously monitoring who got how much of what. Making short work of things, they ended up lingering over strong, dark coffee. The food had been unpretentious and very, very good.
Mulder did most of the talking, needing only an audience whose fidelity he could be sure of. Skinner, for his part, was content just to try and follow the twists and turns of Mulder's thoughts, letting the warmth of a full stomach bribe him into submission. A part of him recognized, as it had once or twice before, the pull of ordinary life when Mulder was part of it, as something extraordinary. He didn't know what to make of that but for once the circumstances were bizarre enough that he could refuse to either recommend it to himself or reject it out of hand. Instead he could enjoy it. Just for the moment.
When they got back, he made a note on a thoughtfully provided kitchen whiteboard to cut a third set of keys; 'just-in-case' keys as Sharon used to call them. Then he efficiently set about putting away his clothes into the large panelled cupboard recessed into the wall, only registering Mulder's absence after a few minutes. Probably mooning over that spa, he thought to himself. Hell, can't blame him. The errant amusement left him in a hurry when he walked down the hallway only to find Mulder unpacking in the other bedroom.
"Mulder, what the hell are you doing?"
Mulder swung around sharply, obviously startled. Skinner found himself wondering what the man's blood pressure was. He was strung tighter than piano wire.
"I'm...I'm unpacking." Mulder was clearly puzzled.
"Well, stop it," Skinner said in exasperation. "We have to sleep in the one room, you must know that. This is an official FBI investigation, Mulder, not a clown show."
Mulder's mouth tightened obstinately. Great. Skinner felt his headache returning. He was tired and wanted to go to bed. He didn't entirely grudge Mulder this mutiny, though.
Staying at the doorway, he said, "It doesn't have to be a problem."
Mulder glowered at him from the other side of the room for a minute. Skinner tensed in readiness; if it was a fight Mulder was after, there was no limit to the provocation he was capable of handing out. As it happened, in the end Mulder decided against all out war, only nodding in disgust at his open bags.
"Can you get that one?"
"Happy to."
They finished unpacking in a different sort of silence and Skinner went into the huge ensuite bathroom to change and brush his teeth after letting Mulder use it first. He hoped that letting Mulder have that breathing space would forestall any more misgivings. He had enough of them himself without Mulder joining in. When he came back out, he stopped short outside the bathroom door in exasperation. Mulder was under the covers, carefully positioned as far to the right hand side as he could get without falling out. God give me strength.
"Move over before you fall out," he ordered flatly.
Mulder knew that tone well. He eased over a fraction towards the middle of the bed, acutely aware he was being an idiot. Skinner stared down at him, still displeased. He inched over a little more until Skinner nodded. Then Skinner motioned him to move over some more. The torturous process continued until Skinner said "Okay, that'll do." He consoled himself with the thought that one day he would find all of this mindbendingly funny.
In the meantime it was alright to wish Skinner dead. Turning onto his side, he switched off the bedside light. He could hear Skinner moving lightly around the room, closing the window, taking off his watch and finally his glasses, placing them on the low table next to his side of the bed. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he felt Skinner's not inconsiderable body weight depress the other half of the bed. He seemed to be lying flat on his back and Mulder listened to his even, regular breathing for what felt like hours. The next thing he heard was a loud buzzing sound, drilling its way into his brain. He raised one hand above the covers and swatted incautiously at the air above him, stopping abruptly when he heard a soft chuckle next to him. He cracked open a bleary eye in time to see Skinner reach over and shut the alarm clock off.
Skinner looked like himself and not like himself. He had the same disconcertingly bland look on his face that he always wore. But his eyes seemed naked without his glasses and his chest was clothed in no more than an ordinary black tshirt. Presumably, he also had on boxers or shorts of some kind, though Mulder would have rather had his head ripped off his shoulders than let his eyes be seen to slide down there. All in all, it was an unusual enough situation to make Mulder take a tentative step towards some grander form of informality between them. There had been that chuckle after all.
He made a completely un-Mulderian suggestion. "I'll take the first shower and make breakfast. That's fair, right?"
But he had missed the boat. Whatever lack of reserve Skinner had indulged in when Mulder was not quite awake, was past. All he got by way of polite reply was, "It's fair, yes."
