Author's webpage: http://www.squidge.org/~theforest/lyrica/lyrica.html

Mermaids Singing - part two
by Lyrica

Jim opened his eyes cautiously.

Dawn was just beginning to pink the lacy curtains across the room. Lace curtains. He'd never had lace curtains, not even when he was married. Strange room. A warm, unfamiliar body beside him. Alarm tweaked his muscles but then the warm body moved against him, and he recognized the weight and scent and knew where he was.

Mulder had turned in his sleep and edged down until the back of his head was lodged in Jim's armpit. He was plastered to Jim from from his shoulders down, a smooth, long line of back warming his ribs, the soft curve of Mulder's ass pressed into his thigh.

It shouldn't have taken him so long to figure out where he was but his hearing had fooled him. Lulled him into feeling the safety of home, because the sound that had wakened him was the sound that woke him so many mornings...the sound of Blair's voice.

But not Blair's voice calling to him to wake up, or talking to himself as he cooked breakfast. This was Blair's voice the way he'd never heard it before last night, raspy and throaty and rough with sexuality. Sloppy, slurping sounds that could only mean one thing. And Skinner groaning, //God, Blair, you're just too damn good at that.//

Irritated, Jim flipped back the covers, eased away from Mulder. His lost boxers were handing in a twist across the reading lamp beside the easy chair, and now that he saw them, he did vaguely remember Mulder flinging them away last night. He snatched them up and shook them to unravel the legs. It was bad enough to wake up not knowing where he was, and once he'd recognized where, to feel like a damn fool for being there. It was worse that what he was hearing was making his cock stand up so straight that he had to squash it to zip his pants. But those little phrases that spoke of lovers who knew each other so well were just too much to hear on an empty stomach.

Yanking his shirt on, he started around the bed towards the bathroom and stepped on something long and hard. It snapped beneath his bare foot and gouged his heel.

Mulder's toothbrush. It had one of those little plastic things over the head, but the handle was exposed. And now in two pieces.

He cursed under his breath. His foot throbbed, and he couldn't shut off the pain, any more than he could shut out the sound of Skinner enjoying his partner's mouth so unashamedly, so languidly. He went to his knees, picked up the things Mulder had shoved off the bed the night before and stuffed them back into the leather kit.

Flashes of sensory memory seized him. Mulder's pale ass, swaying suggestively before his gaze. Mulder's coquettish smile back over his shoulder. The salt, wine and oregano scent of Mulder's breath, and the sweet taste of his skin. And the intoxicating, exhilarating sense of all of them. All three of them, on his skin and in his lungs, ribbons of sound twining through his ears and into his brain. Blair telling Skinner he could never leave Jim.

And that was it, wasn't it? It wasn't the sound of lovemaking, or the way his body was sizzling with it, or even the toothbrush-shaped scrape on his foot. It was Blair saying I can't leave Jim. Not I don't want to leave Jim, but I can't. And even if Blair had said it the right way, how could he believe it? Because why would Blair give up what he'd heard between the two men last night? What he could hear happening now?

Jim left Mulder asleep in his rumpled bed. He left the sounds of Blair and Skinner rumpling theirs more.

He went by the loft and showered. Changed clothes and made it in to work only a few minutes late. If Simon noticed, he didn't comment. He brought Jim all the files on their missing persons/murders and suggested he go through them again with an eye for the bits and pieces of information he'd gleaned the day before.

Blair called mid-morning, his vital signs all level and calm and his voice bright and breezy. Even Jim's growl--"I'm fine, Sandburg. What were you expecting?"--didn't faze him. He was heading off to class, and what was Jim working on, and hadn't Jim like Giulatti's, and he might be running a little late this afternoon because he'd scheduled a meeting with a student who couldn't make his normal office hours.

Jim hung up the phone and went back to work and refused to let himself even think about what was going on in his head. About how his body responded to Blair's voice, and maybe he'd always responded that way and just been too stupid to see it. About how much he'd wanted to whisper his thanks that Blair was going to stay with him, and didn't he want to reconsider, considering that he didn't have a clue how to make Blair happy the way Walter Skinner did.

The phone rang again, and he snarled his name into it.

"Jim? It's Mulder."

Jim ran his hand over his head, ruffling his hair. Pretending that he didn't feel a blush creeping up from under his collar.

Mulder's voice was as bright and breezy as Blair's, but with that note of self-mocking laughter hovering in it. "How're you doing this morning?"

What was it with everybody? Was he giving off some kind of I'm not okay vibes? "I'm fine. How about you?"

Mulder laughed, low and sultry. "I'm great. A little...tenderized. But fine. And wondering why my toothbrush is in two pieces."

"Oh, shit!" He'd forgotten about that. He'd been so freaked, he'd stuffed the broken pieces back into Mulder's overnight bag without thinking. "I forgot. I stepped on it when I got up this morning."

Mulder laughed again. "Yeah. I do recall stuff hitting the floor in the heat of battle."

Jim wished he would stop that low octave laugh. And the easy references to the night before. He face was so hot it was going to scorch his collar. And his pants were two sizes too small. And he was starting to feel like a cat in heat, homing in on anything that moved. Just the merest lowering of voice, or the briefest touch, and his cock twitched like its switch had shorted out. He changed the subject. "Tell me how you're going to find the next victim."

"Tell me how you could hear into another room."

There was nothing Jim could say to that. Nothing he was going to say. Except it cooled his ardor as effectively as having ice water thrown on his crotch. "Look, you're the one who slipped me the business card. Did you want to help me, or not?"

The silence drew out uncomfortably, then Mulder said lightly, "Call me when you're ready to deal," and shifted the phone as if he was hanging up.

"Mulder..." Jim growled a warning.

The other man came back on the line, serious this time. Sobered. "I can't tell you how, but I'll call you if I find anything. I'll help you all I can. And maybe you can help me."

The line went dead. Jim went back to his files, barely looking up when Blair breezed in.

He took one look at Jim's frowning face and breezed off again. In twenty minutes, he returned with a drink and a sandwich and plopped the plate and cup down at Jim's elbow. Fresh tuna salad with mayo and pickles on sourdough and tea with extra ice, just the way Jim liked it.

"You skipped lunch, didn't you? I can tell because you're not your usual happy, charming self."

Jim's scowl would have been much more effective if his stomach hadn't chosen that moment to growl. He inhaled the scent of pickles and Blair. And hotel soap.

Blair ignored the scowl that replaced his frown and grabbed a chair. It squeaked like fingernails on a blackboard as he dragged it behind Jim's desk. When Jim winced, he carried the chair the rest of the way, then sat and leaned over the files. "So... What have you got?"

