Skinner found the notion of seducing Mulder right there and then, in a darkened room still littered with crime scene photos, was not something he had a great deal of trouble with. No more than in his usual fantasies, anyway. Which didn’t include the photos. He looked at Mulder standing there half in and half out of his shirt, pale faced and tight lipped, and resisted the urge to sigh. The trouble with reality was that it came with consequences.
"What are you sorry about?" he asked simply, after they observed a careful minute of silence.
And watched, fascinated, as answers surfaced and swam across Mulder’s face like stigmata and disappeared just as quickly, rejected out of hand.
In the end Mulder said wryly, "More things than in heaven and earth, Walter." He wore the same flat, disconnected expression he had shown Skinner just before he had thrown up in his office.
Skinner controlled his irritation with an effort. Ask a straightforward question, get a quotation. Welcome to Mulder's world. He didn't feel adequately equipped for a crusade and what else was Mulder, if not that? Yet being gifted this sort of opportunity only served to highlight the circularity of such thoughts. He wanted what he wanted. On something short of impulse, he moved his right hand, which was still pressed against Mulder’s chest, downwards until he found his nipple again. The cause of it all or maybe just a catalyst; he didn’t know. He rubbed the soft pad of his thumb against it and Mulder shivered lightly under his touch. He wasn't sure he cared.
A part of him was shocked but mostly he felt relieved the way people do when they switch off the leaf-blower or their percolator or whatever was making that useful but annoying noise. All of the buzzing that went on inside him, unabated, as insurance against doing this very thing, simply cut out. He let his fingertips brush over Mulder's nipple again, feeling it harden, feeling his own cock firm up in mindless greed. Mulder moved restlessly, pushing up into Skinner's fingertips even as his eyes fixed themselves on a point beyond his shoulders.
Skinner managed to resist waving a hand in front of Mulder’s eyes. Surely if he worked at it, he could find this about-face in speech pattern endearing? He skimmed his fingers the rest of the way down Mulder’s chest and then forgoing pretence, pushed the shirt off his shoulders and let it pool around his waist. It was still buttoned on at the wrists and effectively acted as a mild form of restraint. Looking down at Mulder’s hands, elegant fingers curled in on themselves, he decided he didn’t care too much for that idea. Carefully he undid the buttons at each wrist, feeling Mulder’s pulse go up a notch. I can hear you, he thought, a little smugly, before sliding the shirt off.
And then there they were, Mulder, Skinner and Mulder’s shirt. Absurdly, Skinner, still in shirt, tie and pants, was left feeling defensive. The unnatural novelty of moving Mulder into this crossing of lines sat uncomfortably with him even as he glanced at the other man in suspicion. Was this just Plan B on Mulder's Ways to Get Things list? He wondered if he really did need to explain himself. Surely not. Mulder might look comatose but-- He ran his hand carefully up his abdomen and found a sore muscle. Saw a shadow change the moorings of Mulder’s face for that moment and then it was gone. He waited out any imminent protest and when none seemed forthcoming, carefully put his palm flush against Mulder’s skin and massaged that muscle until it uncoiled itself a little. Comatose. Yeah right. It would take a blow to the head to shut Mulder's thoughts down.
He bent his head and bit lightly at a nipple, urging it to the same state of thoughtlessness he was in thrall to. Mulder made a low, nothing sound at the back of his throat, neither here nor there.
"In English, Mulder," he said, letting his other hand rest at Mulder’s throat, finger and thumb stroking softly. What one hand took, the other was happy to give back.
Glancing up at Mulder’s face, he saw nothing but the ordinary shadows of stubble and cheekbone. Still he felt compelled to press. "I won't ask twice."
The shock he suffered when Mulder's hand came around to press his head back to Mulder's chest, was suitably puritanical in its force. A different, more rancid part of him sneered at himself. Did he think you were the milk monitor, about to give him a fucking demerit, Walter? He fucks like people talk. A part of Skinner took a moment to think about that. He had all too clear a picture of it. There had been many tapes and many photos and though he didn't see over a third of those - whatever he might have said to Mulder in badly judged sympathy - he remembered all of it. The rest of him took a majority vote and decided to give superior air-time to the fact that Mulder was here and not unwilling. His hands went to Mulder's waist and he felt Mulder’s hands upon his, helping him to undo his pants, with an almost palpable relief. Necrophilia wasn't his thing, even with the lights off. Whatever the reason, Mulder was now present and accounted for. His eyes came back from their endless horizon and met Skinner’s gaze.
"I want you," Mulder said, lifting his hips so Skinner could ease his pants off him.
I want you. His hands stayed immobile against Mulder’s zip, the metal cool against his fingertips as images of Mulder assailed him. He saw himself gripping Mulder’s hips tight enough to bruise, urging him on, fingers pushed into his ass. He saw a smiling, inviting Mulder on display for him, his hands sliding up and down his own cock, slick with Skinner’s saliva. He saw Mulder, naked and needy, allowing Skinner’s cock into his mouth, taking him deeper with every stroke. Murkier fantasies flowed thickly, bleeding into each other. Fantasies of sleeping a night to its end with Mulder beside him, one leg hooked over Skinner’s hip. Fantasies of Mulder, unguarded and at rest.
Mulder’s hands pressed down on his own, bringing him back to what they were doing. Streetlights had been switched on outside, giving some relief to the dim, nearly dark room. Mulder was a study in monochrome. Planes of silver. Curves of shadow. Beautiful - a word that had insidiously crept into Skinner’s mental lexicon, as Mulder himself had, ensuring he could never again use it to describe anything else in quite the same way. Though it was doubtful, in any case, that he might ever have wanted to. As it was, he felt fanciful and embarrassed at the way his mind was wandering. Flights of metaphor didn't sit well with men of his age and he had seen such men, steeped in mid-life crises, go beyond thinking such things and all the way into saying them aloud. He felt himself every inch of that kind of fool now as his fingers pressed into Mulder's zipper, cleaving to it. But no other word seemed appropriate or ready to hand. Mulder was beautiful. Light played off his eyes, letting Skinner see the way they were focussed on him, smoking the skin off him wherever they rested. He was here. And he wanted Skinner.
