(Lyrics to The Man Who Wouldn't Cry are copyrighted to Loudon Wainwright III and used without permission, as you can well imagine.)
 
 

His dog was run over, his wife up and left him/And after that he got sacked from his job/Lost his arm in the war, was laughed at by a whore/Ah, but still not a sniffle or sob...

"Somebody turn that crap off," Walter grumbled from his booth in the darkened pub. It was past one on a Monday night, and the place was almost empty now, save for himself, another man in another booth, scribbling furiously in his notebook, a pair of barflies up at the bar itself-- who argued the merits or lack thereof of The Dukes of Hazzard-- and one lone asshole by the jukebox who dropped quarter after quarter on the absolute worst shitkicker music the genre had to offer, like a man possessed.

Walter was the only nobleman there, it seemed, using the pub for its intended purpose rather than for some lesser pursuit, drinking himself into a stupor from which he hoped he would never recover. He'd been there for well over three hours now, knocking back shot after shot of the cheapest, vilest whiskey available. As a side interest, he occasionally lapsed into bursts of conversation with himself, invariably punctuated by a bitter "Goddamn it."

In jail he was beaten, bullied and buggered/And made to make license plates/Water and bread was all he was fed/But not once did a tear stain his face...

Mulder would never approve of this, and that was what made it so worthwhile. He could almost see the agent's nose crinkle in disgust when a hot blast of boozy breath was delivered on one sloppily executed kiss. When the inevitable hangover struck the following morning, Mulder would buck tradition and become an early riser for the occasion, slamming cupboards with previously unexplored zeal, bellowing in the shower, tossing curtains open to admit the morning light as if he hoped to foil a vampire. And as he tortured Walter thusly, everything he said, everything he did, would be underscored by a thin streak of "you asked for it, baby." Mulder had the hatred of drunkenness that only attacks the reformed.

Mulder. The bastard was probably out pursuing a healthy relationship even as Walter mourned the agent's passing from his life. What the hell is wrong with a little dysfunction? He'd picked a great time to suddenly decide he wanted to live like a normal person, that was for sure. Now that Walter had accepted this change to his own life, now that he had cast the stalker from his mind and concentrated on making his lover happy, now Mulder needed a man (or a woman, god damn it) who would provide him with something in a lighter key. Dinner in a decent restaurant, from time to time. Visits home to meet the parents. Sex in a bed. At night, in the dark, no handcuffs or firearms anywhere in the room. It's sick.

Doctors were called in, scientists, too/Theologians were last and practically least/They all agreed sure enough; this was sure no cream puff/But in fact an insensitive beast...

The AD's head shot up when he heard this last from the jukebox. The man who'd been guarding it was nowhere to be seen. Somebody's probably sinking that prick in the Potomac. If I'm lucky. From the sounds of things, the song wasn't even halfway through. If his alcohol consumption wasn't enough to sicken him, listening to the song in its entirety would likely do the trick. The only hitch was this: the jukebox sat at the opposite end of the pub. Walter was an optimist, when he could manage it, but he was by no means sure he could walk that distance without incident. I should be a riot at closing time.

He was removed from jail and placed in a place/For the insensitive and the insane/He played lots of chess and made lots of friends/And he wept every time it would rain...

With a low groan, the AD hauled himself to his feet. The room swam before him, tilting crazily. His stomach heaved. His head throbbed. Yet he remained standing, the fact of which left him smug, if a little queasy. I shouldn't be standing. I shouldn't be breathing, for Christ's sake. Still the song continued. It was too much to endure. He took his hand from the tabletop, weaving slightly without its support, and commenced a slow stagger across the bar, mumbling all the while. He hadn't made it a quarter of the way when his legs gave out from beneath him and he tumbled to his hands and knees.

"Shit, shit..."

The bartender leaped the counter and was at his side immediately. "All right, buddy, you've had enough," he said, yanking Walter roughly to his feet. He was boneless now, though. He stayed upright only because the bartender held him that way. "Time to say good night."

"No. Wait. Shit, I just--"

"It's all right, Clancy, he's with me."

Walter swung his head around to face his benefactor, the man from the other booth. Tall, dark, and dressed all in black, he looked at Walter with a mixture of pity and some lesser emotion Walter remembered vaguely from his youth. He recognized it, labeled it, and railed against it. He was The Forbidden Fruit, the AA member from the wrong side of the tracks.

"Oh God, it's Johnny Cash."

The man smiled. "I like to think I have more going for me than the Cash Man, at least as far as genetic endowments are concerned."

"He's with you?" The bartender glared back and forth between them.

The stranger's booth was on the opposite end of the bar. Clearly the only way Walter was with him was if they'd had a fight or they indulged in some kind of sick stalker/stalked relationship. How fitting.

"He's with me," the man said firmly. "We'll be leaving soon, right?"

"I want a drink."

"I know. Come back and sit down," he said, taking custody of Walter.