Mulder stared at him hard for a second before getting up and stalking into the bathroom. He eased himself under the shower head, inutterably claustrophobic for at least the first five minutes until the hot water began to soak into his bones. With difficulty he turned it off before it ran out, and feeling more himself in shirt and pants, threw an equally cursory "all yours" to Skinner when he emerged. Skinner joined him in the kitchen less than ten minutes later, prompting him to make a cheerful mental note to use more water the next time. It turned out that Skinner thought breakfast consisted of more than toast and badly made coffee. Mulder went along with that idea since it meant he didn't have to make it. He left it to Skinner to produce omelettes and a pot of excellent coffee to go with the three files he gave Mulder.
"I'll pour," he offered magnanimously. "Why don't you give me a rundown on the bodies?"
"Knock yourself out," Skinner said dryly, opening up the files. "We've got three bodies so far. Each was killed, in the end, by a single bullet to the head. The bullets came from a Swiss made Sig Sauer 9mm automatic. Each man was tortured and raped before death. All homeless - no fixed address, no family, no history that can be discovered, not even dental matches. So, no victimology - autopsy's the best you're going to get. On the outside, all there is, is that they're each wearing very expensive clothes. The labels are included on the opposite page. And they were all shaved and showered. Autopsy reports show an expensive meal in each man's stomach a few hours before death. Duck, steak, raspberry sorbets, that sort of thing - there's an exact list there. Alcohol too but again expensive and not their usual paint stripper variety. Here, look at this. These photographs were taken when the bodies were found."
Skinner paused and slid three photographs across to Mulder and then continued, "As you can see, while in each case, the face was to some extent discoloured and bloated post-mortem, it's almost identical to yours. Forensics confirmed that each man had undergone recent and extensive facial surgery of the cosmetic kind."
Mulder was still looking at the photographs, his mind slowly taking in Skinner's comments. After a moment of silence, he realized that Skinner was waiting.
"The gun - that sounds like ex-soldier, ex-military."
Skinner nodded appreciatively. "That's what I think too. Unfortunately that doesn't narrow the field of possible suspects down very much. A Bureau career is not the first stop for most of the agents who would be mature enough to have commandeered kills like these ones."
"How old were the corpses when they were found?"
"Can't be exact but approximately ten to twelve hours."
"Okay. So here's this guy, our UNSUB. He's a professional. But he uses a very distinctive M.O. each time and it takes us around ten hours minimum to find the bodies. Does that add up to you, S...Walter?"
Skinner didn't reply. Instead he looked out the window, squinting against the morning sun.
"What?"
"Nothing. I'm just wondering why it took Fielding two days to put that last question together when apparently it should have been the first thing that occurred to him."
Mulder flushed and nodded his acknowledgment. Skinner-speak for 'good work'. The panic that the photographs had instilled in him eased a little. Like a child with a pacifier, he thought, a little uneasily. Was that how he worked? Give the nice agent a bone - an XFile, a hard fuck - anything would do. He shied away from where that train of thought was leading him and brought himself back to the question at hand. Skinner was blowing on his coffee, seemingly oblivious to the pause in the conversation. His eyes stayed fixed on the steaming cup and he had a tiny indentation in his brow, for all the world as if he were contemplating the eighth wonder of the world. Another silent kindness. Mulder put his thumb to the edge of his own cup and let it rest there, mesmerized for a moment by the sight of the surrounding skin turning a dark plummy color as the heat seeped into it. Yet again he tried to distance himself from the now familiar urge to reach out and lay a finger to the other man's hand, maybe against his arm. What words could he put with gestures like that?
Picking up the thread of the conversation once more, he said, "Then you agree with me that the bodies were meant to be found?"
Skinner nodded.
Mulder went on. "So, we're not going to learn anything from the M.O. either, are we? Everything is going to be covered up too well. He knows we'll chase it all up. So you want me to double up as profiler and as bait. Right?"
Skinner hesitated for a moment and then said in a level, flat voice, "There's no other reason I'd have you anywhere near this investigation, Mulder. You're not a good risk. Even a prick like Patterson had to admit that."
"There you are then." Mulder shrugged.
He got up and went to the sink to rinse his coffee mug out. He was still there, a minute later, running water over it mindlessly, when Skinner spoke from behind him.