Small words, their implications beyond his immediate understanding. Yet they were working on him at a terrifying speed, laying waste to any part of him that wanted to stop and consider the risks of this. He let Mulder guide his hands over his hips and up to the waistband of his pants. Then he found himself at eye-level with Mulder’s boxers as he bent to guide the man's feet out of his pant legs. Glow in the dark mushrooms. Well he wasn’t all that surprised, after all. What did surprise him was how little he really cared. All the cracks that cried out to be made; the fevered speculation that ran rife in the Bureau; all of it faded into static, muted by the reality of seeing Mulder like this.
Eyes straining through the faint light, Skinner stared. As voyeurism went, he had got a fair look at Mulder’s body, bruises and all. But everything seemed different again, in the wake of Mulder’s words. I want you. None of his briskly pornographic fantasies had imagined the loose, almost casual intensity with which the other man was standing there, waiting for him. Stronger men than Skinner would have folded at the sight. He moved forward and fitted his body into Mulder’s. Wrapping one arm around his back, he used his own weight to pin Mulder there and ran the other hand down his side to settle on his hip.
Feeling himself get harder, he asked, "This what you want?"
"Yeah, like that," Mulder sighed against his neck, his breath swirling along the edge of Skinner’s ear.
It was enough. He slid his free hand into Mulder’s hair and kissed him deeply. Hard. And refused to come up for air. For the second time in his life, Skinner was inside Mulder's mouth; and it was better than breathing. Much better.
Finally when his lungs were screaming for release, he lifted his mouth a little of the way off Mulder’s, and said tersely, "Breathe, Mulder."
Mulder flashed him a grin and took a long, teasing breath of air, his eyes mocking Skinner. Skinner heard himself make an impatient sound before he fell upon him again, giving orders against his open mouth, hearing Mulder’s soft laughter, demanding Mulder kiss him back, as much for the pleasure of making him laugh as for his need of it. Mulder sighed softly, maddeningly slow in his compliance, waiting for Skinner to give way to threats before opening his mouth against him. His tongue flickered into Skinner’s mouth, swiping over it in a delicate, wet caress that had Skinner talking again, pushing up against Mulder in helpless thrusts. Mulder made a happy sound in the back of his throat and Skinner was left wanting to step into his skin, to soak into his bones.
He pulled back for a quick moment, studying Mulder’s eyes, dark with desire. Smiling at him, he muttered, "You’re beautiful."
"You don't get out enough," Mulder said, an answering smile curving his mouth.
Skinner shook his head at the madness of it all and moved around at Mulder’s urging until he was the one braced against the desk. He ran his thumb along Mulder's jaw, still bemused that he was being allowed these pleasures. Mulder looked up at him with questioning eyes and he nodded. And then Mulder was unzipping him and pushing down his pants. Skinner looked down and saw his cock straining blindly through his briefs and Mulder skimming his palms lightly down the length of it.
"Ah, Christ," he said, and closed his eyes against such a crazy sight.
Not that it did much good. Visions of sliding home into Mulder's mouth arose unbidden, sweating a slick map over his skin. He opened his eyes again and was unable to stop his fingers from biting into Mulder’s arms as he shucked off both Skinner’s pants and briefs. The air was warm, he noted, trying not to flinch as Mulder ran his eyes over his cock.
"Holy shit, Walter." Mulder said gleefully, sliding back up Skinner’s body, not stopping his deliberately wanton journey until he was flush against him. "You carry a licence for that thing?"
He was unable to stop an explosive snort of laughter, even as he tried for disgust. "Jesus, Mulder, that’s so fucking corny. Where do you come up with that shit?"
Mulder gave him a crooked, tender smile. "I don’t buy Honcho for the pictures, Walter."
Then he was undoing Skinner’s tie, unbuttoning his shirt and taking off his glasses and Skinner was letting him do it. Mulder folded the glasses carefully inwards and in a typically incompatible move, let them fall to the floor, toeing them out of the way. Watching him make himself at home had Skinner wanting the taste of him all over again. He reached out and, grabbing him by the nape of his neck, pulled him into a tight embrace. One hand splaying out against Mulder’s back, he slid the other one up from his neck into his hair. He held him tighter and more helplessly than he wanted to and tilting his head back, nuzzled at his throat until the skin there turned a dark rouge and Mulder was left cursing and shivering.
Even as he allowed himself to feel a cautious measure of satisfaction, Mulder twisted out of his grip somehow, like a freshly caught fish. Without warning, he dipped his head and using his hands to keep Skinner’s shirt open, found his bare chest. And licked. Skinner made a sharp, muffled sound of surprise which turned into something between a growl and a groan as Mulder, encouraged, took a nipple into his mouth and tongued it.
"Jesus Christ, Mulder, if you want to help out here, stop fucking around and suck my dick," Skinner said, his voice rasping in his own ears as if he had been inhaling smoke-filled air.
Mulder looked up at him happily. "And they say romance is dead."
It took only that, and his hands were once more biting desperately into Mulder’s flesh. He tried to gentle his grip, knowing his fingers would leave bruises. But his brain had just made another important discovery. Mulder was licking a slow, remorseless path down his chest, towards his groin. He said Mulder’s name out aloud peremptorily, trying to regain some measure of control over events, for appearances’ sake. Another moment and the second all important fact filtered through. Mulder had taken the namecalling to heart. Lifting a flushed, full mouth off his skin just as he’d reached his groin, he stopped touching him in order to give him an are-you-okay look. Fucking thoughtful bastard. Don’t stop. Is what he wanted to say.
Instead, he nodded at his glasses, lying discarded at their feet. "Don’t," he said as grimly as he could. "Don’t you step on those."
Mulder’s mouth moved against his navel in a muffled volley of laughter and then he was sliding, sliding, all the way down to kneel before him.
"Can I do this? Can I do this, Walter?" he asked and without waiting for a reply, suddenly and shockingly, swallowed his cock whole.
"Fuck! Mulder...godda-"
Skinner shut his mouth with a snap. He looked down to see Mulder watching him, his throat working visibly as he sucked Skinner’s cock. He put out one, not entirely steady hand and smoothed back Mulder’s hair which had restlessly found its way over his forehead. Mulder’s hands tightened convulsively for a moment on Skinner’s ass, the small discomfort sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his cock, making his balls ache. Skinner saw him shiver, his mouth now beginning to slide slowly on and off Skinner’s cock. So damn slowly, as if his cock was some kind of banned luxury.