He was tall and reedy, like Mulder, but broader, somehow. He was Ichibod Crane for the GQ set. "Listen, Clancy, if I know this guy, he is dying for a cup of coffee right now."

"You don't know me," Walter said, reasonably.

"Yeah I do, don't I... uh..."

"Walter."

"Walt. I know you real well." He gave the bartender a look so meaningful even Walter didn't miss it. "Coffee, please. One for me, too."

"No problem."

He helped the AD back to his own booth. When the bartender was out of earshot, he whispered harshly "That's a gun, isn't it? What the hell are you doing with a gun?"

"What?" The man squeezed Walter's left side; his piece dug into his ribs. "Oh. Yeah. My gun."

"Look, I don't want any trouble."

"Then you picked up the wrong drunk," Walter said.

"Nobody is picking anybody up, all right? I was just--"

"Off the floor," he said.

"Oh." He flushed. "What about the gun?"

"I'm... I'm with the FBI."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really? What division?"

Walter looked down at the notebook that still lay open on the table.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a crime writer with the Post," he said.

Walter coughed out a laugh. Leave it to you, Walter. It's too bad you can't drink that coffee out of your Mulder/Skinner mug. "Perfect," he said.

"Hey, I'm not going to tell anybody."

"Uh-huh."

"I was just making conversation."

"Right." They were interrupted by the arrival of the coffee. After he'd stalled long enough sweetening and creaming it, he looked back up at the writer. "Let's start with your name."

"Andy Shaw."

Walter frowned. "With the Post?"

"I do fact-checking, mainly," he admitted. "I haven't made my name yet."

"Walter Skinner," he said, extending a hand. "Assistant Director and embarrassing souse."

"That's quite a scoop."

"I thought you'd like it."

"Why were you getting up, anyway, if you didn't want to leave?"

"That song."

"What?"

"That song," Walter growled. "About the guy whose dog was hit by a car."

Andy smiled. "You're not a country fan?"

"No."

"You sure drink like one, Walt, I have to hand it to you."

"I'm in touch with my inner redneck." He grimaced when he sipped his coffee. Maybe it was just his advanced level of inebriation, but it seemed a lot stronger than it should be.

"So, we celebrating, or mourning?"

"Mourning," he said without thinking. "Celebrating."

"Ohhh yeaaah. You're definitely had enough."

"I haven't even started," he retorted. "When I was in the Marines--"

Andy held up his hands. "Oh, hey, save it, all right, man? I know I look young, but I'm way too old to be listening to your drunken 'when I was your age' stories."

He quirked a brow. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, sipping his coffee. "I'm old enough to be your father."

"That explains your end of the conversation," Andy smiled.

Walter lapsed into a sullen silence, now not even broken by his expletives. Andy was a keener observer than was Mulder, clearly. He took his cue and immediately turned his attention back to his notebook. The AD made no attempt to decipher the man's writing. By the looks of things, it would have been illegible even if it faced him. In this, he and Mulder were more alike.

By the time Walter had begun to openly compare the two men, Andy was so deeply engrossed in what he was doing that the AD could have tested the texture of his hair without incident. It was dark, curly, and short, somehow the perfect complement to the strangest eyes Walter had ever seen. They were red. It was the damnedest thing. Dark red with green highlights, both enormous and completely cynical. They were like Mulder's in this last alone.

Mulder would never have scooped him off the floor of the bar. Or, if he did, he'd make sure Walter understood what a trial it was, what a disappointment. The thought of him setting the AD in a booth with some coffee and forgetting about him was so inconceivable as to become surreal.

But then, Andy hasn't had to put up with any of your horseshit.

It was ridiculous to compare them. Pointless. Andy didn't want him; why should he? Mulder, of course, didn't want him either, but he had at one point. Hadn't he? Andy had saved him, though. Why? Why offer him sanctuary, why give him coffee? Why, for God's sake, tell the bartender they were together?

Yeah, you're right, Walter, you poor drunk bastard. It was love at first sight. The minute he saw you keel over in the middle of the dance floor, he knew you were the man for him.

"I need more coffee," he said, starting to rise.

Andy grabbed his arm. "I'll get it. Sit."

Why did it matter whether or not Andy was interested in him, anyway? Walter was so newly on the rebound that he still had bruises on his ass from when Mulder had dumped him on it. He knew he would eventually have to start over, find someone else. That, or become a hermit. But did he have to start tonight?

"Here you go, man," Andy said, sliding his mug across the table. The Doors' L.A. Woman began to play as he took his seat.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Andy was young, reasonably intelligent, and he probably had never seen a corpse in his life, crime writer or no, nor anything more unusual than fairy rings on his grandmother's lawn. And he was attractive, that was always nice. He couldn't possibly have a twisted personal history the equal of Mulder's. No nightmares, no insomnia, no brooding silences over anything more complicated than another Bulls loss. If you try hard enough, you may even convince yourself you're glad Mulder left you.

And the agent was probably at home right that moment, modeling his new collarless shirts before settling down for his nightly reading of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.

"How are you getting home?" Andy asked.

"What?"