Jim, mouth full of tuna salad, pointed to the legal pad, turned horizontal and covered with charts and arrows, where he'd been going over everything again. "Just trying to find a connection. There's got to be something that links these guys. Mulder told Skinner..." he paused.

Just the mention of the man's name rated a blip in Blair's heartbeat.

Jim covered by gulping tea and rushing past the name this time. "Mulder told Skinner that there would be more murders. And Skinner said that they would try to find the vics before they were killed."

"So you're trying to figure out some way to find the next guy, too." After a moment, Blair nodded. "You know what the really weird thing is here?"

"You mean, the really weird thing other than all of it?" He said it rather testily, but he was listening. He always listened, because in amongst the esoteric, often interesting, mostly useless information that poured out of Blair, there was frequently some gem that set him to thinking, something that sent him in a new direction.

Blair grinned. "Yeah. The weirdest thing. To me, anyway, is the way these guys all look so much alike. I mean, that's significant, right? That's the only connection we've found so far. You already mentioned it. And one of your theories is that this is a serial killer targeting men who meet this description."

"Right... That's standard. A serial killer often goes after a certain body type, or hair color, or behavior. Some trigger. But this is..." He searched around for a word and couldn't come up with one better than Blair's. "Weird. They're not just similar. They're enough alike to be brothers. But they're not."

"Are we sure they're not?"

Jim tapped the pad, lifted up a couple of the files and flipped through the reports. "DNA reports haven't come back yet. But there are birth records for all of them that appear to be legitimate, and they're all different. If they're related, somebody's gone to an awful lot of trouble to cover it up."

The only way Jim could think of to find the next guy was to follow Mulder around and see what he did. Except--

"So how is the killer--?"

Jim slashed at the air, signaling for silence. Because he had a thought there, an idea trying to pop through.

Blair went silent immediately. Sat up straighter on the edge of his chair, tense and waiting for him to think it through.

Jim let his awareness drift away from Blair, back to the thought that had tickled at the edge of his consciousness. Before Mulder moved to the X-Files, he was a profiler. One of the Bureau's best. And Mulder had done some of his most brilliant work on serial cases.

"Jim?" Blair laid his fingertips on his arm gently. "You got something?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Mulder's a profiler who's done a lot of work on serial murders. And he seems to know a lot about this case..."

"So..." Blair drew the word out, thinking, then picked up steam as he made the same connections that Jim had. "...maybe this killer has recently shifted his base of operation to Cascade. And if we could find out about the cases Mulder's been working on, we'd find out more about this one."

Jim nodded, grinning at Blair. In step and in sync.

"So how do we find out about Mulder's old cases?"

Jim bit his lip, because the first response that popped into his mind was pillow talk. He wasn't ready to go there. In fact, he couldn't see himself being ready to go there in his lifetime. "I have some contacts in DC." He looked at his watch. "But it's too late to call. It'll have to wait until tomorrow morning." He looked at the spread of papers and photos on his desk. At the wadded pieces of paper filling his trash can. At the page on his legal pad, almost covered in boxes and scratched out ideas. Almost ready for the trash can itself. "Help me finish this, just for the hell of it. We might still find something."

"Sure." Blair scooted closer and took up the next page of the next file. And occasionally, in the middle of the work, Blair smiled at him. A pleased, in-sync smile.

Jim managed to forget most everything but the files and the mystery. The almost tranquilizing delight of following a trail. The contentment of working with Blair. The joy of his smile. It was after 6:00 when he wadded up another sheet of paper, tossed it in the direction of the trash can and bounced the paper ball off Simon's leg instead.

"Are you guys going home tonight?"

Jim looked up to find his captain standing over him, coat slung over his arm, fresh, unlit cigar clenched in his fingers. Jim sighed and stretched, counting the pops and crackles along his spine. "Yeah, I guess so, Simon. The only progress we're making here is confirming that we've got nothing."

Blair stood, too, and stretched. His younger spine gave off noticeably fewer creaks. He gathered up the papers, shuffling them back into the proper files and handed the stack over to Jim to lock in his desk.

By the time Jim turned around, he had his coat on and was holding Jim's out to him.

"You riding with me, Chief, or did you drive in?" Sometimes Blair took the bus to the precinct so that they could ride home together, usually on a night when they were planning on eating out.

"I took the bus, but I'm meeting Walter for dinner." A flush of pink crept out of Blair's collar, crawled up his throat and along his jaw. "He's picking me up out front in about 30 minutes."

"Oh. Okay." Jim could smell the heat on Blair, like some internal furnace had just kicked on. All the emotions and questions he'd kept at bay all day came flooding in, and he turned away, sure that his own face had flushed just as hot.

Blair tagged along beside him to the elevator. "You want to come along?"

Jim shivered, thinking of another night like last night, rutting like an animal in heat and listening to his best friend doing the same. Knowing that he'd be welcome in Mulder's bed and he'd do it again, given the chance. His dick was already half hard, just from the idea. He could hear the elevator, groaning and creaking its way up. In only a few seconds, the doors would open and he'd be trapped in the tiny space with Blair. Smelling his anticipation. "No, I don't want to waste another evening eating yuppie food and listening to you guys talk over old times, Sandburg."

Blair's mouth dropped open and those big, blue eyes widened.

Feeling like he'd just stolen some kid's lollipop, Jim thunked the steel door hard enough to make it rattle. "This fucking thing gets slower every day. I'm taking the stairs." And even though he could hear the squeak that signaled the elevator's arrival, he took off before Blair could even open his mouth.

Before he'd gone two blocks, he actually considered going back and trying to catch Blair, standing out on the street, waiting for his date. But he didn't know what he would say to him. And he scowled and tried to make it all feel like Blair's fault. What kind of dick was Sandburg, anyway, to invite him along to dinner with his ex-lover? But he really couldn't hold onto anything but the sense of gloom that had been growing since Walter Skinner walked into Major Crimes.

Instead of going back or going home, Jim pulled into the parking lot of the Cascade Public Library.

This branch of the library was in an old, old building. It was huge, paneled in dusty mahogany and full of echoes. It had high, high ceilings, and stacks of books rising up above his head, and a spiraling iron staircase that rang like a gong whenever someone ascended to another level. It smelled of new paper and old paper dust and ink. Dozens of people were seated at long tables, bent over open books. Pages turned, pens scratched on pads. It was like being surrounded by a hundred Blairs, wrapped in familiarity with none of the dangers of the familiar.

He asked for help on how to find the author of a particular piece of poetry and received it from a woman with her hair pinned back in the stereotypical librarian's bun, wearing an anything but stereotypical tight, red sweater. She smiled at him, warm and inviting, but he only registered it as an afterthought, as a tight little twinge that, only yesterday, a woman making eyes at him would have been very pleasing. But today, he wanted it to be Blair who was looking at him that way.