He tried to think of something, anything, unrelated to the sight of Mulder near-naked, kneeling there in front of him. He refused to come ten seconds after Mulder had gotten his mouth around him. All he could see when he closed his eyes though, was Mulder shivering when he had smoothed back the hair from that high, untroubled forehead. It amazed him that he could provoke such a reaction. He wasn’t a complete asshole. Women found him attractive and he had met his fair share of ones who got off on the marine background and the AD nameplate. But that shiver from Mulder had been personal. Localized to Walter Skinner, without the added bullshit.
The thought sent a jolt of arousal to his groin, spiking in his cock, making it jerk in Mulder’s mouth. Mulder immediately gentled his hard suck and swallow routine till his tongue was delicately fluttering up and down Skinner’s length. Vaguely Skinner understood that the person breathing in hard, short gasps was him. His world was reduced to the wet, warm feel of Mulder’s mouth working up and down his cock. Just as quickly, the feel of Mulder's fingers slipping under his balls to stroke him there, expanded it. Unable to marshal the raw pleasure into something more domesticated, he brought his other hand around from Mulder’s back to cup the knotted jaw.
His thumb stroked the pale half-sliver of light that lay along Mulder’s right cheekbone, then trailed down to rub against the saliva slick juncture of his cock and Mulder’s lips. Mulder’s mouth was moving faster and taking Skinner in deeper, his tongue licking at him in light, skimming strokes. His hands were still steady on Skinner's ass, cool fingers stroking over his buttocks, as cool as Mulder's mouth was hot. Skinner groaned, unable to help himself. And felt a fever begin to roam his skin when Mulder’s cock surged towards his thigh at the sound.
Putting his hands behind Mulder’s head, he cupped his skull, thumbs rubbing against his scalp, and said softly, "I’m going to come soon."
Mulder moved his mouth off Skinner’s cock long enough to say in a low, inviting tone, "Good. Fuck my mouth."
He had no recourse in the face of such deliberate seduction. Without thought, his hands slid back into Mulder’s skull and made fists in his hair. He swallowed a brief snort of laughter. Who had seduced whom? Then he was, gently at first, guiding himself in and out of Mulder’s mouth. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. He wondered how it was for Mulder. It certainly seemed to be what he wanted.
The man was difficult enough to read in his usual habitat. With Skinner's cock down his throat, difficult became impossible. Skinner supposed that in time, if such a thing came to pass, practice would yield dividends. Right now, all he wanted to do when he looked at Mulder on his knees like that, was drive himself into the other man, over and over, until at least one of them blacked out. An unfamiliar tenderness constricted his throat, in counterpoint to the suddenly urgent tempo of his thrusts. Mulder’s hands were strong and steady on his ass and he was taking Skinner deeper and harder into his throat than Skinner thought was humanly possible. Watching Mulder straining to suck him that way was more than he could bear and he shut his eyes again.
Then there was nothing else but Mulder’s mouth, all slick heat, and the cool drag of air in the moments he emerged from that heat. He could feel his stomach muscles tightening as his cock slid from hot to cold and back again, one leading into the next. From a long way off, he could hear himself saying Mulder's name, urging him on. Only this time, Mulder was here and he was real. And when he swallowed Skinner down once more, Skinner didn’t feel any surprise that it was for the last time, his orgasm ripped from him in a spasm of heat and obscenities and release. All the while, he could feel Mulder’s mouth on him, softly swallowing and licking and kissing his cock. Apart from the sound of his breath coming loud and harsh into the room, they were both silent for a couple of minutes, comfortably so.
When he felt some confidence in his muscles again, he carefully uncurled his fists from Mulder’s hair and said mildly, "I think I’ve gone insane. Come here."
Mulder got up a little stiffly and looked askance, but came willingly enough into Skinner’s embrace. Keeping one arm wound tightly around his body, Skinner pressed his free hand to the nape of Mulder's neck, gathering him in. They stood that way for a few minutes until Mulder relaxed all the way and shifting his face a little, buried it in Skinner's throat with a satisfied sound. A sound that, some years back, would have had Skinner hard and ready to go again. As it was, he had to fight not to think of it as pathetic that such an ordinary courtesy could be novel enough to please Mulder so much. He moved his head away to survey Mulder’s flushed, open face.
"Say something," he said brusquely, unsure what he wanted to hear.
Mulder slid his arms from around Skinner’s shoulders and wrapped them around his waist and back. Fitting his chin into the warmth of Skinner’s throat, he said thoughtfully, "That used to be my favorite fantasy. You’ve put my imaginary sex life into a very difficult position now. I hope you appreciate that."
Skinner felt his mouth dip into a grin and hastily hid it in Mulder’s hair even as he gave him a none too gentle pinch on the arm. Just like that, the uneasy turbulence of aftermath fell away from them, for which he was grateful. He was under no illusions that they would need to talk about what was happening between them but this wasn’t the time. Or the place.
"Jesus," he breathed suddenly, knowing the sudden tension in his body had communicated itself to the other man when Mulder twisted away enough to look up at him anxiously.
"What?"
"Goddamnit, do you know where we are?"
Mulder looked away hurriedly but not before Skinner saw that shit-eating grin make its encore appearance.
"Hey, the earth moved for me too, Walter. But that was then. Haven’t you got your bearings yet, big bo-"
"Shut the fuck up and get dressed," Skinner ordered, trying to sound suitably business-like and failing abysmally as Mulder caught him checking out his legs as he got into his pants.
He zipped up, struck anew by the sheer emancipation of such madness. He, Walter Sergei Skinner had just had his cock sucked by a subordinate in a briefing room. Probably one in which J Edgar had farted. Did he care? Not right now. And he was forced to wonder if he ever would or whether it mattered. Not that he planned a repeat of this location any time soon in his lifetime. But regret this? Not right now.
Mulder tried to keep his grin under check, not wanting to send Skinner from amused tolerance into some kind of redneck guilt trip. Although, from the sidelong looks that he allowed himself once or twice, Skinner didn’t look to be in any danger of embracing guilt. His face held that slightly quizzical look of self-awareness that Mulder had only ever seen once or twice before. He loved that look. About as much as he had loved the taste of Skinner’s cock. Abruptly he cut off that line of thinking. They were lucky they hadn’t overstayed their welcome here, as it was. Scully was no doubt waiting and unimpressed. And it wasn't like he had an excuse he could share with her. He was unaware he was smirking until Skinner sighed impatiently.
"Can we leave, Mulder, or are you going to stand there all night doing impressions of village idiots?"
"Yeah, yeah." Mulder half-heartedly injected a grumble into his voice and shrugged on his jacket. "Can’t wait to see where we go for our second date."