"How are you getting home? Clancy likes me, but he's not going to let you sleep here."

"Driving."

"Are you nuts?"

"I feel better now--"

"Why don't you just pull that gun out and eat it right here, man? Jeez, I can't believe you--"

"I'm fine," he bit out.

"You're plastered."

"I'll sober up."

"Not in an hour." He snapped his notebook shut. "I'll drive you."

"I can take a taxi."

"Come on. It'll do my heart good to know you didn't sneak away to another bar after I go."

"I could do that anyway."

"Yeah, but this way I can still deceive myself about it."

After much maneuvering, Andy managed to haul Walter out of the bar, across the parking lot, and over to his car. Through a combination of inebriation and resignation, Walter let his new friend do all the work, which in his case was significant. Kid's stronger than he looks. He folded the AD into the passenger's seat and hopped in the driver's side.

"All right," he said, starting the car. "Where do you live?"

The AD stared sightlessly out the window.

"Walter?"

"Alexandria," he said quietly.

"Aw, shit." He pounded the steering wheel. "Shit. All right. Sure." He swung the car around and headed for the bypass.

"Crystal City."

Andy stomped on the brakes. "Look, I don't need this. I've had a long night. The last thing I expected was to wind up playing good Samaritan to some guy with an automatic weapon. I have to be up early for work. So if you could just--"

"You can stay with me."

"What?"

Walter met his eyes. "Stay with me."

He sighed. "Stay with you in..."

"Crystal City."

"Alexandria's out, I take it?"

"Yeah."

"All right. Thanks."
 
 

Somebody was always taking his pens. The ones he kept in his briefcase tended to stay there, but there was the odd business lunch at which he was the only properly equipped federal officer at the table, and nine times out of ten, if he lent one out, he never saw it again. Those pens he kept at the office were as disposable as Kleenex. The pen he left at night was not necessarily the one he found in the morning. For this reason, Walter was not prideful when it came to his stationery. Brand names, point sizes, and ink colors were meaningless to him. He took what Kim gave him without complaint, and never gave it another thought unless one exploded on him.

This was how he knew, without question, that the pen he held in his office that morning did not belong to him. It was a Mont Blanc, far and away the most expensive pen he'd ever held. Made of black resin and gold, it looked awkward in his big paw, as ludicrous a thing as he could imagine with the colossal hangover he suffered from.

He'd found the pen in his briefcase when he'd arrived at the office, nestled in with his usual assortment of Bics and Staedtlers. Rolling it back and forth between his fingers, he tried to remember how it had gotten there. He remembered drinking, and some terrifying music, and the Post writer. Fact-checker. Andy. The ride back to Crystal City. Fumbling with the keys to the apartment. And then... nothing. The next thing he knew, he'd been a naked man alone in a distressingly rumpled bed, and Andy's pen inexplicably in his briefcase. It seemed like a bad sign. Or a good one, depending on how he looked at it.

He said he had an early morning. If you don't have time to write, you leave behind your pen? The ritual differed from person to person, he supposed. Mulder would have left his underwear. But then, he'd been sleeping with Mulder. Walter didn't know what had gone on the night before with Andy, but if he had been able to sustain an erection with that much hooch in his system, he was definitely in the wrong line of work. Should I be embarrassed, or relieved? It was too complicated to work out now.

His intercom buzzed. "Yes?"

"Mr. Skinner, Agent Mulder is here to see you."

Walter stiffened. "Does he have an appointment, Kim?"

"Yes, sir."

He blinked. He hadn't expected that.

"Mr. Skinner?"

The AD fought the urge to refuse him, to plead a hectic schedule, or strep throat. Something. Anything. "Send him in."

Mulder looked like he'd been on a bender for the last week. Hair disheveled, unshaven, and wearing a suit that would have looked slept in if the agent himself had looked like he'd gotten any sleep, he resembled nothing so much as an upscale wino on an Aqua Velva high. He moved listlessly, eyes downcast, feet shuffling. Walter was flummoxed.

Part of him wanted to enjoy this moment. Mulder had done him harm, and he certainly felt worse than the agent looked, but the fact that he looked better than Mulder did gave him some small satisfaction. He had to be taking the break-up worse than Mulder was. Anything else was senseless. It was Mulder who had expressed such displeasure over the relationship, Mulder who hadn't offered him a chance to make things right. It had just been end of story, good night Irene, and now Mulder looked like he'd been hit by a bus every hour on the hour for the last seven days? Where was the fairness in that? What gave him the right?

"Agent Mulder. Didn't Scully make it in this morning?"

"No. She's got the stomach flu." He seated himself in one of the chairs by the door. And did not speak again. What the hell is this? Nothing about a possible Bigfoot pregnancy? Nothing about tripping on fumes that were piped into their office ventilation system?

"Pardon me for asking, Agent Mulder, but is there a purpose to this visit?"

The agent mumbled incoherently.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I need your clearance to investigate this case," he said, louder now.

"Sight unseen?" Walter asked when Mulder made no move to approach him with the file.

