Lightning Crashes II: Burning

[vivfic]

Fandom: X-Files
Pairing: Mulder/Skinner
Summary: Anger, like a sparked fire, can burn a forest to the ground.
Sometimes, though, the inferno is necessary for regeneration.



Lightning Crashes II: Burning
Originally posted as Rye
September 1998

Rating: NC-17
Category: S, A, R
Keywords: Skinner/Mulder, slash
Spoilers: US5 - Redux, Redux II

Note: This takes place in the same universe as Lightning Crashes.
It is not necessary to read the first piece to understand this; you
simply need to know that Mulder and Skinner have an ongoing,
if sporadic, sexual relationship.

My deep thanks and gratitude to CGS and DAP who provided insight,
advice and support above the call of friendship. Thanks to K and H
for brutal honesty.

Gone. Missing. AWOL.

Mulder had pulled another of his god-damn stunts, completely
oblivious to the impact of his actions.

How could the agent do this? To Scully? To him? How could he do
this now?

Skinner dwelled in his rage. It was safer, stronger place to be. The
alternative was untenable.

He couldn't bring himself to believe the lie--gunshot wound to the
face. Suicide. Dead. It couldn't be true. He wouldn't let it be
true. Even as the image haunted his every waking moment, he
denied it. Burned it away with fury.

Anger provided energy--kept him moving forward. Past all the other
lies, from Blevins, and Scully, and the myriad other agents and
faceless men and women who filed in and out of his office and who
filled all the meetings that he had to keep attending.

And then, of course, he knew it to be a lie. But still, the anger
drove him, fueled him. Where was Mulder? When was he coming
back? Was he coming back?

All the while he waited for a message, a sign, the smallest
indication of contact. Didn't Mulder know who he could trust
anymore? By keeping him out of the loop, who were Mulder and
Scully imagine they were protecting--themselves or the AD?

With nothing to do but wait, Skinner waited. Waited for the ambush,
for the sniper fire, waited for the phone call. Any phone call.

And then there came that awful meeting, with Scully's testimony, and
her near-accusation of him, that was forestalled only by her
collapse, and now all he could was wait again.

He was so tired of waiting for death.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Outside Scully's Hospital Room

His first thought had been overwhelming relief. He's not dead. I
knew he wasn't dead. He's not dead. Followed by the inevitable
and nearly as paralyzing fury. Dammit to hell and back....what the
FUCK is he doing here? But he knew why Mulder was there, even at
the risk of his own life.

Following the AWOL agent down the corridor, through the doors into
ICU, he'd temporarily halted the other agents. "Hold here." Thankful
for the small perks the rank of AD still afforded him.

Knowing what would happen when Mulder saw Scully. Knowing how the
steel trap would slam shut around Mulder's heart and soul.

He found the younger man doubled over. Felled by the sucker punch of
the unfairness of life and the insult of Scully lying pale, already
nearly lifeless, in a hospital bed. In a moment of uncharacteristic
fancy, Skinner wondered if Scully, even in her unconscious state
could feel her partner there.

Rage, uncontrollable sorrow, guilt, all warring in Mulder's eyes and
voice and face. Asking questions that had no answers. All action
and motion with no focus beyond trying to reach her, even as he
seemed to know that it wouldn't make any difference. But he needed
to be there -- drawn by a force and a bond to Scully that was almost
visible. The bond of battle-tested camaraderie that had no parallel
in this world, not even a marriage could have been as intimate.

The encounter in the hallway and the subsequent hours reduced
themselves to fragmented sensations and memories.

Mulder struggling against the AD as Skinner tried to get him out of
there. To get him to safety. The feel of the agent's body against
his own a familiar heat and hardness, but usually in a different
struggle, a different passion.

"Don't make me put you under arrest! Don't!" His threat the only
way to strike through layers of confusion and grief enveloping
Mulder. Finally physically wrenching him away and out.

Later, while Mulder was giving the first of his many evasive
depositions, Skinner would find his mind distracted by the memory
of Mulder's body against his own in the hospital corridor. The
surge of inappropriate arousal that had washed over him leaving him
nearly breathless, for the briefest of moments tempted to simply
crush his mouth down over the lush lips that had been in front
of him.

The human need for contact and reaffirmation of life amidst tragedy
and death, he mused. The need to touch, to hold each other--as
though somehow that could momentarily hold the grief at bay. There
was so much grief to be shared, to held back, to be lived through.

But it was more than that. Not just an impersonal need to touch, to
be touched. That spark he'd felt, that he thought he'd seen echoed
ever so briefly in Mulder's eyes, was something darkly secret and
personal. Something. Some need that belonged only to them.

