Halrloprillalar   hal@prillalar.com   http://prillalar.com/

May 3, 1999

RATING: R for M/M sexual situations.

FANDOM/SPOILERS: X-Files. S4.

SUMMARY: Mulder/Skinner. A bachelor party. And other stuff.

DISTRIBUTION: Archive anywhere. Email forwarding allowed.

DISCLAIMER: CC, 1013, Fox, not me.

NOTES: Thanks to: Mik & Jay for bachelor party tales, and double
thanks to Jay for reading this over for me. And to Sergeeva for
discussing it endlessly with me.


GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES
by Halrloprillalar - hal@prillalar.com

"Guys, if you're going to smoke, please go out on the balcony."
Skinner tossed the admonition over his shoulder on his way to the
kitchen, hoping they'd hear him above the music. Lining up dead
soldiers in a cardboard box, he took a moment to enjoy the
temporary solitude. Then someone wandered in looking for more chip
dip. Well, his not to make reply, his not to reason why, his but to
find the dip, put out a few more bowls, and make sure there was
enough beer in the tub.

Dodging back through the living room, he turned the stereo down a
notch, laughed for the third time at Linnestad's latest lewd joke,
handed out some coasters, and, finally, grabbed a beer for himself.
No free chairs, but he found an empty corner and leaned back,
scanning the room for collateral damage.

"Good party." Mulder appeared, lounging against the wall and
holding a beer bottle.

"You sound surprised."

"Not really. I should have expected you'd pull this off with your
customary efficiency."

"That and the Bitchin' Bachelor Parties article in this month's
Martha Stewart Living. It's too bad I didn't have time to handcraft
the party favours."

Mulder smiled. "I would have figured you for more of a Hints from
Heloise man, myself." He took a pull at his drink. "So, what does
Martha recommend for a truly bitchin' party?"

"Beer."

"Just beer?"

"Beer, loud music, greasy food, beer, pornography, wildflower
centrepieces, and more beer." To illustrate the point, Skinner took
a few swallows.

"Conaway seems to be enjoying himself." Mulder nodded at the groom,
who sat on the couch in the middle of a knot of laughing, gesturing
men. The hilarity was probably enhanced by the tequila Conaway was
putting back.

"Martha doesn't recommend tequila. It doesn't go well with pizza."

"That's the difference between Martha and Heloise. Martha tells you
which beer labels will coordinate best with your Shaker chairs and
braided rag rugs. Heloise tells you how to clean vomit out of your
couch cushions."

Skinner winced. "Don't tempt fate. Nobody's going to vomit on the
furniture." He hoped.

"How else would you know the party was a success?" Mulder propped
himself on one elbow, turning toward Skinner. "Scientific studies
have proven the more testosterone a man has, the more he pukes.
Scully told me."

"Simple gifts. How proud I am to be a man." Skinner took another
drink. "So, is this where we try to one-up each other with stories
of how shitfaced we got and how sick we were the next day?"

"I'm sure we could find something more novel to be competitive
about." Mulder smirked a little. "Who's been beaten up the most by
women, who has the most interesting scars, who does the best
needlepoint."

"I did a lovely cross-stitch of dogs playing poker."

"Fifty bucks says my embroidered Elvis tea towel would take your
dogs at any county fair."

"You're on, Mulder." Skinner reached out and clinked his bottle
against Mulder's. "I make kick-ass rhubarb preserves too." They
smiled at each other and Skinner began to relax a little.

"What I was really wondering, though, is how you came to host this
party." Mulder paused. "If you don't mind me saying so, it doesn't
really seem like your kind of thing."

Before Skinner could answer, Hancock wedged himself in between
them, grabbing Skinner's shoulder. "This is a fucking good party,
Walt." Skinner couldn't help the trace of a grimace at "Walt."
"God, I'm half-pissed already. Hey, Mulder, did I tell you about
the last bachelor party I went to? I drank fourteen beers and then
when the stripper came in I threw up on her shoes and they had to
give her an extra fifty before she'd stay and while they were sweet
talking her, the groom spewed under a couch cushion and then put it
back." He began to laugh so hard he had trouble getting his story
out. "...and the host...went on vacation...the next day and
didn't...didn't...find it until he came back in a week!" Hancock
punched Mulder in the arm.

Mulder raised his eyebrows at Skinner and mouthed "Heloise" at him.
Then he slugged Hancock back and laughed genially. "That's nothing,
Hancock. When Walt here" --Skinner glared-- "got married, he drank
so much that he was still drunk at the church the next day. He
puked all over the minister just as he was pronouncing them man and
wife."

"No shit, Walt?"

"No shit, Hancock." Behind the man's head, Skinner mouthed "fuck
you" back at Mulder, who blew him a kiss. Then Hancock started to
talk about an upcoming Knicks game and Mulder became much more
animated.

Skinner turned away from the conversation and looked back out into
the room, not really seeing it. Fuck you, Mulder, he thought. Not
for telling outrageous lies about him, but for making him think
about something he'd been carefully suppressing. Sharon.

Dammit, couldn't he keep on suppressing it for another four hours
or so? Good marriage, bad marriage, divorce, death: it was
beautiful and natural, wasn't it? Just like guilt. Just like
loneliness. He drank the rest of his beer, then closed his eyes and
breathed deeply until the guilt was adjusted back to normal
background levels. Within acceptable limits.

A smack on his shoulder brought him back to the room. Hancock.
"Say, Walt, I need to see a man about a dog."

"Through there," he pointed, "to your left." Hancock stumbled off
and made it through the hall.

Skinner felt another hand on his shoulder. Mulder again. "So, Walt,
where were we?"

"Call me Walt one more time and I'll kick your ass, Mulder."

Mulder studied him speculatively. "I think I could take you."

Smartass. "I always knew you had a death wish."

"OK, two out of three, at least: needlework, preserves, and
brawling."

Skinner couldn't help the grin. "The new Ironman?"

"Stainless steel maybe."

Quinn walked by and waved to Mulder. "Ten minutes, Miss Lee."

"OK, be right there."

Oh no, Skinner told himself, the hell they did. "What's up?"