"No, sir." Still he made no move to stand.

Is he stalling? "Agent Mulder, I have a very full schedule today. I really don't have the time to sit here and play Twenty Questions with you. If it'll expedite this meeting at all, I'm more than happy to ask you if it's bigger than a breadbox, but you're going to have to give me a clue."

Mulder rose from his seat and stumbled across the office to Walter's desk. He tossed the file at the AD and flung himself into the nearest chair.

Now Walter understood why Mulder had been reluctant to approach him.

From a distance, he had looked merely cadaverous. Up close, he looked like the undead. His skin had what Mulder himself would call a Reticulan cast, grey and waxy. His features were drawn tightly, as if under the continuous assault of migraine. Even his tie was unkempt, the underside longer than the over, the knot crooked. The tie itself was eerily tasteful.

Walter's immediate instinct was to explode with a stern "what the hell happened to you?" In spite of his agent's haggard appearance, there was every indication that such a remark would be unwelcome. Worse, answered with a bitter "what do you care?" Instead of this, instead of sending Mulder home, instead of stripping him bare and introducing him to the sandalwood massage lotion he still had in his desk, Walter shook his head and opened the file.

It was run-of-the-mill, as Mulder's requests went. Strange disappearances, coupled with some reports of livestock mutilation and a sudden run on back-issues of Swamp Thing at the local comic shop.

Could be something, could be nothing. Mulder had abandoned all attempts to charm the AD into signing his 302. In place of what was usually a very entertaining-- if completely meaningless-- request form, Mulder had scratched out a few terse words, distressingly legible, asking to investigate.

It was likely the closest they would ever come to trying to remember who got which wine glasses after the divorce.

He knew it was the wrong way to go about his job, and something he would eventually have to stop, but the only thing that came to mind when he stared at the file was It'll get him out of my way for a few weeks. He sighed and lifted his pen to sign the form.

"When did you get that?" Mulder asked.

Walter looked down at Andy's pen. His jaw dropped. "I-- uh..."

Mulder smirked. "Don't tell me you're having some kind of mid-life stationery crisis."

"Actually," he said stonily, "It belongs to a friend. He left it in my briefcase this morning when he left the apartment."

The agent looked stricken. "Out with the old, in with the new?"

"So it would seem." They exchanged a long look, during which Walter savored the play of emotions over Mulder's face. So beautifully expressive. So passionate. So gone. Goddamn it. "If there's nothing else..."

His jaw tightened. "No. There's nothing else." He scooped up the file and turned to leave.

"Mulder."

The agent turned. Walter sucked in a breath. That look, what was that look? There it was, open, searching, that look, the closest they ever came to telepathy, in that look. What was it?

"Never mind. Give Agent Scully my best."
 
 

"Hello?"

"I hold in my hand a pen that looks like it was used to sign the Constitution. I don't suppose you know who it belongs to?"

"Walt! I wasn't sure if I'd hear from you."

"You're playing pretty free and easy with your stationery for someone who doesn't expect to get it back."

"I figured I could just... ask for it. If you didn't call."

Walter fingered the note in his hand, discovered when he'd opened his Day Timer. CALL ME!!! "I can't imagine who would resist."

"I like you better sober," Andy said. "Where are you?"

"At home."

"You found your car all right?"

"I was drunk, Andy. I wasn't comatose."

"By the time I got you into bed--"

"I don't want to know. What are you doing tonight?"

"Well, you have my pen," he said.

"Your point being..."

"I can't do anything without it. It's like a security blanket."

"What you do with your pens in the privacy of your own home is none of my business."

Andy was silent.

"Hello?"

"You're kind of a weird guy, aren't you, Walt?"

That's the first time anyone has ever said that to me. "Occasionally."

"I could come over," Andy said.

"You could."

"We could order in some pizza or something."

"We could."

He expelled a sigh. "Am I invited, or not?"

"You are." I think.

"All right. I can be there in... half an hour. Make it an hour."

"I'll see you then."

Walter spent his grace period frantically arranging his apartment into some semblance of normality. He'd made no attempt to clear out Mulder's things, and now that he needed to do it, they were everywhere. First to go were the back-copies of Fate and The Skeptical Inquirer that sat on his toilet tank next to the incense burner. His assortment of flavored Motion Lotion was the next to go, followed by his silk scarves and soft-tipped cat o' nine tails. The Scrabble dictionary was stowed away under the bed. His copy of The Bridges of Madison County went directly into the trash. The AD paused when he opened his nightstand. Their latest bottle of Astroglide was there, as if they'd ever made love anywhere near the bedroom, since the beginning. Mulder usually kept one somewhere on his person, for this reason. Yet there it was. Walter left it there.

He washed his face, chilled some wine, and changed into something slightly more casual, so quickly that he still had time to remove Mulder's collection of B-movies and alien autopsy videos and his half of the CD collection before Andy finally knocked on the door. The fact-checker stood negligently in the doorway, smiling lazily at him in a way Mulder had never quite perfected. There was always something else going on with him, always. He wasn't sure if Andy's focus was a pleasant change.