He missed the last few sentences that Blevins and Mulder exchanged,
lost in memories that had no place in this office; in this building.
But then suddenly Mulder was leaving. Skinner paused just long
enough to exchange what he hoped was the appropriately exasperated
glance with Blevins and then followed the agent out into the hall.

He'd hardly known how to start the conversation. Mulder needed a
friend desperately, but Skinner also knew that in this state he would
not be able to listen to the voice of reason or friendship, or
whatever dark, inexplicable thing it was that bound the two of them
together on so many other levels.

They had, Skinner thought, long since moved beyond the need for
words to express their trust, but the game had moved all of them to
new places on the board and relationships were no longer clear.
Of course there were no words to describe what he and Mulder had.
What it meant. Or didn't mean. But he had thought that some
fragile faith at least would survive through it all. Mulder's
brusque dismissal of him opened a ripping fissure in his gut that he
ruthlessly ignored.

He'd had to invoke Scully's name just to get Mulder to listen to him
-- however grudgingly -- and even at that, Skinner had known that
he was walking a narrow path, and that the slightest misstep would
send them both hurtling into an abyss. The tightrope they'd walked
for so long was already stretched and frayed. It was a dangerous
thing they did, that they hid under the cloak of silence and dark and
secrets. Finally though, he'd convinced him, had brought Mulder to
the point of asking Skinner, "How can you help me?"

Then he nearly lost control of the whole situation again. Knowing
that he was walking in a minefield of Mulder's deepest fear. Knowing
that she was the only thing Mulder still believed in, he still had
to ask. Had to torture both of them, "Tell me why Scully lied for
you." Already knowing the answer, but unable to help himself.
Why didn't you talk to me? Why didn't you come to me?

Mulder, unable to answer, but answering anyway....offering the
accusation that Scully had been deliberately infected, and that there
was a mole within the FBI. He'd known. He'd already known. No
new information exchanged, but at least Mulder no longer looked
at him with bleak, accusing eyes. The fissure in his gut narrowed,
but only slightly.

And finally Mulder was striding away, down the corridor, and Skinner
wondered with something that tasted almost like despair if he would
ever see the man again.

# # #

Of course he did see him again. In that fateful hearing that unmasked
Blevins, and then after that, again, in the corridor outside Scully's
hospital room.

Public meetings, at which so many private things needed to be said,
and couldn't be. Public meetings that further tangled their already
complicated and intertwined lives. The raw currents of sex and lust
and connection and something that could almost be called trust
running through the years, snarling them in webs even more complex
than the conspiracy in which they were ensnared.

Scully's miracle had been procured after all, and Skinner thought
that his own relief and gratitude for the inexplicable gift was
nearly as great as Mulder's. The price had been high -- incalculable
really -- but the reward was priceless. Scully would live, at least
a while longer, which is all that any of them could ask for or
hope for.

Mulder now would be able to go on, to survive and even thrive. He
needed her in ways that were both obvious and subtle. Just as
Skinner needed Mulder, in ways that he refused to name beyond the
obvious--Mulder was the most likely candidate to take out the
Shadow Conspiracy that threatened them all for so long.

He knew that Mulder needed him, too--their lives' twisted paths
looping and crossing until there existed between them a balance
that was as vital as it was unexpected.

He ached for Mulder, though, even as he rejoiced for him. Scully
had been returned to his side, and that was nearly everything, but
he had discovered that the agent had also lost. Again.

He'd left Scully's hospital room after the briefest of polite visits.
Her family, although cordial, had clearly not wanted him there.
And he'd been uncomfortably aware that it wasn't his place. It
wasn't his right. He was merely an instrument, a bit player in
this drama. He said his lines, and made his exit.

He'd found Mulder in the corridor, tears streaming down his face.
At first he'd thought they had been simple tears of relief and joy
at Scully's remission, but a closer look revealed something else
entirely.

Uncaring of who might see them, he'd crouched in front of Mulder,
covering his shaking hands with his own -- absently noting how his
blunt, workman-like fingers covered the elegant, agile digits that
still held the bloodstained photo.

"What is it?" A growl, but tempered by a note that only Mulder
would hear.

"He brought her to me." Mulder wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Who?" Lost. Was this about that cigarette smoking bastard and
Scully's cure? But they'd won, hadn't they?

"Samantha." Mulder's voice was barely audible over the clatter of
the hospital hallway. Jesus. Skinner's breath left him in a silent
exhale.