"Hmm?" Mulder looked up. "The entertainment."

"Tell me there isn't going to be a girl. I thought you brought
tapes."

"Conaway's fiancee made it very clear that under no circumstances
were we to hire a stripper."

Skinner exhaled. "That's a relief."

Mulder handed Skinner his empty beer bottle and pulled a small
flask from his back pocket. He took several large swallows,
screwing up his face a little. "But I work for free." Handing the
flask to Skinner too, he headed off on the same route as Hancock.

Oh fuck, oh damn, oh hell and blood. Mulder was at the best of
times one of those things in heaven and earth, Horatio, but this
was wondrous strange. Angels and ministers of grace defend us,
Skinner thought. Whatever was about to happen, it was inevitable.
No sense in trying to stop it. He got another beer to cushion the
blow. As he crossed through the knots of people, threads of
conversation caught around him.

"--all over me, so I pulled her around the corner--"

"--now that they've got Flutie from the CFL--"

"--had the perp covered--"

"--oh, no, you don't--"

"--drinking shooters all night--"

"--fucked her up against the wall--"

"--Bills have finally got a chance--"

"--up against the wall and spread 'em--"

"--eat me just like the story says--"

"--threw up against the wall--"

Back in his spot, Skinner leaned up against the wall and downed
half the bottle. From his vantage point, he could see a bottle
shoved back under the couch, a glass barely visible on his
bookcase, cigarette butts in the rubber plant's soil, and chips,
chips, chips ground into the carpet. Saturday morning would be very
busy.

The throbbing music suddenly stopped and conversation was loud for
an instant. Quinn shouted for quiet, then started some decidedly
different music. Someone appeared in the hallway.

Mulder. Expected. Mulder in drag. Not unsuspected. Mulder in drag
as Marilyn Monroe. Fuck.

Skinner watched him shimmy into the room. Blonde hair--an expensive
wig, it looked so real--styled just so, red lipstick shining on
full lips. Was he wearing false eyelashes? No, probably just
mascara. Expertly, Mulder lip-synched to Marilyn's throaty voice.


     A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,
     But diamonds are a girl's best friend.


He held out one hand, elegantly gloved past the elbow in pink
satin. Nieves obligingly bent to kiss it, but Mulder pulled it
away.


     A kiss may be grand but it won't pay the rental
     On your humble flat, or help you at the automat.


He moved with surprising sensuality, working his strapless gown,
the same pink satin as the gloves, letting the long slit fall open
to show a stockinged thigh. Dammit, how did he do that? Mulder
didn't look like some drunken idiot in his wife's makeup, he didn't
look like a drag queen, he didn't look like anything except
Marilyn. He looked good.


     Men grow cold as girls grow old,
     And we all lose our charms in the end.
     But square-cut or pear-shaped,
     These rocks don't lose their shape.
     Diamonds are a girl's best friend.


He'd even shaved his armpits. Skinner couldn't tell about his legs.
Rhinestones glittered around Mulder's neck and swung gleaming at
his earlobes. Did clip-ons like that hurt? They looked heavy.

Mulder worked his way around the hooting, cheering room. Whatever
foundation garments he was wearing gave him a noticeable cleavage
and he used it to advantage, somehow managing to avoid the
clutching hands of the drunker guests. He danced closer now,
playing up with the song, but never quite over the top.


     There may come a time when a lass needs a lawyer,
     But diamonds are a girl's best friend.

Closer and closer. No, he wouldn't, would he?

Mulder stepped in front of Skinner, leaned in dizzyingly near,
bright hazel eyes, whisky breath, and a beauty mark nor'nor'east of
his mouth. Cool gloves slid over Skinner's hot cheeks, catching
slightly on the faint evening stubble.


     There may come a time when a hard-boiled employer
     Thinks you're awful nice...


The lipstick was bleeding a little into the fine lines around
Mulder's mouth. Probably Heloise had a hint about that. Probably
Martha said red lipstick didn't go with a pink dress. Then a strong
hand pushed Skinner's head back and the gloves fell away.


     But get that ice or else no dice.


Bastard. Gracefully, Mulder moved away and Skinner felt stale air
rushing in to fill the vacuum.

     He's your guy when stocks are high,
     But beware when they start to descend.


Much hilarity ensued at the double entendre and almost drowned out
the next couple of lines.

     It's then that those louses go back to their spouses.
     Diamonds are a girl's best friend.


Skinner drank his beer, but it might as well have been water.
Something stronger, harsher, something serious was what he needed,
but he knew if he opened his liquor cabinet these men would drink
him out of house and home. He remembered Mulder's flask. Opening
it, he took a few swallows. Glenfiddich. Good stuff. Stuff that
should be savoured, sitting down with a good book and a roaring
fire. Instead, he had to lean against the wall and watch Mulder.
Mulder and Marilyn, louses and spouses, conspiracies and tragic
deaths. And whisky. Can't tell the players without a program. He
took another pull at the flask before screwing the top on and
shoving it into his pocket.

Mulder circled the rest of the room, his choreography nearly
perfect. Skinner found it mesmerising, enthralling. A waking dream,
sure to be, what other explanation could there be except that maybe
he'd had more to drink than he'd thought. A bleary, beery, whisky
dream, a fever dream.

His hand reached up an instant before he saw something flashing
through the air at him. It slithered through his fingers and he
only just managed to hold onto the end of it. Mulder's necklace. He
looked up. Mulder's finale. Skinner exhaled with relief. At least
the necklace was all Mulder had taken off.

Cheering and applause washed through the room, but instead of dying
down, it surged when a different song began. Steady beat, eighties
synth sound...oh shit. The beat moved Mulder, rolled through his
shoulders and hips. The beat pinned Skinner to the wall, staring as
Mulder loosened his left glove, finger by slow finger.


     There's things that you guess
     And things that you know.


The glove slid down Mulder's arm and he tossed it into the admiring
crowd before starting in on the other one.

     There's boys you can trust
     And girls that you don't.