Dark eyes rested on his face for a thoughtful moment before Skinner said blandly, "I might even buy you a beer next time. Loosen you up a little."
Mulder rolled his eyes and opened the door, walking out in front of Skinner.
"Did I mention I was nearly a child gymnast?" he asked chirpily and cannoned straight into Gills who was standing on the other side of the door, looking thunderstruck.
Mulder opened his mouth and then closed it again. It was up to Skinner how he wanted to deal with this. Moreover it didn’t take a particularly observant eye to see Skinner had a bone of his own to pick here. He moved to one side of him, taking a carefully apposite stance, neither here nor there.
"Simon." Skinner nodded politely.
For a moment Mulder wondered whether he’d imagined the state of undress Skinner and he had just been in. Then, taking in the set of Skinner's shoulders, he decided he hadn’t. Gills looked at them both with the hopeless, castaway air of a man who knows his best bet is to keep his mouth shut but who has decided to speak anyway. The kind of guy who knows his fuckups are coming a mile away and is always powerless to stop himself.
"What the hell was going on in there?"
He was speaking to Skinner. Mulder crossed his arms, tucked his hands into his armpits and rocked up and down gently on his toes. Seek life elsewhere, Gills.
"What do you think was going on in there, Simon?" Skinner asked.
Gills started to talk. Stopped. Started again. Took in Skinner staring at him expressionlessly. Stopped again. Mulder tried reciting the periodic table backwards in his head.
He got as far as Magnesium before Gills said in an unpleasant voice, "I know what the two of you were doing in there. And don’t think threatening me is going to work, Walter. You’re just the goddamn AD. Don’t forget who I work for."
Skinner’s eyes rested on him meditatively. "Agent Mulder, did you hear me threaten Mr Gills?"
"No Sir, I did not," Mulder replied, flashing a cheerful smile at Gills.
Gills stared at them both for a spiteful second, his schoolboy cowlick flopping over his forehead. "You’re crazy if you think Manning’s going to stand for this. You think you’re so much better than me, Walter. You always have. Well, you don’t run the fucking Bureau, no matter what you think. Manning does and you’d better start remembering it."
Gills’ face had reddened by the end of his speech. Mulder had a brief flash of insight into the kind of child he must have been. Always bullied, never befriended; a little worm who grew up into a big worm. He wondered what kind of kid Skinner had been. Noting the mandarin impassivity with which Skinner was regarding Gills, he doubted it was the kind that had had fruit pelted at him.
"If I had been threatening you, Simon, which, Agent Mulder will tell you I didn’t, it wasn’t in my official capacity," Skinner said flatly, pausing a moment to let his message sink in.
By the widening of Gills’ puppydog eyes, Mulder could see it had.
Skinner waited another beat and then continued. "Now if you have those files for us, hand them over and then find your way out of here, Simon. Tell Manning what you want. As long as you understand the consequences that may attach to that."
Mulder could see how badly Gills wanted to explode into another rant but obviously felt menaced enough this time around to keep his mouth shut. He handed over the files to Mulder wordlessly and then left, giving Skinner one last filthy look. They stood together in silence for a while, listening to his shoes echoing off the silent hallways until they couldn’t hear him any more. Then Skinner was striding briskly off down the corridor, towards the elevators. After a confused moment, Mulder’s legs moved themselves until he was walking alongside Skinner.
"You know he’s the kind of guy who isn't going to kiss and make up, right?" he cautiously asked Skinner.
Skinner grinned, the tight displeased look leaving his eyes. "I can't handle more than one a night."
It startled a snicker out of Mulder. "But you probably wanted him to take it personally. How else can you be sure he’s going to run to Manning and blab his pissy little heart out to him?"
He didn't look over but he could feel Skinner giving him the eyeball of approval.
"Exactly. I’m probably giving Manning more credit than he deserves but I think he’ll know to leave this alone for now, at least. And in the bargain, keep an eye out for any problems Gills might cause. It doesn’t serve his needs to fuck us up while the investigation is ongoing."
Mulder nodded. "Better the devil you know," he said lightly.
"That’s what Manning will think, anyway," Skinner replied, without bothering to elaborate.
They lapsed back into a comfortable silence until they got to the car.
Then Skinner said quietly, as he slid into the driver’s seat, "You holding up, Mulder?"
His hands stuttered to a halt in mid-battle with his seatbelt, the low, intimate undertones of Skinner’s voice leaving him in no doubt as to what the other man was referring to. Unwilling to show the effect it had on him, he grinned instead and slid his hand under Skinner’s hand which was resting on his own thigh.
"Cluck, cluck, Walter."
Skinner snorted rudely and pulled his hand away. "In keeping with my new and cluckable character, I think I should remind you that Scully will be less likely to rip your head off your shoulders if you give her a call before we get back to the house."
"Oh shit," Mulder muttered, fumbling for his cell, his fingers ten steps ahead of him and already punching in the last few numbers. He waited on the rings, wondering just how pissed she was by now. Knowing the answer.
"Scully." The voice was somewhere between glacial and exasperated.
"We got held up," Mulder said in a placating tone he saved just for Scully, aware that it had Skinner throwing him a blandly amused glance.
"How much longer, Mulder?"
"We’re on our way - another ten minutes, if Walter steps on the gas."
"What're the odds of that, Mulder?"
"Better than average," Mulder said as they flew through a set of lights in the process of turning red.
"I’ll get the Chinese."
"I knew you wouldn’t let it get cold."
"I knew you’d be late," Scully said coolly, before letting a slight hint of curiosity color her voice. "I don’t know what Skinner wants?"
Mulder frowned. "Me either." Turning to Skinner, he said, "What kind of Chinese food do you like?"
"I don’t like Chinese food."
Mulder stared at him. "What do you mean? Everybody likes Chinese food. Well what do you wan-"
Skinner’s fingers drummed a little tattoo on the steering wheel. "Kungpao chicken. And lots of noodles."
Mulder shot him a disbelieving look, then said balefully into the phone, "Kungpao chicken, extra hot. And lots of noodles."
A pause before Scully said, "Hurry up. This view is getting old."
Mulder put the cell away and looked over at Skinner. Speculatively.
Catching his look, Skinner said, "Now what?"
Mulder deliberated pointing out that the type of Chinese food Skinner liked to eat didn’t need to be kept a state secret. Decided that one blow job wasn’t sufficient grounds for relaying that kind of headline news to Skinner.