"When? How? What...?" What the hell was going on? If Samantha
had been returned where the hell was she? Fuck. She wasn't here.
That meant that.... he tried to keep his voice level, almost gentle.
"Is she dead?"

Mulder's head snapped up at that. Eyes locking. He could drown
there. Drown, lose himself, his sense of reasons, his bearings, his
identity. It was Mulder's eyes that had first seduced him, had
first let him know of the agent's own needs and desires. He shook
off the inappropriate memories....Mulder needed him here, now.

"No. She's not dead. She's...alive....married...with children."
Mulder closed his eyes, misery etched on his face.

This didn't make any sense. "Then....?" He didn't even know the
question to ask.

The voice thin, thready. "She doesn't want to have anything to do
with me. She wouldn't even consider going to see Mom. She
called him 'father'."

Hidden traps everywhere. Waiting to slam shut on the unwary and
unsuspecting. Iron teeth that will break bones and tear flesh.

His hands tightened over Mulder's and he was very much surprised
when the agent turned his hands and twined his fingers around his
own. "I'm sorry." The words so inadequate, but there was nothing
else to say. "I'm so sorry." He closed his own eyes. Simply
waited with Mulder for a long moment.

Finally, thighs protesting the crouched position, mind becoming
aware that they could be discovered at any moment -- Scully's family
was just behind that door -- Skinner moved to stand, to gently
disengage his hands.

He opened his eyes as he stood and looked down into the desert of
Mulder's loss. Even in triumph, there was defeat. The anger and ache
in his gut warred to a stalemate conclusion, leaving him empty but
for the need to somehow help Mulder.

Mulder looked bereft, as though he had been cast adrift. He simply
sat, his hands still turned up in his lap, as though waiting for
something to be dropped into them.

Skinner watched a long moment and then bent and picked up the photo
that had fluttered unnoticed to the floor. He looked at the blood-
stained image for a long time and then finally returned the picture
to Mulder.

"You'll find her." The voice of a lover, not an AD.

Hazel eyes slowly focused back into the present. "Maybe." A sigh.
"If it was really her."

"You'll find her."

_ _ _ _ _

Standing outside Mulder's door, Skinner wondered about the wisdom
of his being there. Mulder had been through both heaven and hell
in the last 72 hours and was no doubt strung as tightly as a compound
bow -- and Skinner had no intention of being the target into which
the arrow was released. But still, he had to be here.

He stood for a moment, wondering whether to knock, or to use the key
that he kept, unmarked, inside his wallet. Not on his key ring.
Never on his key ring.

He had just raised his hand when the door opened slowly.

"It's you." Mulder's voice was level, unsurprised.

"How did you...?"

"Your shadow under the door." He'd been sitting in his living room
just watching shadows pass his front door? Or had he been waiting
for a particular, familiar shadow?

"Are you going to come in?" The voice finally showing some
inflection, slightly mocking. They both knew what he was doing here.

Seized by a sudden and paralyzing uncertainty. "Maybe I shouldn't..."

"Come in. Just come in." Turning away without even seeing if
Skinner would follow. Which of course he did. Already feeling his
chest tightening a little, his breaths coming a little shallower.

Mulder was waiting for him in the middle of the darkened living room.
The street lights through the blinds casting unreliable, broken
light across his body in bars. Skinner could see a faint glint of
amusement in the hazel eyes that watched him seemingly without
blinking. But behind the amusement was something else. Skinner
stopped in his tracks, mesmerized by the myriad emotions that he
could suddenly see. He was in danger of falling forever into the
depths of longing, hope, lust, misery, and trust that pulled at him.
Tried to lure him.

Then Mulder blinked and the depths disappeared behind the familiar
mocking mask, although the lust and need remained. "You just going
to stand there all night?" Almost plaintive.

"Mulder." Why did he always find himself growling at the younger
man? But he moved forward until they nearly met. The heat from
their bodies reaching out, enveloping them. Mulder's scent wrapping
itself around his consciousness. His body tightening, hardening. He
very carefully did not allow them to touch at any point.

Mulder watched him. The agent's eyes now giving nothing away.
Waiting. Across the tiny space that separated them.

Why am I here? Skinner was appalled to realize he'd voiced the words
aloud. Watched Mulder flinch in slow motion -- the ripples of fear
running through his frame like a tree bending under the onslaught
of a storm.

"Why are you here?"
"I didn't mean..."

Their sentences clashing and overlapping. Mulder finally surrendering
the field -- waiting.

Now finally he reached out to touch the man in front of him, gently
cupping Mulder's face, moving forward until their foreheads just
touched. "I know why I'm here. I always know." Voice kept quiet
and level with an effort that revealed itself in the trembling in his
body.