"You okay?"
Mulder turned around to see Skinner leaning against the counter behind him. He thought he had already gone out to the Range Rover. Apparently not.
"I'm fine," he said shortly, annoyed at being caught off-guard.
"You don't look fine."
"What the fuck would you know about that?"
He shouldered his way past Skinner and walked away, down the corridor to the bedroom. Holstering the gun he would carry everywhere for the duration of the investigation, he shouldered himself into his jacket before banging out the front door. He stood next to the Range Rover, waiting for Skinner - ambushing son of a bitch - to show. After a few minutes, Skinner unhurriedly made his way down the driveway and threw a pair of keys at him. Mulder caught them and simmered down a little, wishing he had taken them with him. A stupid mistake to make, so early into their cover. Skinner was about to say something when both men caught the tiniest of glints off the metallic black roof of the Range Rover. Just for a moment but it was enough for Skinner to come in suffocatingly close to Mulder and by the use of both arms braced on the Range Rover, one on either side of Mulder, to pin him against the side of the car. Mulder put out a hand against Skinner's chest, even as he yielded cautiously to his grip.
Skinner pressed his mouth to Mulder's, cold and impersonal, and talked against it quickly. "I think we're being watched. As good a time as any to start this."
Then Skinner kissed him, his left hand reaching up to grab a handful of Mulder's hair, his head bending down to Mulder's face. Mulder closed his eyes in mute protest against the steady pressure brought to bear against his mouth and then nearly opened them again in shock when he felt Skinner's tongue licking over his lips. He heard himself moan and tasted blood as he bit into his cheek to stop himself. Skinner murmured something against his mouth, something soothing and then pushed his way in. He began a maddening caress against the roof of Mulder's mouth, then pressed a questioning lick into the bloody side of his cheek. Mulder made some other, equally muted sound which did nothing to check Skinner. His tongue kept on, moving like a restless animal until Mulder sagged against the vehicle, his knees buckling under him even as his hands slid inside Skinner's open jacket and smoothed their way across the hard, warm back.
He knew he couldn't stand still, knew he didn't want to, and the knowledge uncoiled inside his stomach, chilling him. He wanted to curse, to hit, be hit, to see skin split open and let go of this sense of choice and companionship. Yet clamoring for his attention was the thought that he had never felt anything as good as the muscles in Skinner's shoulders and back, bunching and relaxing as his hands traced a path down Mulder's spine, over and over again. He felt entirely bereft. Why couldn't he just explain? Just for a moment, stop Skinner and explain. It didn't matter that it was daylight. That it was just a kiss designed to entrap a killer. But his body went on responding, drawing movement from every touch of Skinner's tongue. He shuddered as he felt it slide over his teeth and lick softly at his own tongue, mapping his mouth. He heard himself groan, his voice harsh and needy. He could have wept at the unfairness of it. It wasn't supposed to be this way at all.
In the next instant, he felt his cock leap urgently to life as Skinner withdrew his tongue momentarily to whisper coolly against his mouth, "Yes, that's it. Let me hear you." Mulder shuddered and when Skinner slid his tongue back in, met it fiercely, deeply, with his own. He didn't know how long it was before he became aware that the onslaught had petered off to steady, minute kisses on and around his mouth. As long as it took to register the feel of his ass resting against Skinner's warm grip. It was only marginally less distressing than his cock, jutting painfully against Skinner's thigh which was firmly anchored between Mulder's legs. Jesus, there's no way he can't know what he's doing to me. It was a relief when he finally bore down on his voice and heard himself, urgent, reasonable, "Stop it, stop this."
He didn't know how long he had been repeating the phrase but suddenly Skinner released him without warning and Mulder almost slid to the ground before tranquillized muscles stuttered into life and held him up. He knew without being able to see that his lips were swollen but he couldn't do more than raise his hand to his chest before before it dropped back down to his side, nerveless. Skinner wasn't even breathing hard but he looked a decade younger while still managing to look as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Mulder stood there, feeling awkward and humiliated and still turned on; the cock that couldn't quit. They stood there, looking at each other for a time until, finally, Skinner stepped away from him. Mulder got into his side of the car and leant his head against the cool window pane, his eyes tracking Skinner as he made his way around to the driver's side. He felt headachy and he could taste blood and salt at the back of his throat. Skinner slid in behind the wheel without a word and they drove off in silence.