Skinner tipped what beer there was left in the bottle down his
throat. He'd need it. While he'd anticipated a lot of things from
this evening, a lot of drunken rowdy things, Mulder, as Marilyn,
stripping to George Michael wasn't one of them. He felt annoyed by
it. Then he felt annoyed that he felt annoyed. Then he felt stupid.
Then he wondered if Scully knew about this side of Mulder and he
began to laugh.

During this self-analysis, Skinner lost a few moments and when he
turned back to the action, Mulder was rolling a stocking down his
thigh and over his calf. Skinner noted that he had not, in fact,
made the supreme sacrifice. Mulder wasn't especially hirsute
anyhow. Not that Skinner had ever thought about that before.

Watching the men drinking, hooting, slapping each other on the
back, he thought this could be any of a score of bachelor parties
he'd been to over the years, could have been his own. They were all
the same--booze and boorishness and strippers and porn. Spilled
food and lewd jokes and delight in the incivility of it all. A sort
of male Bacchanalia. And please don't tell our wives what we were
up to.

Been there, done that, got the beer stains on my t-shirt and this
could have been any one of those nights, except for Mulder. Except
for Mulder shimmering in lipstick and rhinestones. Except for
Mulder shimmering out of pink satin and white lace until he was
down to black silk boxers and the blonde wig. Things go weirder
with Mulder.

Pulling Conaway to his feet, Mulder danced with him, their bodies
so close it looked more intimate than touching.  Conaway moved with
a surprisingly graceful lurch, rather like a lava lamp. Mulder
moved with him, swaying to the heavy beat. No, he really didn't
have much body hair, did he, Skinner mused. Just a dusting across
the top of his chest, down his arms and long, long legs.

George stuttered to a close and Mulder pushed Conaway back to be
caught by his friends before heading for the hallway. As he passed
by, Skinner got a whiff of perspiration. Who knew being a female
impersonator was such sweaty work? Mulder got through the crowd
with minimal mauling and Skinner kept a careful eye to make sure no
one followed him except Quinn, carrying an armful of evening gown
and stockings.

The music stayed off and the TV went on. Conaway, now wearing
Mulder's discarded bra, was manhandled into the best seat while
someone slid a tape into the VCR. Skinner found a place near the
back on a not-very-comfortable couch he'd pulled out of a spare
room for the occasion.

Men were still milling around as the movie started, finding seats,
getting food and beer. After a few minutes, someone sat down on the
other end of the couch. Mulder. Dressed normally. With that damned
wig. Skinner stared. "Why are you still wearing that?"

Mulder smirked. "Blondes have more fun. Didn't you see 'Earth Girls
Are Easy'?"

"Is that the one with Elvis and Angela Lansbury?"

"Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis. Close enough."

Skinner paused before speaking. "You know, Mulder, just when I
thought nothing you did would ever surprise me again..."

"Did I mention I can juggle?"

"At least I won't have to worry about you starving if you get
tossed out of the FBI."

"Don't you mean when?"

"You know, I might have an undercover assignment for you."

"No way, no how. I only work with aliens."

"And if they were cross-dressers, how would we know?"

"Exactly." Mulder smiled and turned back to the TV. Suddenly,
Skinner realised that he was holding something. He opened his hand.
The necklace. He held it out, shaking it a little so Mulder would
notice. He did. "For me? I've got to warn you, Walt, I don't put
out for rhinestones."

"Shut up, Mulder, or I'll shove those rhinestones where the sun
doesn't shine."

Mulder fluttered his eyelashes. "I just love finding new places to
wear diamonds."

Skinner realised that he was never going to get the last word, so
he might as well not try. He started to watch the video but before
he could pick up the nuances of the plot, someone thumped down on
the couch between them. Hancock, in a cloud of beer breath that was
probably in violation of the Geneva Conventions. Narrowly avoiding
the bottle that almost grazed his cheek, Skinner wondered how he
could get Hancock to remove the friendly arm slung over his
shoulders without coming right out and asking. Skinner sat up very
straight. The bottle bumped against his ear and the arm stayed. He
slouched down low. The bottle pounded on his shoulder in time with
the action on the screen. He pondered leaning forward, but he'd
probably just end up with Hancock's arm around his waist and that
would be less than pleasant.

Just as he was considering drastic measures, the arm snaked away,
not even bashing him in the head with the bottle. On the screen, a
buoyant brunette and a silicone blonde tasted each other's delights
in a steamy hot tub. Pretty standard male fantasy, he thought.
Women so horny they have to get each other off, but only if there
isn't a man around. And right on cue, there was the man, sliding in
between the squealing girls and starting to give them what they
wanted, the bitches. How boring.

Hancock didn't seem to think so. "Some nice ass, eh, Walt?" The arm
didn't return, but Skinner did get an elbow in the ribs. "Too bad
you don't have tits like that, Blondie." Hopefully, all Mulder was
getting was the elbow as well. "Did I ever tell you about the time
I was in Boston and I met these two girls in a bar? Not as pretty
as you, Blondie, but some fine tail all the same. So, there we were
in my hotel room and my partner--"

Skinner had had enough. Enough Hancock and enough hooting and
enough dreary adult video to last him for the next ten years.
Abandoning the couch, he collected an armful of glasses and plates
and headed to the relative quiet of the kitchen. On the way, he ran
into Quinn.

"Hi, sir. Seen Mulder?"

"There. You can't miss him." Skinner nodded. "Maybe you can pry
Hancock away from him. And tell him to take off that damned wig."

Quinn smiled. "Will do." He balanced another plate on top of
Skinner's precarious pile and walked over to the couch, insinuating
himself between the men and turning to talk to Mulder. Skinner
realised he was just standing and galvanised himself to leave the
room.

Loading the dishwasher, Skinner found his mood improving as the
mess diminished. By the time he had the machine running and the
counters wiped off, he was merely a little cranky. He poured some
ginger ale into what was probably the last clean glass and hoisted
himself onto the counter to drink it. Leaning his head back on a
cabinet door, he caught sight of the clock. 12:13. With any luck,
he could get everyone out the door by 2 AM. And they were all
going, if he had to pay the cab fare himself.