After going through the reference book she gave him, he found a volume of the poet's work and carried it to one of the long tables. He found the piece he wanted after reading through several pages, just because they were there and they caught his eye. It wasn't exactly his cup of tea, but it was hardly what he would call crappy poetry. And then he found the thing for which he'd come looking, entitled only Song.

Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaid's singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible go see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till Age snow white hairs on thee;
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee...

He read the rest of it, and immediately dismissed it, because the ending of the song was about trying to find a woman who would be true, and it really didn't apply. But the first of it...the first of it was...eerie. Uncanny. Weird the way he could see them in the words, Blair, Mulder, Skinner, himself. The way so much of it could be applied to his own life today, even though it was something from Blair's past, something written 300 years ago.

But that was what poetry was supposed to do, wasn't it? Capture the truths that were eternal, remind people of what they were. Truths like attempting the impossible. Looking inside himself. Taking chances. Things he'd never been very good at.

He sat there in darkening room, watching the beams of sunlight slowly retreat across the beaded ceiling, re-reading the lines over and over again. Surrounded by the sound and smell of substitute Blairs, he tried to untangle all the skeins of thought and emotion he'd been stuffing down. Jealousy and fear and envy. And desire.

He knew what he wanted. He knew that it scared him, even if he didn't have the courage to say it out loud, the way Skinner did. He just wasn't sure how to go about getting it. Or even if he'd waited too late to try. And most frightening of all was his surety that what he wanted wasn't the best thing for Blair.

(tm)

At 10:00, the phone rang.

Jim knew it was Blair. Nursing his third beer and slowly turning the pages of the book of poetry he'd checked out of the library, he started not to answer it. But then he remembered that he'd decided not to be selfish or envious, so he picked up the receiver.

"Jim?" Blair's voice was tentative, unsure of the reception he'd receive considering Jim's parting shot that afternoon.

Jim felt like an ass all over again. "Hey, Chief. How was dinner?"

Blair's voice brightened considerably. "Good. It was good. We went to that Thai place over on Scott."

Jim interrupted before he could even get the rest of it out. "You staying with Skinner again?"

"Uh--Well...yeah. If you don't need me for anything."

Jim took a good, deep breath before he answered. "No, that's fine. I'm just catching up on a little reading." His voice was good. Strong and steady. Not one little waver in it. Not one little catch as he thought of Blair touching Skinner and making him moan.

Blair hesitated though, as if he'd heard something Jim hadn't. As if there was something he was waiting for Jim to say. "Well... Okay. Good night, Jim."

"Night."

Before he could hang up, Blair said, "Oh, hey. I'm meeting Walter for lunch tomorrow, then I'll come in right after to help you. I only had one appointment in the afternoon, and I bribed the kid into rescheduling."

"Never say bribe to an officer of the law, Sandburg."

Blair laughed, still a little strained. There was that hesitation again. Blair waiting.

But Jim didn't know what he was waiting for. And he didn't know what he wanted to say, so he simply said, "'Night, Chief."

He hung up before Blair could say anything else, and went to bed before he could think about Blair and Skinner, or what Mulder was doing, alone in his room next door to them.

He woke early the next morning and started making calls before the sun was up. DC, and his contacts, were already awake and working. By lunchtime, he wasn't sure he was any closer to solving the case, but he had a pad of notes and a couple of serial cases with Mulder's spoor all over them. And maybe enough ammunition to shake some information out of the agent.

He could hear Simon bellowing for Rhonda to find him before the elevator stopped. His cell phone started ringing as the doors slid open.

Cell phone pressed to his ear, struggling to drag his coat onto his other arm, Simon was standing in the doorway of his office. As he spotted Jim, he punched a button his phone.

Jim's phone stopped beeping.

Simon started dialing again. "Ellison! I was calling you. We're moving. Mulder's got something."

Jim walked slowly over to Simon, scanning the office. He didn't see Mulder anywhere.

"He called for you. Rhonda took a message. She didn't know to give him your cell phone. I'm calling Blair now."

Jim opened his mouth to protest. It was lunchtime. He was pretty sure he knew where Blair was. "Simon, let's just-"

Blair answered. Even over the phone line, Jim could hear his elevated heartbeat, his not quite level breathing. The definitely ragged breathing of someone else, very near him.

"Sandburg!" The coat finally slid into place, and Simon shifted the phone to his other ear. "Where are you?"

"Uh... I--uh... On my way to lunch with Walter."

"Skinner's with you? Good. Mulder thinks he's found another victim. Alive. Jim and I are on our way. Meet us there." He dug a piece of paper out of his pocket and read off the address to Blair.

Jim heard Blair relay the information to Skinner. Heard Skinner's curse and the sound of him rearranging his clothing, a zipper sliding home. Jim turned away, to get away from the sounds, to keep Simon from seeing his face before he could rearrange it. But he couldn't get far enough away to tune out Blair's breathing. To not hear the fear and worry in Skinner's gruffness when he got Mulder on his cellphone.

//Mulder! Banks just called.//

Simon gave Jim a little push from behind, rushing him towards the elevator, phone still pressed to his ear. "Sandburg? What the hell's going on there?"

//Walter's got Mulder on the line.//

Fainter, but even more worried. //Mulder? Mulder, damn it, don't you go in alone. That's an order. You wait for us.//

Blair again. //We're on our way, Simon. Watch out for Jim until I get there.//

(tm)

A shiny, clean rental car and a man clothed in an expensive overcoat were easy to spot in that neighborhood, even if Mulder did have the car tucked in tight under the eave of a neglected building. Simon drove his car up over the curb and pulled in behind him. Jim and Simon jumped out and took cover where Mulder was crouched, peering around the front of his car.

"Over there. The second floor apartment on the left corner." He pointed across the street at an apartment building halfway down the next block. It was gray stone, mossy but in good repair, and as nondescript, as unprepossessing, as the other victims' homes had been. The area was deserted, eerily quiet for midday, with only a few dusty cars parked along the streets.

"I found a man who looks just like the others. By the time I got to where he works, he'd gone. Left to go to lunch with another man, according to his co-workers. But they thought it looked suspicious. Like the guy didn't really want to go. There were a couple of kids playing in the street when I got here. They saw the two men go in, but nobody's come out."

"Could've gone out the back," Simon said, looking at Jim for confirmation.

Jim turned his head, concentrated, closed his eyes to shut out the light. The same way Blair had discovered he could piggyback his sight onto his hearing, he'd also discovered that sight could distract his hearing. He filtered out the faraway noises easily, traffic and honking horns and churning machinery. Then the thumping hearts of the two men near him, the rushing of gas in underground pipes. Refrigerators and water dripping and a lone television blaring in a nearby building.