"Hi."

"Hi." Andy slunk across the hallway and favored Walter with a lingering, closed-mouth kiss. The AD stood, frozen, unable to respond.

"You shy?" he asked when he pulled away.

"Not usually," Walter muttered.

"No problem, man," he said good-naturedly. "Hey," he said, turning around. "You cleaned the place up."

"Are you implying that I'm a slob?"

"No, not at all. Just..."

He raised a brow. "Just..."

"The way you dropped everything the other night, I figured it was a habit."

"It's not. Would you like some wine?"

He blinked. "You have any beer?"

"I think so."
They settled into the evening comfortably, chatting about nothing in particular. Andy wasn't as quick on the attack as was Mulder, but he was no less intelligent. Walter had never given the matter much thought when he and Mulder had been together, but now he enjoyed the interplay without the confrontation. Without struggling for the upper hand. If he enjoyed it the way a man enjoys Cream of Wheat after a lifetime diet of bacon and eggs, well, it was still enjoyment. Either one is probably better for my blood pressure.

Even lulled as he was, he couldn't fail to notice Andy's gradual shifting over to Walter's side of the sofa. He knew where this was heading, he'd known it when he'd made the call. He'd as much as asked for it. Hell, he'd admitted it to Mulder before it had even become an "it." Still, he wasn't entirely prepared for it when Andy caged him against the back of the sofa and slipped his tongue into the AD's mouth. Walter jerked back, as far as space permitted.

"Wait," he said.

Andy fastened his mouth to Walter's neck, licking and sucking gently.

"Wait, nothing. You've been making eyes at me all night."

"It's my glasses," he gasped. "I need to update my prescription."

The fact-checker frowned in annoyance and slid Walter's glasses off, setting them on the coffee table. He gave the AD a challenging look, then set to work unfastening his shirt.

The essential wrongness of the situation assailed him. This was the wrong head tucked beneath his chin, the wrong mouth probably giving him a hickey on his neck, the wrong hand tucked possessively inside his pants-- Oh, Jesus! He bucked involuntarily, almost surrendering before he jerked away, breathing hard.

"I can't do this," he muttered.

"Oh, believe me, you can. I've never met anybody who could kiss like that--"

"I wasn't even trying," he said before he could stop himself.

"I know. You're volcanic, man." He leaned in again, but Walter leaped off the couch.
"I'm not ready for this."

"I know ways to get around that," Andy purred. He got off the couch and followed Walter's backward retreat. "Come on, baby, don't be coy," he said when he had the AD backed against the wall.

Dimly, Walter recognized this game. Attack and retreat. Divide and conquer. Hard to get. In recent months, his knowledge of it had become so complete that he could have delivered a dissertation on the topic if he could find a school that offered the course work. Somehow, it lost its thrill, playing it now. Playing it with this man, and not with Mulder, who enjoyed the chase itself more than the victory, at least half the time.

Andy had Walter's shirt open now, his belt magically vanished, his nipples hard from the fact-checker's teasing mouth. He rhythmically massaged the AD's mutinous erection as he worked lower, the zipper of Walter's slacks sliding open as if of its own volition. Walter's head fell back, shaking back and forth.

"No," he said when Andy yanked his pants down around his knees. "No. You don't understand."

He made a disgusted noise, sitting back on his heels. "So enlighten me, Walt. You're standing here almost naked, trying to poke my eye out with your cock, doing everything but begging me to throw you over the counter and fuck you. What am I not getting here?"

"I've been seeing someone," he admitted, miserably. "He'd never forgive me if I did this with you."

Andy frowned. "Where is he now?"

Walter hesitated.

"Walt?"

"... he left me," he said quietly.

"Ohh..."

"Oh nothing. You don't understand."

"I understand more than you think."

"I'm sorry."

"What was this?" he demanded, gesturing at the living room. "Was this a set-up?"

"No. It was... dinner. I--"

"Dinner. Right. And you flirting with me--"

"I wasn't flirting!"

"Trust me, man, you were flirting." He sat on the floor. Walter left his pants where they hung. "Did you invite me over to make him jealous? What, did you tell him to come over at nine, and I could maybe answer the door wearing a sheet?"

"No! Andy, I--" he broke off when he heard the knock on the door. His eyes widened. "Oh my God. Where are my glasses?" He staggered toward the sofa, pants still around his ankles.

"I'll get it," Andy sang, heading for the door.

"No! Oh God..." There was no way he could reach Andy in time, no way he could even have his pants done up in time. So he replaced his glasses, and turned toward the door to face certain doom, shirt god alone knew where, pants open, still erect and panting.

In that moment, as Andy moved in slow motion to admit his visitor, Walter recognized the look Mulder had worn in his office for what it had been. It was easy, now that the agent was out of sight and Walter was seeing the world through a haze of terror rather than a haze of pain. Oh, he knew that look, he knew it to so intimate a degree that he liked to imagine others could only dream of seeing it. Pure, unadulterated, animal lust. It was a look he had seen many times before, and the look the agent wore now, for a split second, before he took in Andy's flushed face, and Walter's comprehensive disarray.