The drone of the dishwasher was mesmerising, swish-swish-swishing
him into a state of mind where the noise in the other room seemed
to come from very far away. Closing his eyes, he watched the play
of light and shadows swish-swishing behind his eyelids while the
ginger ale warmed in his hand. Swish-swish and he thought of
nothing, not the party, not the clean-up, not his job, just
swish-swish nothing. Deliberate nothing, long strokes of a brush
spreading clean white paint over a wall, swish-swish smoothing out
a white sheet...

Someone had just come into the room. Skinner opened his eyes.
Surprise. Mulder came over and leaned against the counter. At least
the wig was gone. Skinner drank his ginger ale. "Norma Jean."

"Martha." Mulder nodded.

Skinner flinched. "I'm not sure if that's better or worse than
'Walt'."

"You not in the mood for 'Beach Blanket Bimbos'?"

"Not with a crowd."

"I can leave the tapes." Mulder grinned.

"That's OK. If you don't mind me saying so, they're not really very
interesting."

"Oh, if there's a specialty you have in mind, I can probably help
you out. These are just standard stuff I keep around for this kind
of occasion."

"The Harlequin romances of the adult video world?"

"Exactly. So if you're looking for something with more depth..."

Skinner shifted a little on the counter. "Why the vast collection?"

Shrugging, Mulder slouched onto his elbows. "It's just a hobby.
While you're tearing off a game of golf, I'm watching 'Dallas Does
Hattie.' It's not like my job lends itself to taking pottery
classes on Tuesday nights."

"You're right." Skinner didn't know what else to say, so he said
nothing. Neither did Mulder for a bit and the break in conversation
was just a little awkward.

Skinner looked closely at Mulder. The wig was gone, the lipstick
and mascara too, but something was still not quite right,
something...ah. Leaning over, Skinner ripped off a paper towel and
dampened it under the tap.

"So, I was asking you before," Mulder began.

"Come here a minute."

Mulder shot him an odd look, then unkinked himself languidly and
took the few steps across the kitchen. Reaching out, Skinner took
Mulder's chin in one hand. The skin was smooth, he must have shaved
just before he came over, and Skinner felt the jaw muscles twitch.
Then, carefully, he dabbed the beauty mark off of Mulder's cheek.
Dropping his hands, he realised that this was probably something he
should have thought about before doing. "Sorry, it was bothering
me."

Another look from Mulder, now resting one elbow on the counter top.
"At least you didn't use your spit like my mother."

"Mine too." Skinner teased apart the wet paper, pulling it into
tidy shreds.

"Ivory soap--pure as mother's spit."

Skinner laughed and wadded the wet strips together. Aiming
carefully, he shot the ball across the room and into the open
garbage can.

"The man has game." Mulder smiled and Skinner's unease lessened.
"You look like the kind of man who would own a tube of Krazy Glue."

"Probably. What for?"

Mulder fished in his pocket, producing his necklace and a loose
rhinestone. "This thing cost me fifteen bucks."

Rummaging in a drawer, Skinner found the glue. "Grab some newspaper
from the recycling box. Is that how much Cracker Jack you had to
eat to collect all the parts?"

"Froot Loops. Do you have toothpicks?"

Skinner handed some over. "Do you want me to glue that for you?"

"You think you can drink and glue better than I can?" Mulder bent
over the counter and squeezed a bit of the goop into the empty
socket. "I got a Cub Scout badge for gluing."

"And you were drinking at the time?" Skinner watched skeptically
but Mulder set the loose stone in perfectly.

"About a gallon of Cherry Coke. And my hands didn't even shake." He
straightened. "Where can I put this?"

Skinner cast his eye over the room, clean now, but not for long.
"On top of the fridge."

Carefully, Mulder slid the newspaper up top, then leaned back
against the refrigerator door. "Ow." He straightened up
immediately. "They say you can tell a lot about a man by his
refrigerator magnets. For instance, this huge clip that almost
severed my spinal cord shows that you like things tidy and
organised."

"You had to look at my fridge to find that out?"

"There's more." Mulder studied the door for a few moments. "A
grocery list with baking soda on it. You're a down to earth kind of
guy, someone who likes homemade things--"

"Mulder, the baking soda is for refrigerator odours."

"--and dislikes funny smells. Am I right?"

Refusing to answer, Skinner finished his ginger ale.

"Here we have a Domino's Pizza magnet but without a menu under it.
So, you order pizza a lot but you always get the same thing."

"That magnet came with the pizza I got for tonight."

Unfazed, Mulder continued. "And last but not least, a Hello from
Hawaii magnet holding up a picture of a smiling couple."

"My cousin."

"So, I predict that you will take a journey over water and meet a
tall dark stranger." Mulder came back over to lean on the counter
next to Skinner. "I can't tell any more without reading your palm."

"Is this how you profiled all those criminals?"

"Sometimes." Mulder grinned.

Skinner realised with a jolt that Mulder did probably know a lot
about him and even more now that he'd had the evening to look
around his home. He didn't really like the idea.

"So," Mulder continued, "do you want to know what the future holds
for you?"

"If you can foretell the future, explain why you spend so much time
in the hospital."

"You can't tell your own fortune. Well known fact."

"Is this something else you got a Scout badge for?"

"No, we did Tarot but I never got the hang of it."

Quinn came into the room. "Hey, Mulder, where's the next tape?"

"I left it by the TV. Isn't it there?"

"Can't find it."

Mulder didn't say anything to Skinner, just looked at him, before
rolling upright and heading out of the room, Quinn's hand on his
shoulder. Skinner closed his eyes again, trying to find his way
back to the zone of white noise and no thoughts. But the
swish-swish wasn't there. Instead, the dishwasher churned out a
chugga-chugga-thump that made him think it was about time to get it
serviced. Sliding off the counter, he wrote himself a note and
stuck it under the Domino's magnet.