"Nothing."
Skinner’s face fell back into lines of mild irritation. "Well shut up then."
"I didn’t say anything."
"I can hear you thinking."
Mulder made a rude sound in the back of his throat and looked out his window to hide the smirk that had found its way onto his face. By the time they arrived, touched base with Scully and trooped into the kitchen, it was well past any civilized dining hour. Which, Mulder thought bemusedly, as he grabbed a barstool and pulled it up to the kitchen counter to join Skinner and Scully, was just as well. There was nothing very civilized about the knots in his stomach. They set to eating with single minded concentration, and silence reigned until the counter top was littered with the debris of empty plates and greasy containers. Scully broke first, pushing away what was left of her meal, with a sigh of relief.
Mulder had watched her eating, wondering what she thought of everything that was going on. Skinner had told her more than he was letting on, he knew that much. Maybe even more than he himself knew. Scully was nobody’s fool. She might have put two and two together and got five. If, why, what and whether he wanted in the end to really know, were questions that Mulder didn’t know how to answer. Not right then anyway,
Skinner threw the leftovers together into one container and efficiently stacked the other empty ones into each other before throwing them into the trash.
"I’m going to grab a quick shower. The two of you can get started."
He spared Mulder a look that sat somewhere between concern and warning and then went towards the bathroom. Mulder was left to absorb this double layer of Walter and the AD that was now available to him. While he was still blinking it away, Scully moved to the dining table and spread out each of the files. He put some coffee to the boil and came over to sit next to her, enjoying the silence in which they could work together, feeling his mind start to uncurl itself and tick over. He was gratified to see that Gills hadn’t begrudged them extra copies. He didn’t want to share.
The files were huge; each one was a bundle of neatly clipped together mass of information, filled with details on each of the task force members - Kroeger, Bagnio, Cooke and Armstrong. The voices of people who knew them made up pages upon pages of neat, typed script. Then there were details about the places they had lived, schools they had attended, hobbies they had had, illnesses that had befallen them, girlfriends who had liked them, girlfriends who hadn’t; and it just went on. Most of it would be utterly irrelevant. Parts of it would be red herrings; facts that seemed to point this way and that and instead drew them off course. Those were the dangerous parts.
Of what was left, some of it would be the kinds of facts that every one could lay claim to, both killers and non-killers. There were people out there who got beaten by their parents, who got kicked out of their families, who raped old women and little boys and everything else besides. Somewhere in what was left after that, would be a few slivers of clues. Not always the case, sometimes the signs were glaringly obvious and it was simply a matter of time. Mulder was certain there would be no gifts here. This was a guy who was still very much in control of his demons and let them out to feed at selective, low-risk moments of his life. There wouldn’t be a great deal of debris left lying around, if any.
"Mulder, how do you want to do this?"
Mulder could hear her battling off the initial exasperation that always came over her at the start of cases. Scully hated the initial skirmish with the facts, the careful, introductory hide-n-seek involved in creating a database of useful facts. Her eyes were roaming restlessly across the files, her fingertips resting in an unconscious gesture of faith against the slender gold chain at her throat. He caught her gaze, gave her a cocky grin and said ‘the water’s boiled’, knowing that a little irritation at him would go a long way towards tamping down her brewing impatience. Scully bit down on her bottom lip, eyes turning cool for a moment as they regarded him.
Mulder smiled hopefully at her and she got to her feet grudgingly, muttering, "Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to."
He raised his voice so he could be heard over the clatter of mugs and teaspoons. "Let’s start with their childhoods. Always a good place to breed a disturbed kid."
Scully shot him a look she saved for the special occasions when he really said something to piss her off. She put the coffee pot down on the table harder than necessary and snapped at Skinner who had just shown himself again, comfortable in sweats, "Coffee, sir?"
Skinner nodded warily, shooting Mulder a quizzical look. "Thank you, Scully."
Mulder raised his head to stare at them both. Scully? Just plain Scully. Where was the Agent Scully? Why did they sound like they were picking up an old conversation? He wanted to ask. Instead he pretended he’d never stopped talking.
"I’ll take Kroeger and Bagnio. Walter, you take Cooke. Scully, you take Armstrong. Start at the start. Flag anything that looks out of the ordinary, however small."
Skinner poured out the coffee and produced pens and notepads. Scully was still dressed in her suit, although she took the lined jacket off, managing to look even more fragile in the process. Looks were deceiving, Mulder thought. It wasn’t the first time she’d been in for a long, long night with him. Although, possibly these were better conditions than most. The house seemed even more warmly colored at night, without the sunlight there to compete with the warm, yellow walls. The kitchen and dining room lights were bright but not harsh. They picked up the red-gold glints of Scully’s hair, softening the lines of concentration around her eyes. The chairs were made of soft leather and the table was large enough to spread out each of their bits and pieces without hassling each other. It was only the actual job at hand, Mulder thought wryly as he opened up Kroeger's file, that struck the false note.
Two hours later, he didn’t particularly care how much comfort he was steeped in. His gut ached from the late night mix of Chinese food and strong coffee. He had a splitting headache from the pages of unending black typed script. From the frown on Skinner’s face, he was in much the same condition. Scully looked a little drawn herself and had taken to grimacing at each sip of her coffee. Probably because she was letting it get cold faster now, regardless of all the refills she kept replacing. Occasionally they talked - a sentence here, a question there - but for the main part, they sat there in silence, making notes and reducing the files down to a smaller, more pertinent volume of facts.
Kroeger grew up in Redmond, Washington where he stayed until he went into a military education prior to becoming an FBI agent. At the age of six, Kroeger had acquired a baby sister. He came from a monied background and nannies were there to be hired and fired. Some of them had talked a little and some of them had talked a lot. By the time he was done reading their sum total, Mulder was well and truly bored shitless with the numerous household complaints. But what did stand out was the general consensus amongst the nannies that Kroeger, a smart but shy little kid, had reacted badly to the situation.
His mother had had difficulties during the pregnancy. This had meant long stays in hospitals and very little time for young Kroeger. When he wasn’t wandering around by his own lonesome, he was throwing tantrums. Shrieking tantrums which didn’t stop until his father was called in to remedy the situation. And remedy it he did. With the end of his belt he would beat a six year old Kroeger until he bled. Nice guy, Mulder thought sourly. No wonder Kroeger grew up into such an all star asshole. More trouble lay ahead of that six year old boy. Mom got sick with the next pregnancy. Mulder would have bet his life that condoms were a strict no-no in that happy little family. This time Mom was so sick that she died. Which left Kroeger’s father to run the roost. With an iron hand.