Mulder surprised him now, now when Walter had fully expected him to walk out, and in spite of the fact that Mulder had continually surprised him throughout the duration of their relationship in its many forms. "AD Skinner, if you have a moment, I need to discuss something with you."

"You should have called first, Agent Mulder."

"I know, I'm sorry. I wasn't sure if--"

"I'm Andy Shaw," the fact-checker said, extending his hand. "The designated hitter."

Walter winced as he fastened his pants. "It's not what you think, Andy."

He smirked over his shoulder at the AD. "I thought you'd be saying that to him."

"I'm afraid it is what you think," he said to Mulder. "Mainly. Where the hell is my shirt?"

"Try the kitchen," Andy said, grinning.

Walter shot him a look and headed inside. By the time he'd returned, Andy was nowhere to be seen, and Mulder was standing on the dining room table, examining Walter's light fixtures.

"They're 15-watts," the AD said. "Mood lighting."

"Get in the shower," Mulder said quietly. "I should be done here by the time you've soaped up."

Walter gaped at him. "That's it? You desert me for weeks, trash my date, and then bang! I'm supposed to get naked for you?"

Mulder glared at him. "Shut the hell up, will you? Jesus Christ..."

"Fuck you, Mulder. This is insane, even for you."

The agent leaped off the table and was in Walter's face in seconds, so quick, so lithe, the AD couldn't track his movements. "You listen to me," he said in a low voice. "There could be bugs all over this apartment. I know there's at least one camera. Now get your ass in the shower and wash him off, and when I'm done here, I'll join you. All right?"

"Mulder, we didn't--"

"I don't care. If you say one more word about it, I'll leave right now. Right fucking now."

Walter resisted the urge to tell him to go. This was outrageous, after all this time, after everything Mulder had put him through. He knew he hadn't been an exemplary lover, but this was over the line. He hated being kept in the dark, about anything, he hated this helplessness, his ignorance, he hated this feeling of blindness, no idea what was going on or how it would be resolved. This entire situation went against every control freak instinct he had. But there was Mulder, looking beautiful, looking hungry.

And he was looking for cameras in the AD's apartment.

"I should call Andy," he said weakly.

"If you call that guy while I'm in your apartment, Walter, I'll shoot you, strip you naked, and toss you off the balcony, I swear to God."

Throwing up his hands in disgust, the AD stomped out of the dining room and headed for the shower. Knowing Mulder as well as he did, he took his time undressing and testing the water before he stepped in the shower. If the agent thought he would only be soaping up by the time Mulder finished checking every sofa cushion and cassette case for bugs, he was thinking of his own shower habits, not Walter's.

He'd just rinsed the shampoo from what remained of his hair when the shower door slid open to reveal Mulder. Still clothed, all traces of anger gone from his face, he was the very picture of misery.

"I thought you'd be done by now," he said.

"I thought you planned to join me."

"I thought about what you said."

"You picked tonight to work on that?"

"Fuck you, Walter." He eyed what he could see of the AD through the crack in the door. "Hurry up," he said, gesturing at him.

Walter made short work of the rest of his shower, finally emerging in his robe, under a cloud of steam. Mulder sat on the bathroom counter with a large manila envelope and three small, smashed cameras. The AD turned on the fan and settled his glasses on his face.

"Where did you find those?"

"Kitchen, balcony, and storage closet," he smirked. "They know me better than I thought."

"Who the hell is they?"

By way of reply, he opened the envelope and created a photo spread on Walter's counter. Shot after shot of them two of them fucking in every major venue in the greater DC area, it seemed.

"These are copies," Mulder said. "I found the envelope on my coffee table last week."

"Who took them, Mulder?" His voice shook.

"Irene Desmond and Harry Flannagan. I don't know who he is."

"They're the ones who've been stalking us? Sending the donuts? Rigging my computer?"

"The ones who switched my fish, who thumped me in the head with a brick-- what's going on between you and Raggedy Andy, there?"

"Why did you ditch me?"

"Was he sucking you off when I knocked on the door?"

"Why did you ditch me?"

"He's a little young for you, isn't he? What is he, twenty-five? Granted, I can see why you might enjoy his stamina--"

"Goddamn it, Mulder, why did you do it? Because of these?" he gestured at the photographs. "You think I care about that?"

"I think you should."

"If I cared about being caught, I'd never have done it."

"Then you're even more fucked up than I am. Do you have any idea what it could mean for you if this got out?"

He smirked. "I'd get invited to more parties?"

"You think this is a joke?"

"How can you think it's not? Look at this!" He indicated a shot of the two of them outside a local movie theater, Walter on his knees with Mulder's cock in his mouth. What neither man had realized at the time was that their adventure had taken place against a massive poster frame bearing the heading "Coming Soon." "You're the one who taught me just about anything can be funny if you look at it the right way, Mulder."