He ran a hand along the counter top. No more work to be done for
now, no excuse to hide out in the kitchen. He spun out a trip to
the bathroom for a good five minutes and that pretty much exhausted
his options. Taking a moment to steel himself, he made a measured
entrance into the living room. The men had shuffled around a bit,
the movie was a little different, but the sounds and energy were
just the same. Plus ca change. There was Nieves beside Hancock on
the couch. And an empty seat, but no thanks. Scanning the room,
Skinner saw Mulder and Quinn, sitting on the floor with their knees
up and their backs against the wall. Quinn leaned over and
whispered something to Mulder and they both laughed.

Skinner turned his eyes, if not his attention, to the screen and
stood in the back of the room, arms crossed and leaning first on
one hip, then the other, as the flick played. His back would pay
for that later, but it seemed the lesser of a number of evils. Just
when he thought his iron frame would give out anyway and he'd have
to take the couch, the last cum shot rang out and the movie ended.

Someone flicked the lights on. Men began to mill about the room
again and Skinner realised, too late, that he should have cleared
away the food and drink before this. But the more sober of them
seemed to clue in, milling in a more purposeful fashion, collecting
in little knots, buzzing about bars and wives and hangover cures.
Nieves was still upright so Skinner stopped him. "Would you find
out how many cabs we need to call?"

"Sure thing." Nieves waded back into the crowd and moved from knot
to knot in a seemingly random way. Drunkard's walk, thought
Skinner, and smiled a little. But Nieves would get the job done.
And fast. Skinner was just making his way to carry out some of the
snacks when Nieves took him by the shoulder.

"I think eight cabs should do it. I'll call. And I'll make sure no
one's left standing on the curb. Where's the phone?"

Skinner pointed it out. "Thanks. I'll haul out the coats."

"Oh, by the way, I managed to part Hancock from his car keys. I'll
get him home." A smile and he went to use the phone, covering his
ear as he talked loudly over the noise.

Outerwear was heaped on the bed in the spare room. Grabbing a large
armful, Skinner wondered how many people would actually end up with
their own jackets. He carried them out and started to spread them
over the couch and dining room chairs.

"I would have thought you'd make people hand in a claim ticket for
those."

Mulder again. "I didn't have time to read the sidebar on ten tips
for getting drunken party guests back into their clothes, sorry."
Something white was stuffed behind a sofa cushion and Skinner
pulled it out. The bra. He held it out. "At least yours are easy to
identify."

Taking it, Mulder draped it over his shoulder. "If Scully finds out
you gave me lingerie, you'll have to marry me."

Skinner glared and went back for a second trip, Mulder tagging
along. There were still too many coats for one armload so Skinner
picked up as many as he could. Mulder watched, a thoughtful look on
his face.

"Whose jacket pocket should we stuff this into?" Taking the bra
into his hands, he twisted and crushed it. "Which one is
Hancock's?"

Skinner's first impulse was to disapprove, but fuck that. Hancock
was an obnoxious jerk. "I think...this one." A brown suede jacket,
in the middle of his stack. "Did any of that blonde hair fall out
of your wig?"

Pulling the jacket out carefully, Mulder grinned. "You're agreeing
to complicity in a prank against a federal agent?" He tucked the
brassiere into an inside pocket. "You're just doing this because
you know no-one believes anything I say, so no blame will attach to
you in any case."

"Brilliant as always."

Smoothing the suede, Mulder headed to the door.

"Mulder."

He turned. "Changed your mind?"

"Help me carry the rest of the coats."

"Sorry." Mulder picked up the rest of the pile and they went back
out. He dumped most of his load in a heap on a chair, but
solicitously bundled Hancock into his jacket.

Trying to be everywhere at once, Skinner helped men find their
coats and other paraphernalia, pointed out the bathroom, shook
hands, and had his back slapped. He explained to Hancock that
Nieves had his keys and would see that he got home, but wasn't
really sure Hancock quite clued in. Turning away, he walked right
into a big, friendly hug from a big, friendly, and only vaguely
upright Conaway. Skinner patted his back and tried to disengage
himself.

"C'mon with us," Conaway slurred loudly. "Gonna get tattoos." He
hung by his arm from Skinner's shoulder, clutching a jacket Skinner
hoped belonged to him. Trying to get him into it proved difficult,
like a rope-and-beads puzzle that looked blindingly obvious until
you got to the last twist and found that you'd only made things
worse.

"Need a hand?" Mulder-on-the-spot.

"Please." Skinner passed over the coat. Between the two of them,
they bundled Conaway up and draped him over the shoulders of the
best man.

"Thanks, Mulder. Was that all according to Heloise?"

"Actually, Heloise recommends not letting guests get so drunk in
the first place."

"Smart woman."

"And how about Martha? 'Send your guests home with barf bags to
match the candle and dried flower party favours. Put it under your
pillow and you'll dream of--'"

Someone grabbed Skinner and asked him a question, drowning out
Mulder. As he answered, he saw Quinn join Mulder, heard him offer
to split a cab. One less thing to worry about. Caught up in a
maelstrom of farewells, he felt almost dizzy by the time the last
trench coat had swirled out the door. The storm metaphor was apt,
he thought, looking at the havoc the party had left in its wake.
Get to work now, man, he admonished. You'll sleep better.

"Looks like we're still in Kansas, judging by the debris."

It only surprised Skinner that he wasn't more surprised. "Mulder,
what the hell are you still doing here? I'll call you a cab."

"I thought you wanted my help."

Skinner tried to read the look on Mulder's face and failed. So he
decided to treat it as "deliberately annoying" until he had reason
to believe otherwise. "I asked you for help, you helped me, and
then the party ended. Go home."

Mulder seemed to be shading his expression towards "slightly hurt
and confused." "Come on, it will take you a couple of hours to
clean up. I'll pick up trash and carry dishes in."

While protocol demanded that Skinner keep arguing, he simply didn't
have the energy. "Fine, Mulder. Trash bags are under the sink."
Surprise flickered in Mulder's eyes for a moment. Chalk one up for
Skinner. But it would be good to get the mess cleared away.

"Talk about your stale party odours. All that's missing from this
Eau de Men is a pile of sweaty gym socks."

"Unless you know some sort of miracle method for freshening the
air, just open the windows, Norma Jean."