So no doubt, Kroeger ended up a lonely child and like many other lonely children, that would account for the snippets of diphasic behavior recorded in his early school reports. Mulder composed a mental lecture, distancing himself from the tempting parallels. Most lonely children are lonely because they are unsocialized. Check. People are social animals who perform in groups. Check. Kids who are abandoned or neglected or abused by their parents, are not inbued with the same socialized responses as other kids. Check. Kids who didn’t get beaten. Check. Kids whose sisters didn’t disappear into thin air. Check. He paused for a moment, gathering himself as his pen tap-tapped against the business-like notation at the top of the next page. ‘1967 - Eugenia Richards went missing’. Habit, habit. That old crony who sneaked up on him from time to time, making him forget that the world was full of brothers and sisters.
His sister's disappearance, of course, meant that in 1967, in the decade of peace and love, Richard Kroeger became the sole focus of his father. Who, the next equally dry entry noted, had started drinking heavily. Even more reason for Kroeger to perform what, for a kid, seems like a sophisticated trick and retreat into a fantasy world from which he would occasionally come out and inhabit the real world. A bit like renewing a library book that you never really mean to get around to reading but want to have on hand, just in case. But not every kid who did this ended up requiring professional medical intervention like Kroeger did. Most lonely kids encounter someone - a peer or an adult - who persuades them to accept the risks of dealing with real relationships. Only a very small proportion go deeper and deeper into their fantasy world until they barely inhabit their real world cover personality.
And the deeper they went, the more stressful and alone a process it was when they had to emerge into the real world. And the more energy it took, the angrier they became. As Mulder worked through the file, by the age of eight, Richard Kroeger had been thrown out of three schools and had pushed two teachers into nervous breakdowns. He regularly got into fights and kids were genuinely scared of him. Eventually he was put into involuntary psychiatric care. A Dr Pearlman had been his therapist for a year and a half. The only note that accompanied Pearlman’s name was one that said ‘Continued refusal to speak with Bureau investigators.’ Mulder made his own notes which included talking to Pearlman, however he could. And wondered what Kroeger’s father had thought of him.
The file was thickest at the beginning and started tapering off towards adulthood, as Mulder had expected it would. Kroeger went into the military, just like his dad, and emerged with an exemplary record and commendations coming out his ears. Along the way there were girlfriends but except for one - a Jane Leith - who had lasted nearly a year, there was no one serious. The file investigators hadn’t been able to find Leith who had moved away from Redmond, leaving Kroeger in the process. Mulder thought it was a good bet that she probably congratulated herself daily for having done it. Not a woman who wanted to make herself available for questions about a relationship with Richard Kroeger, he didn't think. But she might be persuaded. If she could be found.
Finally Kroeger ended up in the FBI where his work was not living up to the promise he had shown earlier on. There was nothing in the file that concerned his relationships with other agents, either professional and personal. Mulder knew they would have to chase them down themselves, informally, if they wanted details about the unsavory reputation that hadn’t made it into the file but followed Kroeger around everywhere he went. So did this mean Kroeger was their UNSUB? He could well be. Until the team could put together a series of murders from those boxes, he couldn’t give an accurate profile or make a prediction.
Anyone who had done any time in ISU knew that the old hack song about serial killers being a breed apart from normal people, was one big crock. What people never wanted to know was that the smallest of things usually separates a serial killer from a dysfunctional person. A person might indulge in diphasic behavior as a child, torture small animals, set fires and all the rest of those often seen red flags in serial killer life histories and never end up crossing the line between fantasy and reality. That person, usually a man, might become a physical or emotional abuser. He will probably have an abnormally short temper and be prone to fits of rage and use violence as a very first resort. He will be almost pathological about exerting control over other people and events around him. The very worst of these personality types will retreat into violent sexual fantasies of control and humiliation.
But only a very small percentage, as he well knew, of these personality types will cross the line. Most people never wanted to know that because then they would have to face that fact that rather than being a separate and bizarre phenomenon, the serial killer is a basic personality type in society, one that has been around for a very long time. The question wasn’t, to Mulder’s mind, whether Kroeger was one of these personality types. He was certain that he was. The question was, had Kroeger crossed the line? And if so, how far?
Most of these personality types found a compensatory outlet for their inability to interact normally with society. They might abuse their employees or subordinates, might become difficult people to deal with in the workplace, might even enter professions where they use their professional position to try to humiliate and control their clients. They might be voyeurs or might even troll for potential victims but never attack because the trolling is exciting enough to satisfy them. They might seek out violent sex with prostitutes. They might medicate themselves with drugs and alcohol in order to inhibit the dangerous urges they feel.
Some will cross over the line into firmly criminal activities and become burglars and rapists. However, they might not need to go as far as homicide to gain the measure of equilibrium they sought. As long as they stayed in their comfort zones and were able to give vent to their violent, controlling urges, they would not kill. Which was Kroeger? That was the question. A question that would have to wait until they could put together a series of murders with a common signature. Frowning in thought, Mulder looked up to see both Scully and Skinner watching him, their faces lined with fatigue.
"What time is it?" he asked, surprising all of them with the rusty croak that came out of him.
"Want some water?" Skinner asked.
Mulder nodded gratefully. "Yeah. Thanks."
"It’s nearly 1am, Mulder," Scully said. "We’ve been doing this for nearly three hours now."
Mulder acceded to the unspoken plea in her voice. "Okay. Gimme a little more time to do Kroeger and you guys can look at what I’ve come up with for Bagnio. And then we’ll compare notes, okay?"
He nodded his thanks at Skinner who placed a glass of water in front of him. Scully and Skinner poured more coffee and took toilet breaks. He ignored his own half-full mug and started on Bagnio’s file. It was an easy second to Kroeger’s when it came to volume. But there was very little in it that helped give Mulder a picture of who he was. He grew up in Atlanta, Georgia and lived there long enough to account for the pleasant way in which he rounded out his words. Bagnio was named after his father, Steve Snr., and was one of five children.
When he was ten, his parents divorced amicably. Bagnio’s older brother and sister stayed with his mother. Bagnio moved with his father and younger brother to Washington. No family problems. Both father and mother remained friends and happily travelled up and down between the two states, making sure the kids got to see enough of them and of each other. He was still close to all his siblings and got on with his mother very well. His father had died of a heart attack four years ago.