"Yeah, well, you'll have to forgive me, Walter, but I don't see the humor in this. I find new bugs as quickly as I get rid of the old ones. I found a camera in my car, for Christ's sake."

"That must have been a tricky set-up."

"Am I in the Twilight Zone here, or what?"

Walter sighed, hopping up on the counter next to Mulder. "What did they say to you?"

"What do you think? They told me to stay away from you. They threatened to expose us."

Walter snickered.

"Shut up, all right? It's not funny."

"They threatened to expose the men who once had sex on an abandoned hot dog cart in downtown Washington?"

"It's not funny!"

He sighed. "Why do they care?"

"She said she was afraid someone would find out. Other than her. She said she believed in my work, and she wanted the X-Files to stay open."

"You already have a reputation as a crackpot, Mulder. How is this going to make a difference to you?"

"It could make a difference to you," he bit out.

Walter leaned against the mirror. "You're a smart boy, Mulder. Tell me: what are you missing here?"

"What are you talking about?"

"She's threatening to expose us, because if we don't stay away from each other, it could threaten the future of your division."

"And?"

"And, Mulder, if she did expose us, don't you think that would threaten the future of your division?"

"I--"

"You're a moron!" he shouted, sliding off the counter and stalking out of the bathroom. "You put me through three weeks of hell for that?"

"I--"

"How fucking stupid can you be, Mulder?" he said, rounding on the agent. "Jesus Christ! What's the best way to deal with a blackmailer?"

"Call their bluff. But Walter--"

"I know, I know. It's not the kind of thing you want to take a chance with. Could you not have, oh, I don't know... mentioned this to me?"

"No, I couldn't! I knew you'd react this way, I knew you'd blow me off."

"Then why the hell did you come here tonight?"

"I had to," he growled. "I had to see you. I thought--"

"You thought what?"

"I thought maybe you and Randy hadn't done anything yet, maybe I could... fuck, I don't know."

"His name is Andy."

"Oh, I don't give a rat's ass what his name is. How long did you wait, Walter, a week? Did you clear out my stuff after you got home from work that first night?"

"I did that today," he said. At Mulder's look, he amended, "But I kept everything."

"Well, that's a relief."

"What were you planning to do, anyway? Keep me at arm's length for the rest of your life? Hang on to me with yearning looks and late-night visits? What, am I supposed to think of you while I jack off twice a week until I retire?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you, too, Mulder. You're the most fucked up person I've ever met. This is beyond even you." He stomped down the hallway and down the stairs, muttering to himself all the while.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to drop my robe, shoot myself, and jump off the balcony. I think it's a suitable, topical end to this entire situation."

"You should write a note. Here," Mulder smirked, heading for the coffee table. "Looks like Sandy left his pen again."

Walter lunged at him, and the agent let him, smirk still firmly in place.

Together they tumbled onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs and a hail of curses.

"God damn you, Mulder. Why don't you just slit my throat and get it over with?"

"Too messy."

The AD propped himself up on his elbows and gazed down at Mulder.

The agent's eyes were dark, his mouth dark and moist and open for him. He wanted this so badly, it was a living ache within him. He leaned in for a kiss, and Mulder's nose bumped against his glasses. "God damn it," he muttered, wrenching them off and tossing them on the floor. Before Mulder had a chance to make any more wiseguy remarks, Walter struck, gripping the agent's head in both hands, kissing him hard. Mulder squirmed beneath him, pushing his robe open further, his hands roaming Walter's back. He made the most amazing sounds, as if Walter was already inside him. The AD rocked his hips experimentally. He wanted Mulder to make no claims of being coerced.

"Don't leap off the balcony, Walter," he gasped, tearing his mouth away.

"Why not?" he smiled.

"I ran out of gas just before I got here. I need a ride home."

Walter captured his mouth again, gently now. Mulder stilled beneath him, kissing back, exploring the AD's mouth with his tongue. He tugged the robe from Walter's shoulders and undulated against him. Walter moaned. Friction, on every part of his body, from Mulder's pants, from the cool night air that came through the balcony door, from the agent's hands.

Everywhere was touched, even as he touched everywhere. It was an affirmation, a statement, a promise. A vow.

"It's not just sex and bickering, Mulder," he said, peeling off the agent's shirt.

"I know," he murmured.

"Good." He licked the hollow of Mulder's throat.

"There's the gunplay," Mulder said.

"Mulder..."

"The occasional fist fight."

"Mulder."

"And who doesn't love those conferences?"

"Do you want me to start shouting at you again?"

"Depends on the context," he said, helping the AD with his pants. "I mean, 'fuck you, Mulder!' doesn't have the same ring to it as 'fuck me, Mulder!'"

"I hate you."

"We don't usually use that one. I can't say I care for it. I just--oh..." He broke off when Walter sucked a nipple into his mouth. "I like you better this way."

"Stupid with lust?"

"Well, yeah, but apart from that."