"Not without baking soda and you're all out." Mulder went to get
the windows. Maybe he wasn't so annoying after all.

In the kitchen, Skinner emptied the dishwasher, handing a plastic
bag to Mulder when he brought in the first load of plates and
glasses.

"I'll split my tips with you." Mulder dropped some coins and they
clattered on the counter top. "I wonder how much change the average
man loses from his pockets in a year."

"Are you looking behind the couch cushions or was all that just
lying on the floor?"

"Cushions. Don't want you to have any unpleasant surprises." And he
was out again.

Staring at the cabinets, Skinner thought he'd already had enough
surprises for one night. A lack of something prickled at his
palate, not strong enough to be a craving or a need, but still a
want. Coffee. What the hell, he wouldn't sleep for hours yet
anyhow. While it brewed, he loaded the dishwasher again, carried in
the remains of the food, watched Mulder picking up garbage and
dishes with desultory grace. They traded quips and sidestepped each
other in the doorway until the trash was bagged, the bottles and
cans boxed, the dishes swish-swishing, and most of the flat
surfaces wiped down.

"Many hands make light work." Mulder indicated the tidy room. "The
carpet's still pretty bad, though."

"I'll vacuum tomorrow. Coffee?"

"Thanks. Cream, no sugar."

"I don't have cream. Will whole milk do?"

"You're talking to a field agent. I can drink anything, even
non-dairy creamer and Folger's Crystals."

"This won't be quite that unspeakable. C'mon and doctor it
yourself. I ran out of lace doilies at about midnight."

The aroma of coffee filled the kitchen, overlaying the lingering
party smells. Skinner took down some mugs and poured out. Mulder
looked closely at his. "Plain blue--can't tell very much. But
yours--Hawaii again. That strengthens the earlier prediction and
also indicates you need a vacation."

"I'm with you on the vacation." Skinner pulled the milk out from
behind some wrapped bowls of chip dip and handed it to Mulder.

"I could have gotten that myself."

"It was less bother than having you do a Freudian analysis of the
contents of my fridge."

Mulder looked surprised. "Me? No, I wouldn't have done that."

"Sure."

"I'm not a Freudian."

A chuckle rumbled its way out of Skinner, in spite of himself. "I'm
not taking any chances."

"I'm not looking. Your secrets are safe." Mulder deliberately
turned his back as Skinner replaced the milk.

"Living room. I have to sit down." The living room was chilly with
the fresh night breeze. Steam rose and streamed off of the coffee.
"Is it too cold, Mulder?"

"Hmm...no. It's a nice change." Mulder sat down on the big leather
couch, in front of the jumble of items spread out on the coffee
table. "Come see the swag."

Grabbing some coasters, Skinner joined him. "You found all this
stuff?"

"Two keys, three combs, a fuzzy breath mint, $3.27 in change, an
onyx cufflink, a dry cleaning claim ticket, and a Barbie POG."

"The cufflink is mine. I've been meaning to look harder for it."
Skinner nodded his thanks. "But did you have to save that breath
mint?"

"How will we learn anything if we treat valuable evidence as
garbage?"

"What were you hoping to learn that you didn't already know?"

Mulder just shrugged and sipped. "Good coffee, Martha."

"Thanks, Norma Jean." Skinner paused. "I was wondering...why
Marilyn?"

Shifting on the couch to face Skinner, Mulder raised his eyebrows.
"You don't mean 'why drag?'"

"That might be more than I want to know."

"Just a college party trick I turned out to be really good at,
actually."

"I believe you, Mulder."

"I can't tell that for sure without checking your refrigerator."
Both hands laced around his mug, he was silent a moment. "But
Marilyn. Well, partly because she's Marilyn. I'm sure I don't have
to play 'Candle in the Wind' for you or anything." He looked at
Skinner, waiting for a reply. Skinner nodded, wondering a little at
this shift from levity. "So, that, and...have you ever read her
files? Not that there's much uncensored. But it was us. We
surveilled her, spied on her, we killed her."

"Mulder, you don't--"

Holding up one hand, Mulder cut Skinner off. "No, I'm not trying to
convince you that the FBI actually murdered her. I mean, I have my
theories, but that's not what I'm talking about." He stopped to
drink his coffee, staring over the rim of the cup and past
Skinner's shoulder. Skinner wondered what he saw. "Regardless, we
killed her. We the Bureau. We the people. I like to remember." He
twisted his mouth ruefully. "And I look good as a blonde."

There wasn't anything to say, so Skinner didn't say it, just
wondered how he'd merited this strange confession. He knew a lot
about Mulder, what he believed in, what he worked for, what he
cared about. But this--well, Mulder hadn't said all that much,
really, but yet, it felt oddly like he'd bared a small corner of
his soul. More oddly still, Skinner was glad. Glad? Yes, but he
hoped he wasn't expected to reciprocate. A sudden spark of memory
interrupted him and he seized at the chance to derail his train of
thought. "I almost forgot--I still have your flask." He tugged it
out of his back pocket, a little difficult while sitting down, and
held it out. "I owe you a drink. I had a few swallows earlier."

Taking it, Mulder smiled. "S'ok. I don't drink much. But I needed a
little courage to get through the act."

"So did I."

Mulder looked delighted. "If I'd known before what it would take to
break you..."

"You're saying you want that assignment after all?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of causing a disturbance in
your office. When's your birthday?"

"Never mind."

Setting down his mug, Mulder looked at Skinner for a moment. "I've
been trying to ask you all night. Why did you host this party in
the first place? It doesn't really seem like you at all."

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time." Skinner shrugged a
little. "Went to get a glass of water one day at work, ran into
Meyer and Nieves. Meyer didn't have space for the party, Nieves
asked me, I'd just given Meyer a difficult and unpleasant
assignment." He swallowed the last of the coffee. "I said I'd think
about it and next thing I knew, the date was booked. Sorry it's not
more interesting."

"At least I know you're human now."

Skinner smiled a little but didn't speak. The mess was cleared up,
the coffee was finished, and the cold was seeping into his bones.
He looked around the room, then turned back to Mulder. "I didn't
thank you for helping me clean up."