Mulder slid his hands around Skinner's waist, stilling the tremors
--simply holding--not caressing, not moving at all. "I knew you'd
come. I was waiting. You would have to come, since she..." his
voice breaking.

"Yeah." Voice rougher now, unbidden emotions rising in his chest,
hot and angry. Unwarranted, but unavoidable. Trying to contain them.
"We won, didn't we?"

"She's ok. We're ok." Something almost like a laugh evident. "God,
I sound like something out of a '70s pop psychology text."

Skinner recognized the humor for the shield that it was. Had no
words to answer it. Could only tighten his grip for a moment,
before moving to gather the agent in close to his body. Felt Mulder
stiffen and then sag into his embrace. The agent's frame melding
to his, holding tight and tighter. Almost expected for a moment to
feel tears.

Shudders wracking them both, the knife wound of his gut slowly
closing, leaving only a phantom ache. It was still all right. It
would be all right. The connection between them stretched and
frayed, but still there, still binding. Binding them to each other
--to an undefinable future.

Skinner groaned and pulled Mulder even closer into his body.
Feeling the hard chest meeting his own, the hot length of Mulder's
erection pressing into his body, his own cock straining to meet the
other.

Shifting his hips just a little to let their enflamed members brush,
rub. Mulder sighed and returned the hard embrace, moving his arms
to circle Skinner's back, hands beginning to move restlessly--
pushing up under the suit jacket, plucking at the starched shirt,
digging into the tense muscles.

He could feel the change rip through Mulder like a lightning bolt.
Could actually smell and taste the surge of arousal that ran riptide
through the other man's veins. The younger man's mouth suddenly
open against his throat, lips brushing, tongue tasting, teeth nipping
as he moved away just enough to trail kisses and bites across the
AD's neck and jawline. Evening beards rasping against each other
--skin sensitized to an almost unbearable degree. He allowed Mulder
to take the lead, surrendered momentarily to his seduction, his
need. Let himself simply experience the feel of the body against
his, the mouth trailing fire, the hands making promises as they
roamed and caressed.

Mulder's hand reaching between them, grasping Skinner's cock
through the fabric of his trousers. His hips thrusting into the
clever fingers, a gasp torn from his strangely air-starved lungs.
"Oh god. Yes." The relentless stroking moving him close to the
edge. Too close.

Reaching in to the dark place in the center of his soul, he fought to
regain control. Pulled away slightly, allowed his own hands to
begin the journey across Mulder's body that he had first mapped
more than two years before. To travel across the shoulders, the
ribs, the slim hips, the firm ass. One hand reaching behind Mulder's
head to finally bring their lips together in a kiss.

Mouths moving and slanting across each other. The sweep of a tongue,
mouths opening, softening, and then battling. Tongues sliding across
each other to seek the rough, hot interiors, smoothing over teeth.
Breaking only long enough to draw deep gasping breaths. Then
returning again and again to their kiss that became the only thing
in the world. Their universe narrowed to this room, this moment.

The sweet fury of their mouths' connection always more than he
expected. That slice of time during which they were permitted to
be only themselves. Every time it happened he wondered where he
found the strength to walk away each time. But the strength came
from the kisses.

Pulse racing, Skinner realized that Mulder was beginning to unbutton
his shirt, the elegant fingers moving to unknot his tie, silk
sliding to the floor with a slick whisper. Instinctively he mirrored
the actions, moving to disrobe his lover, meeting him more than
half-way.

Shirts gone now, and their hands moved over fevered skin, branding
the scars and sinew that moved beneath their touches. Skinner bent
began to suck and lave Mulder's nipple. Feeling it pucker into
hardness beneath his mouth; feeling more than hearing Mulder's
groans and whispered pleas that dear god he shouldn't stop, shouldn't
stop, never stop. The voice of the younger man overriding that
detached voice in the back of his own head that snidely informed
him that this savage lust was nothing more than a reaction to the
near deaths that they had faced.

He told his superego to shut the fuck up, and surrendered himself to
the feel of Mulder's hands clutching his shoulder, clenching hard
enough to bruise as Skinner began smoothing his palm over Mulder's
rampant erection. Pressing back as Mulder's hips bucked helplessly.

"Oh christ--don't...."

Driven now by something primitive and feral, shoes, pants, socks,
boxers were discarded with ungodly haste, strewn without care as
they maneuvered toward the couch.