He strained to find the apartment. That was harder than filtering, making his hearing go exactly where he wanted. But it finally did, and he found two heartbeats. One faint and slushy, the other thundering. Lungs working like bellows. But no words. Two men were there, in the corner apartment, but they weren't speaking or moving.

A car pulled up nearby, and he dragged himself back to the present. A commonplace, shiny clean sedan similar to Mulder's slammed to a stop at the curb. Skinner and Blair jumped out of it and crossed the lot, jogging side by side. Dressed like Mulder, in an expensive gray suit and a long black coat, Skinner looked like a caped crusader dashing in to save them.

Blair came straight to Jim and hunkered down at his elbow. He smelled of Skinner. All over, of Skinner. In his pores. Like the man had scrubbed his hands all over him. And Skinner smelled of Blair's saliva. Not all over. Just at mouth and neck and nipples and groin.

Jim's stomach twinged pleasantly with the thought of Blair swiping his tongue over him. His nipples hardened as he stared at Blair's mouth.

"Jim? You okay?"

Yanking himself back to the business at hand, Jim sneered at him. "We just got there, Sandburg. I haven't had time to fall on my face yet."

While Mulder filled Skinner in on what was happening, Blair just looked at Jim, that over-the-glasses, get-a-grip expression that needed no words. Then he put his fingers on Jim's elbow and waited expectantly.

"There are two men in there," Jim told Simon and Mulder. "They're not talking. One's scared. One sounds...odd, like his heart's not beating right."

Simon flicked a glance at Mulder, then Skinner, surprised for Jim to speak so freely in front of them. He was obviously even more surprised that Mulder accepted the information with bright, interested eyes, but no questions.

Skinner had questions, though. He opened his mouth, but Jim cut him off by turning away.

"Try to piggyback your sight on the sounds. See what they're doing through the window," Blair suggested, speaking so only he could hear.

"That window's got blinds," Jim growled, but Blair just shifted closer to him, tightened his grip on Jim's arm.

"I've seen you work with less," he said calmly.

Sighing, refusing to be distracted by the memory of what he'd seen through just a tiny sliver of an open door, Jim nodded and pushed a little closer to Blair. He let his hearing range back across to the apartment. But this time, with Blair there to watch his back, he kept his eyes open.

The window was a big one, surprising in the miserly apartments, and wrapped around the corner of the building. It had no curtains, just the blinds tilted at an angle designed to cut out most of the sun light. Behind the barely opened slats, Jim could see a shadow moving. Falling.

On a peripheral level, Jim felt the sting as he slapped his hand over Blair's, rubbing the scent of Skinner off Blair's fingers and onto himself.

Behind the blinds, a shadow fell. It was enough like an image from an Alfred Hitchcock movie to make him aware of the shadow that wasn't moving. The arm upraised, fist clutching a knife. And his hearing. His hearing! He couldn't find the thundering heartbeat. He twitched, turning, jerking Blair's fingers loose from his arm, but not releasing his grip on the warm fingers.

"Jim. Jim."

He could hear Blair, hear concern through the calm, level tones. But he couldn't spare the concentration to reassure him beyond squeezing his fingers tighter.

Because there was only the one heartbeat, the slushy one. And footsteps on the stairs at the back of the building. And a boiling sound. Hissing and bubbling like something melting. An acrid smell, vaguely familiar, that burned his nose, shriveled his throat. He choked, trying to keep the scent out of his lungs. It was smothering him. He came up for air, gasping and fighting.

Blair was holding him, stroking his back, same soothing pattern, up and down. Saying, "Breathe, Jim. Breathe," over and over again.

Jim tried to stand up. "He's dead. I think he's dead. And someone's coming out the back."

Mulder leapt to his feet before Jim finished.

"Mulder, no!" Skinner made a grab for him as he dashed around the front of the car. The hem of Mulder's coat slipped through his fingers.

Both Simon and Skinner leapt to their feet right behind Mulder.

Jim was slower to get up, Blair supporting him.

Mulder sprinted across the lot, Simon on his heels, gun drawn. Mulder hissed back over his shoulder, "Stay back. Don't shoot him! Whatever you do, don't shoot him!"

Skinner was right behind them, his own gun still in his holster inside his jacket. Shouting, "Banks! No weapons fire."

Jim lurched around the car, deafened by the shouting and the pounding feet on the pavement, but still able to hear the suspect come out the back and jog towards the side of the building. "Mulder! Simon, he's coming this way."

He pushed off Blair, ran towards the building, gun drawn. Blair stayed with him, kept pace, elbow bumping up against his as they ran. As Jim led towards the left side of the building, moving on an intercept course with the footsteps, he huffed, "Get back, Chief. Stay behind me."

As Jim thrust an arm out to cover him, Blair dropped back a step, letting Jim put his body between him and the building, but he didn't slow up.

Mulder was half way across the yard of the building when the man came around the corner. Dressed casually in dark, nondescript clothing, he jogged slowly, head down, hands in his jacket pockets. Doing nothing that looked alarming. Nothing that would draw attention to himself.

Mulder skidded to a halt barely twenty yards from him. He dug into his coat pocket and drew his gun. It glinted silver in the sunlight.

Shocked to see them, the man slowed, reached into his pocket and pulled out something shiny and silver, too.

"Gun!" Simon shouted, dropping to one knee and aiming.

Skinner leapt at him, batting the gun out of his hands. "No shooting!" he roared.

Simon's gun flew off at an angle and thunked onto the ground. The man followed the arc of dull gray with his gaze, giving Jim a good look at his face. It was an unusual face, cruelty and determination showing through the surprise. Square jawed and heavy browed. And...weird. A taut, strong face with startlingly square cheekbones, but...soft looking, like there was something malleable underneath. No bones holding his flesh together.

Mulder shifted sideways, moved in on the suspect.

The man flicked his hand, and what Simon had thought was a gun showed bright, sharp edges. The blade flashed in the sunlight, shiny and silver. The man changed direction, peeling off at a right angle, and ran towards the street. Picking up speed. But not so much speed that he couldn't be caught. Still carrying the knife in plain sight, he glanced back over his shoulder, as if daring Mulder to chase him. Taunting him with the dance of switchblade and an insulting pace.

Mulder picked up speed, too. It was plain his long legs could outrun the heavier man's.

"Mulder, don't do it," Skinner shouted, but Mulder ignored him, picking up speed.

Jim turned to go with Mulder, feet slipping on the grass.