"Didn't you?"

Dammit, Mulder was difficult. "So, thanks."

"I guess I should call a cab." Mulder didn't move.

"Do you want me to call?" Lazy bastard. "I'll do it."

"No, I can." They both stood. Skinner took a step towards the phone
and something rolled beneath his foot, a bottle? He pitched
forward, and something rolled under his clutching hands, Mulder's
arms. Skinner found himself upright again, feeling the bunch and
flex of muscle under his fingers and the hard grip on his own upper
arms. "Sorry," Mulder said, voice low. "I missed that one."

Skinner stood outside himself for a long frozen moment, seeing them
close together, eyes locked, remembered the long cool slide of
gloves over his burning face, the hardness of a jaw beneath his
fingers, felt a click and shift. Something surfaced from the murk
of his psyche--desire. Pure and simple.

Climbing back inside, he wondered how long they'd been standing
there. His heart hammered, like a bird slamming frantically against
a window. Desire, tawdry and complex. Better let go, man, let go
now. He was, he was letting go, loosening his grip, really, tensing
to step back.

"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?" Mulder said.

What the hell, Skinner thought, and kissed him. He was kissing
Mulder and it was like drinking that first beer at fourteen, not
anything like he'd thought it would be and twice as intoxicating
because he wasn't supposed to have it. He was kissing Mulder and
Mulder was kissing him back. His eyes were closed and the night air
blew around him and suddenly he realised that he was kissing
Mulder.

Damn fool. He pulled back, let go, stepped away. Damn, stupid,
fucking fool. What the hell was he suppose to say now? "I was out
of line." He swallowed. "Take your best shot and then get out of
here."

"No." Mulder stepped in again. "Why should Conaway be the only one
to get drunk and do something stupid?"

He couldn't look at Mulder. "I'm not drunk."

"Neither am I." This time Mulder's fingers found his jaw and turned
it back. This time Mulder leaned in and kissed him. This time it
was a Cuba Libre, sweet and dark with rum, heat pooling in his
belly, giving the lie to his claims of sobriety. Mulder's hands
slid over his shoulders, his back, never still, and his own hands
followed suit. The friction of the cotton warmed his palms, the
strength of the mouth against his own pulled all the blood from his
brain. When his fingers touched the soft hair at the back of
Mulder's neck, he realised how long it had been since he'd had
someone in his arms.

He gave in then, let his body tell him what to do. Pulling off his
glasses, he tossed them onto the coffee table. They sank back down
to the couch, sitting awkwardly and moving, always moving.
Skinner's hands touched Mulder's arms, his sides, his thighs.
Mulder's hands held Skinner's face and Skinner drank down the kiss,
the smooth burn of whisky and water over his palate. A little
courage. A little warmth against the cold. Eat, drink, and be
merry.

Someone changed their centre of gravity--Skinner wondered if it was
him--and they toppled over to tangle side by side on the inadequate
length of the couch. Skinner's leg was between Mulder's thighs and
his arm was trapped beneath Mulder's body. Mulder's mouth was on
his neck, hard and devouring. They pressed close together,
Skinner's free hand sliding along Mulder's spine, top to bottom to
top. He was drunk now, drunk on every shooter, every pint, every
glass of Christmas sherry he'd ever had. Cheap red wine, applejack,
straight vodka, so far behind the veils of reason, so inebriated
with distilled desire that he couldn't even begin to care about the
hangover of regret he'd have in the morning.

With one fierce tug, Skinner found his way inside Mulder's shirt
and the skin was warm to the touch. His cock was stirring,
thickening, announcing itself. Skinner pressed his lips to Mulder's
temple, soft skin and fine hair, kissed his cheek, rougher silk
than before, caught his whisky sour mouth and slid his tongue
inside. Mulder's cock was a hard urge against his thigh, Mulder's
fingers a skilled persuasion on his shirt buttons. He's your guy
when stocks are high. Skinner shifted to let Mulder pull his shirt
open and Mulder shifted to let Skinner kiss his throat. Skinner
felt himself slipping, sliding, falling dizzily, so lost in touch
and smell and taste that it wasn't until the breath thudded out of
his lungs that he realised they really had fallen off the couch.

Mulder was on top. Heavy, open eyed, amused. "You OK?"

"I'm fine, Mulder. You?"

"Just so long as this isn't the part where you change your mind and
tell me we can't do this." His breath warmed Skinner's face. "Is
it?"

Closing his eyes, Skinner thought for a moment. All the cons were
far away, the pros insistently close. He shook his head, then
looked at Mulder. "No, I'm with you." His back finally managed to
get his attention. "But let's take this to the bedroom."

Rolling off, Mulder sat, back against the couch, and pulled Skinner
up and into another long kiss. Giddy champagne, bubbles rising.
They stroked each other wherever they could reach. Hello, said
Skinner's back. Not now, said the rest of him. Now, said the back,
and meant it. Skinner broke the kiss and they stood. A small sliver
of reality spiked his memory. "Mulder, you have condoms, right?"

"You don't?"

"No. You're telling me you don't? Whatever happened to 'Be
Prepared'?"

Mulder's shoulders sagged. "I washed out of Boy Scouts. The Cub
Scout motto is 'Do Your Best.' I thought you'd have them."

Unbelievable. "You came here to seduce me and you don't even have
condoms?"

"I did *not* come here on purpose to seduce you. It just happened."
Skinner dropped back down onto the couch, stone cold sober with
half an erection. Mulder remained standing. "Can't we do without?"

Yes, urged Skinner's body, even his back, but his mind had the
veto. "Not now. Not for a one-night."

Eyes a little wild, Mulder said, "I could go out."

"There's nothing close."

Sitting back down, Mulder rubbed his fingers over his mouth. "If
you douche with Coca-Cola, you won't get pregnant."

"There's none left."

"Fuck. I should have checked Hancock's pockets before he left."

"You did plan this."

Mulder looked away. "No. I just thought..."

"Don't stop." Skinner heard the acid in his voice and didn't care.
"I want to know just what you thought this would get you."