At school, he had been a loner but hadn’t been picked on by the other kids. A couple of bullies had a try but Bagnio was big for his age and a natural athlete. He stood his ground and fought fair. Mulder noted that he even ended up as friends with one of them. Jason Miller was his name and the lengthy transcript of his interview boiled down to the fact that he worshipped the ground Bagnio walked on. Not helpful. As Mulder flipped through the file, he found it was the same all the way through. No one had a bad word to say about Bagnio. He was a man without enemies, it would seem. Or one with enemies as discreet as Bagnio himself appeared to be.
If the guy had ever done anything wrong, it was buried so far up his ass that the investigators hadn’t been able to lure it out. Model student who won nearly every scholarship there was to be had. He was clearly intelligent and had been a favorite with all the teachers. He remained more or less anti-social throughout high school but had a few good friends, including Jason Miller. All of them sang the same tune too. Bagnio the Great. Interestingly though, not one of them responded to the prompts given out by the interviewers, as to whether Bagnio might be gay.
Two of his best friends were intensely homophobic. Not a lot of girls but Bagnio had dated and had a couple of long term relationships that didn’t go anywhere but didn’t end in tears either. The girls were all doe-eyed brunettes, with legs up to their tits and very little of interest to say, though that didn’t stop them from talking. And, Mulder noted with a wry grin, that didn’t stop the interviewers from asking long, pointless questions. He wasn’t surprised to see that the names at the bottom of each interview sheet belonged to male agents. Perks of the job.
Given the monotony of gathering information about Mr Model Citizen, Steve Bagnio, he couldn’t say he blamed them for lingering over what seemed to have been the highlight of Bagnio’s file. Bagnio had serenely sailed through life and ended up at the FBI. He was one of the more promising recruits. Again, he had very few friends but the ones he had were incredibly loyal. Those agents weren’t going to say anything about Bagnio, either on or off the record. The buzzword for Bagnio, apparently, was privacy. He sounded like the kind of guy both Mulder and Skinner would get along with. Yet there remained the undeniable fact that Bagnio had somehow known Mulder’s choice and style of sex and propositioned him.
Moreover, if Mulder remembered rightly and he always did, Bagnio had said that he dealt in the kind of unusual relationship that Mulder was after. At the time Mulder had written it off as intriguingly delivered but fairly routine talk for someone who preferred to be the sexual aggressor. Yet, nowhere in Bagnio’s file was there even a hint that he might have had sex with a man. In each interview with the ex-girlfriends, the very thought that Bagnio would be into anything but vanilla sex, brought on a flurry of such wide-eyed giggles that even the most charmed of the interviewers were clearly put out of patience. Yet Mulder had read his proposition as that of an experienced and confident man. And if Mulder was any proof, Bagnio was, at the very least, egalitarian in his choice of gender.
Finally he put his pen down and closed the file, to the patent relief of both Scully and Skinner. As he’d expected, they hadn’t too much to say about Cooke and Armstrong. Both were cut from the same mould. Cooke was married with two small kids and Armstrong was engaged. Armstrong was nowhere near as stupid as he looked, which, Scully noted caustically, was lucky since he’d be brain-dead otherwise. His file read him as exactly what he looked like - a natural born jock. Somehow, through a mix of favors he hadn’t really wanted, courtesy of parents with big connections and even bigger ambitions for their only son, Armstrong had made it this far.
He wasn’t particularly good at what he did but he was also kept on a very short leash, an obvious result of more favors. Nobody wanted to be the one to explain to Senator Armstrong and his wife why their only child got killed in the line of duty. So while there were no outstanding parts of Armstrong’s record, there were no major fuck-ups either. Cooke had a father who was in the FBI and was killed when a routine inquiry following up some leads earned him two in the chest with a sawn-off shotgun. He was considered fair but very by-the- book, a mixture of inflexible and eager which made him hard to pigeonhole. A high level of intelligence but not big on achievements or awards. Mulder thought he was a good guy and didn’t hesitate to say so.
"He’s not our guy."
Skinner snorted. "What, just like that? That’s it? We eliminate him from our list of possibilities?"
Mulder held the AD’s slightly bemused gaze and tried to remember that in terms of serial killers, Skinner didn’t get out that much.
"Yeah, just like that."
Skinner looked at him, interest warring with scepticism. Then he said, "Scully? What do you think?"
Mulder was aware that Scully was cataloguing every movement, every word that passed between Skinner and himself. Again he wondered just how much she knew about what was going on around here.
"Sir, he hasn’t mentioned the mothership yet," she said, shooting Mulder a you-better-thank-me-in- the-morning look. "So I’d say it’s safe. Besides, all of Mulder’s hunches, analyses - call them what you want - have come through."
She paused and then continued, her voice without inflection. "This is the sum of my experiences on all the cases I’ve assisted him with, anyway."
Pinned between Mulder’s glares and Scully’s disapproval, Skinner capitulated and said, "Okay, Mulder. I’ll go on your word with Cooke. So tell us about Kroeger and Bagnio."
They listened carefully while he went over his notes and neither cavilled nor questioned anything he had to say. In truth, he was surprised at how little Skinner stepped on his toes. While he wouldn’t go as far as to say he didn’t miss it being just Scully and himself, he gave Skinner credit for meeting him half-way as much as he could.
When he wound up, Scully asked, "So when you were saying earlier that you think our UNSUB is unaware of one set of serial killings, you think that one of these guys is actually never going to test positive with the polygraph?"
Mulder shrugged. "I highly doubt it. I think the UNSUB is only aware of the homeless murders. These are the kills of a very, very careful serial killer who is still entirely professional and in control. The bodies are not important to him. I am important to him. The bodies are being ‘delivered’ to us, like a statement. We’ll find nothing of value from them."
"So," Skinner said slowly, following Mulder’s logic. "You think that he’s this good because he’s been killing a long time?"
Mulder grimaced and nodded. "Yeah and the reason why he’s broken with pattern is because he’s split himself up. One of him wasn’t enough to shuttle through the real world placeholder personality and his fantasy world. Unfortunately for his victims, even the part of him that was broken off so that it could function in the real world, was so steeped in perversion and rage that it set up its own killing fields. Only, the motivation and signature here is quite different. What he wants is me. The bodies are just a way to get to me."