Blair grabbed him, spun him around by using the weight of his body and the force of his own speed. "Jim, no!" Took him out of the chase by putting his body between Jim and Mulder.

"Are you out of your mind, Sandburg?" Jim shoved at him, but Blair just shoved back.

"Listen to Walter!"

Skinner went after Mulder, moving faster than Jim would have ever thought such a bulky man could. Skinner caught up to the leaner, leggier Mulder even though he clearly shouldn't have been able to. He tackled the younger man like a linebacker going after a swifter player, launching himself into Mulder and wrapping his arms around his waist.

The suspect turned a corner and ran out of sight.

Mulder hit the ground at full speed, his "Oof!" audible even to someone without enhanced hearing. Even though he was gasping, trying to get air back into his deflated lungs, he tried to roll, to keep going. But he couldn't, not with 200 pounds of Skinner wrapped around him. On top of him. He cursed and struck out.

Skinner's head snapped back with the impact of an elbow. The scent of blood blossomed in the air. But he didn't let go. He simply crawled up Mulder and let his weight pin the smaller man to the dirt. "Stop it, Agent Mulder! Stop it!"

Blair started towards the two men at a trot, and Jim followed him. Might as well have a ringside seat for the fight since there wasn't going to be an arrest. A couple of streets over, the suspect had jumped into a car, left a stripe of rubber on the pavement, and was out of hearing now.

But Jim didn't even get a good fight. By the time he walked the few yards, Skinner's steely gaze had burned through Mulder's rage. He went limp so quickly it was like he'd passed out. Everything about him gave up, except for his mouth. That remained pursed with fury.

"Are you through?" Skinner asked him, his voice eerily back to normal despite his obvious anger and the fifty-yard dash.

"I could have caught him." Mulder held his rage in check so tightly that his teeth grated together, muscles twitching as he struggled not to struggle. "I could have stopped him. You let him get away."

Skinner's mouth drew down into a straight, silent line, and he rocked back off his agent. He stood, swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away smeared with blood. He offered his other hand to help Mulder up.

Mulder reached up for Jim instead, ignoring the hand that was already there. He gripped Jim's wrist, pulled himself up, and faced Skinner, toe to toe with him, still breathing jerkily,

Skinner refused to be baited, and he looked away first, moving smoothly over to pick up whatever he had knocked from Mulder's hand when he tackled him. He brought it back, offered it to the younger man like it was a peace offering. He kept it wrapped in his fist, palm down, so Jim couldn't see what the thing was.

Jim glanced at Blair and found him glaring at Mulder like he wanted to shake him.

Sulky, but somehow mollified by the exchange, Mulder took the thing from Skinner and pocketed it quickly.

Skinner's lower lip was puffy, blood oozing out. He pulled a folded square of handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand. Wiped his lip. Totally casual, as if a subordinate bloodying his lip was an everyday occurrence.

"Would one of you care to fill me in on what the hell just happened?" Simon didn't roar. He didn't even sound angry.

Jim, with Blair right behind him, wisely took a comical step away from their boss. Simon pissed off to the point of calm was better given a wide berth.

Mulder looked at Simon. At Jim. At Blair, almost plastered to his side. "I think explanations are AD Skinner's domain," he said silkily. He turned towards the apartment building. "It's lunch time. I'm hungry. Let's get this over with."

Skinner watched him walk away. Shrugged as if dismissing him and turned back to Simon. "Agent Mulder tracked down a man who fit the description of the men who are missing. When we arrived here, there was no sign of the man. Only an empty apartment with similar chemical residue to what you've found at the other scenes. I think when your people check, you're going to find you have another missing person. And, of course, you could write up evidence of foul play this time, since a man was seen running from the building and didn't halt when ordered to do so." Bloodied handkerchief in hand, he trudged off after Mulder.

"Wait a minute." Simon hurried after Skinner, caught his shoulder to make him stop. "You're going to have to do better than that."

Skinner halted and looked balefully at the fingers splayed across his shoulder, like he was willing flames to swallow Simon's hand.

Blair chuckled under his breath.

Jim glared at him. "What's so fucking funny about this, Sandburg?"

Before any of them could say more, the back-up Simon had called came wheeling into the neighborhood. Patrol cars and unmarked vehicles, officers piling out with guns drawn, moving into position to surround the building.

Simon moved away from Skinner to intercept. "It's okay, people. It's all over."

Joel Taggart jogged up to Simon, holstering his weapon. "You said it was a possible hostage or kidnapping, Simon?"

"Yeah." Simon chomped down on his cigar hard enough to bite the tip off it. He looked back at Skinner, still standing where he'd stopped him. At Jim and Blair beside him. At Mulder, waiting at the door of the building. "The apartment's empty. Same scenario as the other missing persons cases. Let's get Forensics in here to take over."

He spat the piece of cigar out on the ground as if it tasted bad, but Jim had the feeling that tobacco wasn't the only bad taste he had in his mouth. "And let's get these people out of here before they trample every piece of evidence we have."

In the sparsely furnished apartment, there was another greasy green-black stain, this one oblong and rounded at the corners. Jim wrinkled his nose at it, and Mulder murmured, "Don't breathe it." Then Forensics arrived and shooed them back outside, where they stood on the sidewalk.

Mulder said again, "I'm hungry."

Simon, standing in the middle of the yard, motioned them away. "Go on. Get out of here. I'll sort this out."

Jim hung back. "You sure, Simon?"

"Yeah. Sure. That's why they pay me the big bucks. Take those two to lunch, then bring them down to the station for a statement. You're on babysitting duty with them until they leave town. I'll see who I can spring to watch the hotel tonight. Maybe Rafe or Brown."

Jim grimaced. Great. Just what he wanted, to spend lots of time around Walter Skinner. "Thanks, Simon. I won't forget this one." He motioned for Blair.

Simon caught his arm as he turned away. "And see if you can get at anything like the real story. Even it it's off the record."

In less than thirty minutes, they were standing in the doorway of a popular, neighborhood pub where he and Blair frequently ate lunch. The worst of the lunch rush was over, leaving littered tables and overflowing trash cans and remnants of cigarette smoke lingering near the back of the room.

Jim sneezed and Blair touched him before pointing to a booth in the corner. "Over there." His fingers slid from Jim's arm to Skinner's. "You sit down. I'll get a wet cloth for your mouth."

Jim pointed towards the bar, and Blair nodded his understanding before following Skinner, who moved automatically in the direction Blair pointed.

Jim shook his head. If he'd been in a better mood, he would have laughed at the way the big, stern, scowling Assistant Director of the FBI automatically did what Blair told him, without protest or complaint. Blair was definitely the one in control in that relationship, and that thought sent a little squiggle of tension over him. It might not be so bad, to have Blair be in charge.