After a time, Skinner asked, "Did you manage to get a look at him?"
Mulder pressed his lips together tightly to stop them from trembling. "How could I."
They drove silently the rest of the way and it wasn't until they were in the garage and past the guard that Skinner spoke again.
"I know this is difficult for you," he said, before getting out of the car and walking away without waiting for Mulder.
Almost wistfully, Mulder wondered how Skinner could tell; he couldn't feel a thing. He rubbed his scalded thumb against his mouth absently, trying to remember the feel of Skinner's tongue moving inside it. He found himself able only to see the blood rising to the top of his thumb when he had held it against the coffee cup until it scalded. He opened the car door and stepped out, feeling carefully in his pocket for his set of keys. Better to be safe than sorry.
Skinner put his pen down and took off his glasses. He supposed he should be putting more effort into the file. It was his last blue file for a while, for as long as it took to catch this UNSUB, who had become the highest priority task in the FBI. He had even been spared from the weekly breakfast meeting with the other ADs, his taskloads for the next indeterminable amount of time having been divided up between them. Cynical as Manning's attitude might be, he could see the sense behind it. If the UNSUB turned out to be FBI, they could kiss the Bureau's credibility goodbye. Maybe forever. He picked up the file and looked through it carefully. The rundown of each of the thirty major cases running current in Criminal Investgation was thorough. The director would find nothing to quibble about in it. But Skinner could tell the difference. The usually interesting battles between sub-divisions, the sorting out of priorities, the careful organization of agents being used, the delicate balancing act between allocation to high priority cases and holdbacks in hand - none of that had its usual appeal. He tried to think and reason as he usually did and he kept coming up against blocks of solid darkness.
He had known some sort of contact was inevitable, sooner or later. Be honest, he told himself, you were counting on it. He had allowed himself every possible licence in his fantasies, strictly between his cock and himself. He had tasted Mulder a thousand times or more, that way, and anywhere he wanted to roam him, he had. He had woken up, jerked off and gone straight back to sleep most times, not even bothering to wipe the come off his skin, too ashamed to stay awake. He had thought that at least some of that would see him through this. Instead, all morning, his mind had taken to replaying that kiss. He remembered the sound Mulder had made when he had cautiously swiped at the slightly puffy spot on the inside of Mulder's cheek, and tasted blood. He was still dizzy from the fierce rush of protective understanding it engendered in him. He had wanted to kiss Mulder into opening his mouth to him out of trust, accepting anything Skinner gave him - his tongue, his finger, his cock. Anything.
I know this is difficult for you. That's what he had said to Mulder. That was not what he had wanted to say to him, not when Mulder had been pressed up against him, moaning his way into Skinner's mouth. A needy, craving sound that had dug its way into Skinner's gut, making him willing in that moment to tell Mulder everything. He had been willing to tell Mulder every last thing he'd lain awake at night wanting to do to him, willing to reveal every humiliating detail of every fantasy that had driven him to pound out each orgasm. He had even been willing to tell him that in the dark, with no one there to witness the real pathos of his condition, he would let himself come with Mulder's name on his lips. Anything. Everything. He would have told him everything, if it meant Mulder would have allowed him the pleasure of touching him for an indefinite amount of time. Hell, he might have made things up.
Mulder had wanted him. There was nothing made up about that. It was fact. He had felt that cock, flagrantly independent, autonomously hard, pushing into his side and it was fact, as real as the pen lying on the desk in front of him. Which proved exactly nothing. What he would have liked to know was just how long Mulder had been mewling at him to stop. A blacker, more gluttonous part of him whispered that it was no more than what Mulder's species of preferred foreplay amounted to, anyway. He had seen the tapes. For those, he had been awake.
His intercom buzzed sharply just then and he could hear himself snapping at Kim, who was doing her job by reminding him to get the week's blue file on her desk before he left for the meeting with Mulder. Meeting. That was a joke. It would be one long, drawn-out profiling session with Mulder playing the prodigy to Skinner's village idiot impressions. He picked up his pen irritably and began finishing the amendments to the file.
END OF PART 3