The lights from the streetlamps were clearer here, Mulder's face more
visible as he lay back, pulling Skinner toward him. God, Skinner
was nearly lost at that moment--the smell of the leather couch
overlaid with the scent of Mulder's arousal; hot, damp skin pressing
into him, the sound of the leather creaking under them. He wanted
to catalog each of the sensations individually--to remember them
forever--but they jumbled together in the maelstrom of the moment,
pulling him into the fury of the storm. Lost. Always lost.

Their erections pulsing together--arching into each other helplessly.

Mulder tossed his head back, seemingly caught in the same wave of
sensation overtaking Skinner. For a moment the AD simply watched
him, fascinated by the abandon on the man's face, the pure
sensuality. An unexpected wave of tenderness swept him, and he
found himself kissing his way down the center of Mulder's torso,
until he reached the straining cock.

Pausing to look once more at Mulder, he met the hooded eyes, and
then gently engulfing the head of Mulder's penis. The bitter
familiar taste of pre-cum, underlaid by the taste that he knew simply
as Mulder. Hot, hard, alive, he worked the length in his mouth
carefully, deliberately. Setting a pace he'd learned so long ago.
Moving up and down the shaft, pressing his tongue against the
underside.

He cradled Mulder's balls in his hand, rolling them carefully,
feeling them begin to tighten. He increased his pace, just a little.
Heard wordless groans and whimpers from the man writhing beneath
him. Continued his relentless assault. Just a little faster.

"Oh God! Don't...." Mulder couldn't even finish the plea. His hips
raising up, his cry choked off, he came with a suddenness that
startled both of them -- his orgasm nearly violent in its intensity.
Skinner swallowed the salty, bittersweet fluid, licking Mulder
clean, gentling him down from the small spasms that still wracked
him.

At last they both lay still, panting, breath returning slowly.

Skinner moved back up to stretch along Mulder's body. Rolled them
so that they lay pressed together, Mulder leaning into his body, his
head resting on Skinner's chest. Simply lying there. Simply being.
He thought maybe Mulder had fallen asleep.

"Holy shit." The quiet voice startled him.

"Yeah." Just holding him. Strangely peaceful. Silence after the
violence of a storm. This peace was what he'd sought this evening.
This was why he had come here. Connection, affirmation of life.
But so much more than that.

Mulder finally stirring -- reaching between them to grasp Skinner's
throbbing cock. Fingers sliding up and down the length. Skinner
barely able to stifle the groan that reverberated through every cell
of his being.

"You don't have to..."

"Shhhh....It's ok." Mulder still semi-dazed by his orgasm, managed
to look both debauched and amused. His fingers stilled, so that he
simply held Skinner's shaft -- firmly, warmly.

A deep breath and then sudden movement--Mulder standing over him,
Skinner cold and bereft on the couch, looking up at him.

"What are you...?"

"You know you prefer the bedroom." It was true. He did. The small
knowledges they had of each other still a source of surprise.

Hands pulling him to his feet, leading him back to the room that was
even dimmer than then living room. In near darkness, he heard the
slick sound of lube being rubbed between palms, and then the warm
slickness of it being rubbed teasingly on his cock.

Without his glasses, lost in the shadows, he allowed himself to be
driven by feel only, to follow the direction of the friendly hands,
to press up against the willing, familiar body, to drive deeply into
the offered tightness. In and out, in and out, thrusting to a
rhythm that echoed in a corner of his soul that he forgot he
possessed most days. Slapping against a body that met him willingly,
meeting the hands and mouth that reached for him. Answering the
urgency of the man under him with his own demands. And finally,
feeling the tightening low in his belly, the fire flowing to center
in his groin, and then the sparks radiating out and back and
through, and he was tumbling without direction--weightless.
Released.

It was not yet dawn. Climbing back into his clothes, moving with a
stealth that was borne of hard experience and more recent practice,
he found himself dressed and alone in Mulder's living room, staring
blindly out the window. He knew he needed to leave but couldn't,
somehow.

Cursing himself for being a fool, he moved back to stand in the
doorway to Mulder's bedroom and watched the agent sleep for a long
minute. Watched until Mulder, with that sixth sense of his, opened
his eyes.

No words for a long time.

"Just lock the door behind you." The tone deceptively light.

"Mulder." Exasperation, warning, and quiet affection in the word.

"I know." A sigh. He seemed to be considering something weighty.
"You came." No hidden sexual teasing here. It was almost a question.

"Yes." Almost a promise.

"We made it." The optimism that could still surprise him.

"So far." It was not going to be this easy. And even here and now
he couldn't sidestep that.

Mulder began to surrender to sleep again. "So far." Voice almost
inaudible now. Eyes closed. "You came."

Always, he thought to himself as he left again. Always.

END

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