Mulder trailed along behind him.

"We always order at the bar. It's faster." Jim explained. "The food's good, but the service sucks this time of day." Especially on a day like today, when a beer was definitely in order even if he was technically on duty.

"Hey, Detective," the bartender greeted him. He glanced around, looking for Blair. "Tea or juice?"

"Four beers. It's been a long morning."

"Make it three and a scotch on the rocks," Mulder corrected. He grinned and jerked his thumb in Skinner's direction. "He'll be less likely to stab me with a salad fork if we soften him up a bit."

Jim looked back over his shoulder at the u-shaped booth where Blair had seated Skinner and was dabbing at his split lip with a paper napkin. "I don't think you have to worry. He seems pretty concerned about keeping you healthy."

Mulder made a rude sound. "Too much paperwork to fill out if I get hurt."

Jim had no trouble sifting through the sarcasm to find the longing underneath. His own gut churned with it so often lately. "I've got something I want you to read. Might change your mind about that."

//You don't have to do that,// Skinner protested. But he had a hand braced lightly on Blair's waist, and he didn't make any move to stop Blair's fussing.

Jim leaned over and peered down into the beer cooler beneath the bar. "Hey, you still got that cold pack stuck away in here?"

The bartender righted an empty glass on the bar. "Hell, no. Damn thing leaked blue shit all over my ice last week." He peered at Blair ministering to Skinner. "Ice in a cloth do you?" He fished out three beers and slid them over next to the glass.

Condensation formed on the brown bottles almost immediately. Cool, wet air ghosted across Jim's knuckles. "That'll do."

While the bartender went into the back for a clean cloth, Jim said casually, "You gonna show me whatever that is in your pocket?"

Mulder grinned and waggled an eyebrow at him. "You mean my pickle, Detective Ellison? You've already seen it, but I'd be happy to show it to you again." When Jim flushed, Mulder laughed outright. The devilish grin faded a bit, overshadowed by calculation. "You gonna tell me how you could hear what was going down in that apartment from more than a block away?"

Jim's eyes narrowed, his expression just as calculated. "We could talk," he agreed. When Mulder just waited, he peered at him. Jim couldn't believe he was contemplating telling the truth to a government Suit. But he'd held the man while he came. Slept in his arms. Mulder trusted him, and his intuition told him that was a rare thing. "Sandburg calls it a genetic advantage. Just like people who work for perfume or coffee companies. Only with me, it's my hearing, and it's a lot more sensitive. He's helping me learn to control it. Doing tests and stuff."

"Just your hearing, huh? And you're not going to mention the fact that you choked on whatever it was you were smelling while you were listening back there? Or that you could see into Skinner's room so well you almost passed out."

Jim shivered with that particular memory. "What's that shiny silver thing in your pocket that's not a pickle?" he countered.

Mulder reached into his pocket, then carefully shifted so that his coat was hanging open, screening his hand from Skinner and Blair and the other people in the room. Keeping his hand below bar level, he unfolded his long fingers.

The object looked fairly innocuous. If he hadn't seen Mulder opt for it instead of a gun, hadn't seen Skinner let a suspect get away because he was menacing Mulder with something similar, Jim would have thought it was nothing. An extra long lipstick case, or a short cigar case.

Then Mulder shifted it carefully in his palm, touched it a certain way. The thing made a strange, hissing sound and, faster than Jim's sight could follow, shot out an evil looking blade. Shiny and cold and rounded, but still sharp as a razor. "You stab it into the base of the brain," Mulder said, and he made an abbreviated, stabbing, slashing movement with it.

"Instead of shooting?" Jim guessed.

Mulder turned the thing in his palm once, staring at it as if it had the power to hypnotize. "Yeah. If you think you've run across this guy again. Or even somebody who looks different, but you think it might be him..." He made that gesture again. Stabbing at an unseen assailant.

Jim noted the movement, out and upwards, and Mulder's choice of words. Somebody who looks different. "I'd know him no matter what he looks like. His face was...weird. Almost like he had no bones."

Mulder stared at him, pupils dilating, skin flushing. The scent that rolled off him was excited, jittery, eager. "You could see that?" As if realizing he'd given too much away, Mulder reined in his enthusiasm. He passed his fingers over the smooth cylinder again, and the blade disappeared in a reverse hiss. "Genetic advantage, huh? Like people who work for perfume companies, only with you, it's hearing. And maybe smell. Maybe sight, too. So what else have you got that's genetically enhanced?" There was no double entendre this time. Just wired, bright-eyed curiosity.

"What happens if you shoot him?"

Mulder tried to stare him down, then gave a combination grimace-shrug-smile when he realized he'd lost. He dropped the cylinder back into his pocket. "That chemical residue...if you stab or shoot into the base of the brain, you get an icky spot on the carpet. If you shoot, or stab, or puncture anywhere else on the body... Well, you won't live to tell anybody about it. What comes out is toxic."

A chill raced down Jim's spine. Now it made sense, the way Skinner had grabbed Simon to keep him from firing, the way he'd tackled Mulder and seemed willing to lie there on him until the guy was long gone. "What is he?! What is he killing?" he rasped.

The bartender came back with a cloth filled with ice, then started opening their bottles and pouring the scotch. "You guys want lunch?"

His appetite was long gone, but Jim nodded, not taking his gaze from Mulder. Almost afraid that if he looked away, the man would go up in smoke. Would disappear before his eyes and he'd wake up to discover this had all been a weird dream. Hell, it already was a dream, mixed of equal parts erotic, weird and now horror. All that was missing was a clown juggling raw eggs, or some equally weird dream thing. "Long as it's not rabbit food."

The bartender, long a witness to Jim and Blair's disagreements over what constituted healthy lunch fare, grinned. "Open faced roast beef with gravy and french fries."

Blair would love it. And he'd grumble the whole time about how unhealthy it was, stealing fries off his plate as he did. "That's fine. What about you? Will Skinner eat that?"

Mulder said, "Sounds good," and gathered up the three beers.

Jim stopped him. "Who's Jeremiah Smith? Or maybe I should ask, who are Jeremiah Smith?"

Mulder's eyes bugged comically. "Where did you hear that name?"

Jim shrugged. "Around. The information I got was that there were several Jeremiah Smiths, one who lived through being shot dead in front of witnesses. Then he disappeared into thin air. Just like the others with the same face. You were investigating, and a cop was killed in the course of the investigation."

"Sounds like you know a lot already," Mulder said dryly. He juggled the three bottles between his fingers, holding them out so the condensation wouldn't drip on his coat.

"I could dig deeper and get more. Or you could just save me the time and tell me."