"We’re going to have to go re-interview witnesses and see if we can’t find the missing people in their lives, aren’t we?" Scully asked gloomily.
Mulder nodded. No one bothered to specify who the ‘they’ were. They were all talking about Bagnio and Kroeger and they knew it. Finally Skinner called a halt to the night and would brook no argument. Mulder argued and eventually complied with no small amount of ill-grace while Scully looked suspiciously relieved. He leeched a few extra minutes while Skinner walked Scully out as a form of de facto protection and, Mulder suspected, due to a terminal case of good manners.
Left to himself, he concentrated on the feeling of unease that had been running through him ever since he opened up these two files. He couldn’t see his way clear to which one of these two, Kroeger or Bagnio, felt right. Which was vaguely troubling. By now, he could usually feel his way towards at least settling on one of the candidates as a likely suspect. Here, something felt not quite right. He was still frowning into Bagnio’s file when Skinner returned.
"Mulder, close the file. If you really want, you can put it under your pillow. But get the hell up. I want to go to sleep."
Grumbling for the sake of it, Mulder closed the file and put the whole lot into Skinner’s briefcase and clicked it shut.
Turning to Skinner he asked, "So what’s the combination for the locks? You can tell me, Walter. We are going steady, after all."
Skinner looked like he might smile but merely said instead, "Is that what we’re doing?"
Mulder grinned. "Well, we can’t share a locker really and I don’t suppose you have a pin for me to wear, so..."
Skinner stopped fighting the smile. "You have to stop watching those frat house movies."
"Hey, I don’t want to hear a word against Animal House," Mulder said seriously, allowing Skinner to elbow him aside and set the combination on the briefcase locks.
"If you go to bed and work out which of your bruises need a make-over, I’ll lock up," Skinner offered.
Mulder didn't put up any of the many pithy arguments that came to mind. It had been a very fucking long day. His eyes felt gritty and he could barely hold himself up without swaying. He tried walking down the hall towards the master bedroom with some spring in his step. All the while he felt like he was wrapped from head to toe in taffy, trying to negotiate his way through a zero gravity zone. It took him a full ten minutes to get himself some clean teeth, a glass of water and an empty bladder. He took his time slipping carefully into bed, feeling bruises that he hadn’t given any thought to while showing Skinner the time of his life. He was still grinning at the notion that it might have been the time of Gills’ life too, when Skinner came in.
"What’re you grinning at?"
Mulder chuckled. "Just wondering whether Gills heard the whole show."
Skinner gave it a moment’s disgusted thought. "Probably. The guy’s a voyeur in denial."
Watching Skinner take his belt off, Mulder thought wryly that Gills wasn’t the only one. Looking away before he was caught staring, he wondered how long it would be before Skinner wanted to Talk about what had happened tonight. He shifted uneasily and caught his breath a little as his knees groaned. Skinner frowned at him and disappeared into the bathroom. He came back out a moment later with a tube of ointment, a bowl of warm water and soap and a fresh set of sterile bandages.
"Lie still so I can look."
It came out as an order even though it was meant kindly, raising Mulder’s hackles despite his best intentions a moment ago, to co-operate. He closed his eyes and tried to stay still, an exercise in futility. His skin felt preternaturally sensitive, as if the whole day had caught up with it in the last few minutes.
"You’ve been going all day," Skinner observed neutrally, ignoring Mulder’s concerted efforts to glare at him.
"I’m not a kid," Mulder replied, tensing against Skinner’s hands as they drew down the sheet and began moving gently over his chest, checking for tenderness or pain.
"Then stop acting like one," Skinner said. "Lie still."
He retaped bandages and changed them over where necessary, helping Mulder to turn over so he could get to the bruises and cuts on his back. Finally he got the ointment which turned out to be muscle balm and began to work a small amount of it into Mulder's skin.
"I don’t like that," Mulder said flatly, displeasure bleeding into his voice, harshening it.
"You don’t have to," Skinner replied, disinterested, and continued for a few more minutes, his hands stroking down Mulder's thighs, rounding over the curve of his knees and calves.
The rough warmth of his hands seemed to ease the aches out of Mulder in direct contrast to the way the sheets, soft and cool, seemed to aggravate them. He lay still and only tensed up again when Skinner, having reached his stomach, stopped. He felt his stomach muscles tighten and contort as he fought off the impulse to raise himself up towards the other man. Skinner’s hands paused a moment in mid-air. Then he was reaching for the tube of ointment and capping the lid back onto it. Mortified, Mulder realized he was gritting his teeth in an attempt not to ask Skinner to continue. He shifted away, wincing a little as he did.
Skinner took it the wrong way and said irritatedly, "Christ, Mulder. Don't be so jumpy. I’ve already seen you naked or near enough. What’s the big deal?"
"Oh great," Mulder muttered. "You want to talk about that now? Just great."
"I don’t want to talk about anything right now. I just want to get some decent sleep. Okay?"
Mulder looked over and saw the lines around Skinner's mouth deepen. Easy to mistake that look for a scowl instead of the weariness it really represented.
"Yeah. Okay. Sorry."
Skinner’s eyes rested on him a moment, their expression unreadable. "You need to sleep too," he said finally. "Get started on it. I'm going to wash my hands."
Mulder closed his eyes, hearing Skinner make his way into the bathroom again. Feeling the balm begin to work its warmth into his body, he began drifting off. Some time later, he felt Skinner slide into the bed and was vaguely aware of turning his face into the solid warmth of the other man’s shoulder. He murmured something in protest when Skinner’s arm slid around his waist but was unable to shake himself out of his lassitude long enough to do anything about it. Instead he relaxed and fell into that deep, dreamless sleep that only real fatigue could summons up.
He woke up in stages, aware of a warm body pressed into his, a voice talking gently into his ear.
"Mm," he mumbled, pressing himself closer into that warmth.
"Mulder."
The voice sounded exasperated and a little amused.
"Mulder, wake up."
It also sounded very fucking familiar. He flung himself away from the voice and opened sleep encrusted eyes in trepidation. Winced as Skinner’s face swam into focus, his bare chest leaning over Mulder as he resorted to shaking him.
"Mulder!"
"Alright! Fuck! I’m awake, okay?" He found the sight of Skinner’s exposed skin somehow intensely irritating and turned over on his side, dragging a corner of the quilt with him to curl up in. "I’m awake. What is it?"
Skinner’s voice was unexpectedly gentle when he said, "They’ve found another body."
END OF PART 8