"I was too rough, the last time."

"It has its merits," he gasped when Walter stroked his cock. "It was the context."

"You thought it was the last time."

"It cast a pall," he admitted.

"Do you think you could see your way clear to asking me the next time something like this happens?"

"There won't be a next time," he said.

"Then just... just don't dump me and leave my office while I'm not wearing my pants, all right?"

"It's okay to dump you as long as you're fully clothed?"

"Forget it. I--" Mulder wrapped his arms around the AD and rolled.

They hit the floor with a combined grunt. Before Walter could say anything else, Mulder began roving his body with hands and lips, taking his arousal to fever-pitch. He kissed and licked his way along the AD's torso until he reached his navel. He plunged his tongue inside, but moved no lower.

"Is this the same erection you had when I got here?"

"Of course it is, Mulder. Jesus Christ, what did you think I was doing in the shower? I was--" I should be done by the time you've soaped up.

He flushed. "If you wanted me to jack off, you should have said something."

"I don't want anything to do with his erection."

"Technically, it's my erection, Mulder."

"But he gave it to you."

"For God's sake, it's an automatic response. How am I supposed to--"

"I suppose it would have happened if Cancer Man had his mouth on your cock," he said. "Or Krycek."

"Nobody had their mouth on my cock, all right? What is it with you and that?"

"You're the one who's always accusing me of an oral fixation." He absently stroked Walter, frowning intently.

"What? Does it feel different?"

"It's tainted," Mulder insisted.

"I showered. Mulder..."

Mulder licked the head roughly, probing its opening with the tip of his tongue. Walter propped himself up to watch. The agent's eyes gleamed at him. Tainted. For Christ's sake... "Oh..."

"I'm going to have to perform some purification rituals," Mulder announced.

"Keep your leeches to yourself."

"Nothing like that." Hands firmly on Walter's hip, he sucked the head into his mouth. His tongue lashed it, swirled around it, until Walter was ready to plunge all the way into the agent's throat, suffocation or no suffocation. Gradually, Mulder sucked more of him inside, never allowing Walter the slightest thrust of his own. The agent was totally focused on his task, not even squeezing Walter's balls as he sometimes did. He just sucked, and sucked, still holding the AD down, until his back was slick with sweat and drawn into an arc, his hands and feet clenching convulsively.

"Please, Mulder. Please."

Mulder gave him a feral smile. "No, I don't think so. Not with a sullied erection."

"Oh, fuck. Shit. Mulder, come on."

"Get up," he commanded, setting the example. "I want us to try something new and radical."

"Believe me, Mulder, blue balls is not new to me."

"Come on." He led Walter back up the stairs and into his bedroom. He didn't turn on the bedside lamp.

"Ooh," Walter said, watching Mulder turn back the blankets. "Kinky."

"You have no sense of adventure," Mulder accused. "Millions of people fuck on mattresses every night."

"Millions of people smoke, too. Millions of people watch Walker: Texas Ranger. Millions of people eat pork rinds."

"What's your point?" Mulder asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"My point, Mulder, is akin to something your mother always said when you were a child. If millions of people want to eat pork rinds and fuck on mattresses, that doesn't mean you have to."

"Actually, that's exactly what my mother always said."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me in the slightest." He rolled Mulder onto his stomach, settling a pillow beneath his hips. Walter lubed him slowly. He wanted Mulder to feel at least a fraction as tortured as he did.

The agent obliged by moaning piteously each time Walter shied away from his prostate, each time he removed his hand to apply more lube, each time he kissed only slightly.

"Oh, God, Walter, please."

"With my tainted erection?"

"You didn't fuck him." Walter was silent. "Did you?"

"Of course not."

"You wanted to."

"No, I wanted to fuck you. All I could think about while he was here was that pathetic look on your face that day in my office."

"Pathetic?"

"Give me a break, Mulder. It was pathetic and you know it."

"Kind of longing, maybe..."

"Pathetic," he repeated, parting Mulder's legs and positioning himself between them. "Full-blown, hair-pulling, teeth-gnashing pathetic. I couldn't help but pity you, even after you crushed me like a bug."

"I didn't! You were-- ah!" Walter sank into him with one hard thrust.

"I was what?" he gasped, moving gently now.

"Oblivious," he moaned. "You just sat there, glaring at me, while I was tearing my heart out over you--"

"What was I supposed to do? Beg you to come back?"

"You-- you could have-- oh God..."

Walter collapsed on top of Mulder, thrusting deeply, quickly. He bit the agent's neck, sucked his shoulders, clawed his arms, and rocked his hips frantically, both anxious for his orgasm and terrified of it, of the completion.

"Don't leave," he growled.

"What?"

"You came here for this."

"I'll stay for some of that pizza."

Walter laughed, and bucked, until Mulder howled beneath him, pushing back so hard against him that he raised them both from the bed. Just as quickly, he crumpled onto the mattress, Walter's weight pressing him here.

"Don't leave," he mumbled into Mulder's shoulder.

"I won't."