Mulder shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me."

"And I'm supposed to believe what you've already told me?"

Mulder balanced the bottles between his long fingers and stopped clinking them together. "And I'm supposed to believe you have genetically enhanced senses even though you don't work for a perfume company?"

But Jim knew Mulder well enough now to recognize that Mulder really did believe it. He was the only person, other than Blair, who'd believed without skepticism. And taken delight in it. He'd called Jim to back him up when he didn't even trust his own boss. Jim picked up Skinner's drink and the ice pack. Automatically, he darted a glance around the room. The only suspicious activity was Skinner and his partner, who had their heads so close together it was obvious they were telling secrets.

"Hey, hold up." He detained Mulder so he'd have time to hear what Skinner was saying. "Where do I get one of those ice picks?"

Mulder grimaced, pain flitting across his face. "You have to inherit it."

Jim's attention was jerked back from Blair. "What?" But Mulder had already turned away. And Blair looked so miserable, shoulders hunched, head down, fingers shredding the napkin he'd used to clean Skinner's lip. Jim caught Mulder's arm again, slowing him so he could listen.

Skinner was intense and focused, not holding back despite the swollen lip. //--saw what happened out there, and as bad as it was, you're only seeing the surface.//

//So tell us what's going on. You think you make us any safer by keeping us in the dark?//

//Never!// Skinner hissed it so fiercely, Jim didn't need enhanced hearing. //I never want you involved in this. I'll walk away from here and never see you again if that's what it takes. I'll do whatever it takes to get Jim off this case. Even if it means hurting him. You can't let him follow Mulder. Mulder's the Pied Piper, and he'll march you right into the sea.//

//You follow him.//

//Yeah, and I spend most of my time trying not to drown.//

Blair swallowed, whispered, //What are you so afraid of?//

Skinner leaned closer to Blair, forehead almost touching his. //I'm afraid he'll get you killed. Or something...worse. Mulder's obsessed, Blair. Mulder's on a crusade. And he's got blinders on. He doesn't even think of his own safety. He won't think of Jim's. Or yours.//

Skinner covered Blair's fingers with his hand, stopping the shredding. //I watched you out there, with him. I haven't figured out what's going on, but I can see how it is with you two. But staying behind him won't save you against this. I've watched Mulder almost go down more times than I want to think about, and I--//

Skinner chopped off his words abruptly as Mulder clinked the bottles down on the table and slid into the booth. He slid a beer over in front of Blair, left one for Jim, took a long pull off his own, staring at Skinner down the length of the bottle, as if daring him to comment.

Jim stopped when his knees bumped the end of the leather seat right beside Skinner. He put the glass down in front of him. He could feel the warmth of Skinner's thigh through his slacks. The other man's scent, of blood and grass stain and fear, was strange against the bar's background of leather and stale booze and frying food. "What's going on?"

Blair looked up at him, his eyes pinched and unhappy. "Walter thinks we should walk away from this case. I was telling him there's no way you'd do that."

Jim looked at Blair, at his wide-stretched, concerned eyes. At the determined, stony line of Skinner's jaw.

Mulder's bizarre half-explanations baffled him. What Mulder wouldn't say chilled him. Skinner's certainty that following Mulder would put them in danger made him feel as if the doors had been left open and a blizzard had swept through the room. He still wasn't sure he trusted the man, but he trusted Skinner's concern for Blair.

Most of the time, he managed to convince himself he could protect Blair. But it scared him more than anything ever had, knowing that Blair always chose to stay beside him, even at the risk of his own safety. Of his own happiness. He had no clue how to live up to that.

"The problem with backing off is that this isn't over. There are still more..." He hesitated. Still more what? "...men with this particular face out there. You're asking me to walk away and let them be killed." He glanced at Mulder for confirmation.

Mulder took another pull off his beer and nodded, defying Skinner's unspoken order to keep quiet. "Yes, there are more. I could have ended it all right there this afternoon if I hadn't been stopped. I might even have gotten some answers for a change."

He stared at Skinner with such pain, such hopeless anger, that Jim could feel it, a living despair with more weight than smoke, like rough wool on his flesh.

"He was trying to keep you safe," Blair said quietly.

Mulder's head jerked around. The despair was taken up by something else, something that vibrated and quivered and wanted.

It was too raw, too naked for Skinner to bear, and he thumped the table angrily, making it easy for Mulder to back away. "Damn it, Mulder, you know it's too late. And too risky. Maybe you've forgotten what I've risked, and what Scully's risked, but I haven't. I won't let you put these men at risk, too."

Skinner glared at him, and Mulder stared right back, mule stubborn, and, again, it was Skinner who relented. Who softened. "If there are others, he'll find them before we do. He already know where they are. They'll be dead before sundown, if they're not already. You can't make a difference here. And the risks are too great."

But Mulder couldn't back down. He turned his pleading gaze on Jim. Almost manic, fervid hope spilling out.

Jim was suddenly tired. Too tired to bear the weight of Blair's belief in Skinner and Mulder's belief in...whatever it was he was chasing. The only thing that made sense to him at the moment was the stony, dogged determination of Skinner.

Mulder must have spent most of his life convincing himself that he could make a difference. Otherwise, how did he keep going? Risking everything... He glanced at Blair. Was Mulder oblivious that people chose to follow him at the risk of their own safety, or did what he knew make the risk worth it? Jim wasn't sure he wanted to know. Maybe there was something to be said for that need to know bureaucratic Suit policy after all.

Jim nudged Skinner with his knee, forcing him to slide further into the booth. Blair had to slide around the corner, to the end of the table, to make room. Jim caught Skinner's square jaw in his fingers, tilted his face back so he could see the bruise. The cut was minor, mostly inside the lip, and though his lip was puffy at one corner, he could tell it would be gone by morning. Nevertheless, he touched the ice pack to Skinner's face, shifting it gently until it covered the bruise.

The other man's skin was smooth beneath his fingers. Warm and much softer than he'd expected. Softer even than Mulder's pretty skin. He slid his fingers along the jaw, down Skinner's neck, enjoying the tiny shiver that went through Skinner as his fingers rested against his pulse. Jim couldn't stop his gaze from sliding to Blair, then back to Skinner. Aping one of those significant glances Skinner so enjoyed. "I'll talk to Simon. See what I can do."

Mulder's mouth tightened down, betrayal plain in his expression.

In Skinner's, there was only relief. Skinner's fingers lingered on Jim's a moment as he took over control of the ice pack.

Jim stared into the refrigerator, waiting for something edible to leap into his hands. The last few days seemed like a ragged, surreal voyage from one meal to the next, with a few notable side trips in between.