"What it would get me?" Mulder turned back and he had that look,
that melange of stubbornness, insanity, and despair that Skinner
had seen a few times before. "I thought it would get me a few hours
of good sex. I thought it would get me a few hours of human
companionship. Don't you ever want that?"

Skinner said nothing and wondered which look he had. Cold and
heavy, probably, like granite.

"Don't you? Don't you ever just want a body in your bed?"

The words stung Skinner's face like Mulder had slapped him.

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry." Standing again, Mulder paced away and then
back again. "But that's exactly what I mean. I don't dare start a
relationship. Or even pick anybody up. I can't put anybody in that
situation." His eyes locked on Skinner's. "And neither can you."

Scully turn you down? Skinner wondered, but managed not to say it
aloud. "So you thought...me and you..."

"Yeah. If they wanted either of us out of the FBI, we'd be out by
now. If they wanted us dead, we'd be dead. This can't put us in any
more danger."

"You sure about that?"

"No."

"My God, Mulder, that's one hell of a pickup line." They stared at
each other, teetering together, unsure of which way they'd fall.

"It very rarely works." One corner of Mulder's mouth went up. So
did one of Skinner's. "You should have let me look in the
refrigerator."

Too much. Skinner started to laugh. Mulder looked shocked, then
relieved. "Mulder, next time just bring rubbers, OK?"

"Next time?" Sliding onto the couch, Mulder leaned in hopefully.
"There's a next time?"

There'd better be, Skinner thought. Maybe it wasn't too late for
the all-night drugstore run. He checked his watch. 3:30. It was too
late. "Yeah." Oh, he shouldn't, but he put his hands on Mulder's
face and took one more kiss. "Next time." Mulder tried to pull him
into more, but he let go and sat back.

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow-today or tomorrow-tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow-today. You going to the wedding?"

Skinner grimaced and nodded.

"OK, we'll go together. I can pick you up." Mulder paused.
"Successfully, this time."

"And what's your motto, Norma Jean?"

"Be Prepared. And do a good deed every day." Mulder grinned, then
frowned. "I should go then."

Skinner performed a quick risk analysis. "It's really late. You can
crash here if you want. I've got a spare room, or there's the couch
if you prefer."

"This isn't your way of saying 'no means yes,' is it?"

"It is not." Putting his glasses back on, Skinner treated Mulder to
a scaled-down version of his baleful glare. "Crash or cab?"

"Crash. Thanks. I'll just take the couch."

"I'll get you some bedding." Standing, Skinner stretched a little.
"Need anything to wear?"

"No, I'm fine. So long as I can close the windows."

Skinner nodded and headed out. Stripping the blankets off the spare
room bed, he tried to wonder what the hell he was doing, but he was
just too sleepy now. Grabbing the pillows, he hauled the load out
to the living room. All but one window were closed and that only
open an inch. Mulder was sitting in a chair, taking off his shoes.
Tempting, tempting. Skinner had already given in so much already.
What was one more evil? Dumping his armful, he winged a pillow at
Mulder and caught him upside the head.

Mulder stared. Like it surprised him more that Skinner would play
with him than that he'd make out with him. Score two. Skinner
grinned. "Sleep tight, Mulder."

"You too, Skinner."

"'Walter' is OK, too. Just not--"

"Walt. I know." Mulder stood, squeezing the pillow with both hands.
Skinner turned and headed upstairs, just dodging the missile.

In bed at last, he stared at the ceiling, waiting for the room to
spin him into sleep. The bed seemed too big and he stretched out,
trying to cover as much of it as possible. Limbs loose, mind
looser, he could feel Mulder's body against him still, warm against
the cool sheets. Next time. He closed his eyes, there was Sharon
and they were standing up to be married, and Mulder was the best
man. You may kiss the bride, the minister said, but Sharon handed
Skinner her bouquet and turned to Mulder. Skinner stood there,
smelling apple blossoms, watching Mulder kiss his wife, and the
minister grabbed his ass but it was Scully and he opened his eyes.
It was morning.

Ten-thirty. Late, but not late enough. Padding downstairs in his
robe and bare feet, Skinner felt the lack of sleep aching in his
joints. In the living room, the blankets were heaped on the couch,
but Mulder wasn't there. Maybe he'd already gone. The thought gave
Skinner a twist of regret and relief. But there was Mulder in the
kitchen, perched on the counter and drinking a glass of orange
juice. "Morning," he mumbled around the glass. Skinner nodded and
got the filters out of the cupboard.

"Coffee, Mulder?"

"No, I've got to go." Mulder tipped the last of the juice down his
throat and slid off the counter. "Pick you up at three. Wear
something black and sexy."

Skinner grimaced. When he had the coffee on, he followed Mulder out
to the door. A trill sent them both instinctively reaching for
phones. Mulder pulled out his cell. "Mulder." He winced. "Scully,
I'm just on my way...You know how it is, bachelor party, things get
interesting, Candy and Ginger--no, Candy, not now, I'm on the
phone..." Skinner raised one eyebrow and Mulder shrugged. "Jeez,
Scully, you act like I've never stood you up before...Scully?" He
put the phone away. "Scully says hi."

"I'll see you then."

"I left my outfit in your guest room--I'll get it later, OK?"
Mulder had one hand on the doorknob when he turned. "Is this a
really stupid idea?"

Skinner almost laughed. "Yes. But compared to other things we've
both done, it's fucking brilliant."

"You're right. Anyway, I had a good look in your refrigerator
before you got up."

"What did you learn?"

"Tell you later." And the door closed behind him. Skinner stood for
a moment, staring after him, before the coffee called him away.

In the kitchen, the linoleum was cold under his feet. He wrapped
his fingers around the mug and looked out the window in time to see
Mulder getting into a taxi. Stupid, yeah, idiotic. But who the fuck
cared? He caught sight of Mulder's glass on the counter. Some OJ
would hit the spot. On the fridge door, he noticed an addition to
his shopping list: "Get that ice, or else no dice." Skinner smiled
and pulled out the juice carton. It was empty.

Bastard.

F I N I S

Halrloprillalar   hal@prillalar.com   http://prillalar.com/