It had been hours since the last strange stop on the meal journey. Lunch. Eating roast beef so tender he didn't even need a knife while his knee touched Skinner's and his elbow brushed the other man's arm.

Trying to ease the tension and get everything back on an even keel, Blair had predictably grumbled about cholesterol and high blood pressure and told outrageous stories about the things he'd eaten while on digs. He'd alternated between concern and elation, beaming every time Jim and Skinner made eye contact, like a kid whose two best friends have just decided to like each other.

Mulder had been more interested in their body contact, making the transition from glowering to sulking to watching the slow touch of their bodies with hot, knowing eyes. Jim sat beside Skinner, glowing like banked coals from the feel of his muscular body, thinking there were lots of things he'd rather have for lunch than roast beef. Like Skinner. Or Blair. Or both of them. Or all of them.

He felt like a huge, exposed nerve ending. Walking hormones. Switched to receive, current flowing, skin so sensitive he would go up in smoke if somebody just touched him. Stroke him... Must be the adrenaline rush of danger. Maybe his adrenaline switch was stuck open. There was some kind of weird killer loose in his city, and all he could think about was how many sweating, heaving bodies he could fit into his bed.

While the lunch had seemed hours long, the journey back to the station had seemed days long. Blair rode with him, and told him how glad he was that Jim was beginning to trust Skinner.

Jim bit his tongue to keep from telling him that he didn't trust Skinner so much as he really wanted to put Skinner on his hands and knees and fuck him until they both came, screaming. But what he'd like to do even more was put Skinner and Mulder on a plane to another country and never hear from them again. And that wasn't really the root of the problem at all, was it? Because it wasn't really Skinner he wanted, panting and begging and coming, under him. And knowing that, acknowledging it to himself, was like peeling back his skin and leaving his flesh and nerves and bones open to the air.

Jim hadn't said any of those things during the ride. Clutching the wheel, watching the road with a concentration he hadn't felt, he had asked Blair about something that had been digging at him, like a low-grade itch, since that overheard conversation in the bar. "Skinner talked about being married...?"

Blair glanced at him, actually pierced him with the directness of his gaze, but didn't comment on his knowledge. Didn't bother to pretend that he didn't understand what Jim was asking. "He was separated from his wife when I met him. They still saw each other, but they had a lot of issues. He didn't think they could work it through, and she didn't seem to want to. But then when he got the transfer back to DC, she wanted to go with him. She wanted to try again."

Jim clutched the wheel tighter. He couldn't place the tone in Blair's voice, couldn't decide if he sounded sad or resigned or just completely okay with the whole thing.

Blair just smiled at him, tapped his shoulder and continued in that calm voice. "He was married to Sharon a lot longer than he was with me, Jim. But Walter never lied to me. I knew he wanted the chance to work it out. I knew from the beginning he didn't want a divorce. I knew the score."

There was really nothing Jim could say to that, because he didn't understand it, and he really didn't believe it. He'd seen the affection between them, the laughter, the lust. The love. Skinner made Blair's heart race just by walking into the room. And in Blair's presence, Skinner became someone Jim suspected very few people had been privileged to see. Maybe if Skinner's wife had been able to see that man, she would have stayed.

Just when he thought he might actually begin to like Skinner, might actually understand him, something popped up to show how really alien the guy was. How could anyone who had what Skinner obviously had with Blair give it up?

Jim had gone back to work and talked to Simon just like he promised. Made sure he had Skinner's and Mulder's statements, as Simon had ordered, useless though they were. And he'd tried not to think as Blair left the station with Skinner for another night.

And hours later, he still felt raw and exposed. And his stomach told him it was time for another stop on the meal train, but he didn't see anything in the refrigerator that even tempted him. He should have stayed on duty and let Rafe go home, except that he couldn't stand the thought of sitting outside the hotel, knowing that Skinner and Blair were upstairs in bed together.

Cold air swirled around his ankles. The scent of lettuce, just a day or so from going bad, seeped out of the crisper. Droplets of water formed on Blair's bottled water. The only thing the least bit appealing was the lone bottle of beer, hidden in the corner behind Blair's pineapple. It was Blair's, too. And one bottle of beer wasn't enough to unknot his brain or paint his skin back onto his flesh.

A sigh escaped into the refrigerator and turned foggy, and he slammed the door. Everything in the damned thing was Blair's anyway. Just like everything in the whole place was Blair's. He'd had a couch and a television and a bed and sheets until Blair came along. And towels that felt like they were abrading his newly awakened skin. He'd go back to sandpaper towels again, gladly, if things could just go back to the way they were a week ago. Before he knew all this shit about Blair, and about himself. Before he started wanting to hear mermaids sing.

On the first floor, the elevator wheezed to life, and he stretched his hearing to discover its occupant was Blair. That was a surprise. For a second, he was afraid that something was wrong, but Blair's pulse hummed along normally. And while his footsteps along the hallway weren't exactly bouncy, but they were calm and steady.

Blair came in the door, dropped his keys, slipped his jacket off and hung it on the rack. "Hey, Jim."

All everyday occurrences, so damned normal they made Jim's throat hurt. "Hey, Chief. I didn't expect to see you tonight."

Blair strolled over to the kitchen island. Took up his place opposite Jim where he'd stood so many times when they were discussing cases, problems, life. "Walter was afraid Mulder would take off by himself if he didn't stay with him. And I thought they needed some time to, you know, patch things up."

Though Blair was standing across from him, he still hadn't really made eye contact. His gaze swept the room, the floor, the windows. "I thought maybe we did, too. Need some time to talk, I mean." He tapped his knuckles on the countertop, brushed a speck of something off the immaculate surface.

Jim's stomach collapsed, slopped back against his spine. What if Blair had decided to go with Skinner? What if he'd decided to take that chance that had been snatched away from him years ago? Maybe if he'd eaten something earlier, there would have been something in there to shore up his gut. Jim worried his own imaginary speck of dust. "Yeah? What about?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. Just...haven't seen much of you the last couple of days. And you've seemed kind of...tense."

Jim had the grace to flush; the common sense to fear that, sooner or later, Blair was going to figure out what he'd done, what he knew. What he felt. It made it easy to be gracious. Guilt always made it easier to be gracious. "Oh. Well, you've been busy. And this case hasn't been easy."

"Yeah. Yeah." The second word sounded a little lighter than the first, and finally, Blair raised his chin. Raised his eyes and met Jim's gaze.

Jim couldn't believe he'd spent over three years looking at this man and never looked at him. Never really noticed how beautiful he was, how blue his eyes were and how strong his hands were and how...enticing that mouth was. He'd noticed, plenty of times, how attractive other people thought Blair was. He'd thought it himself, but it was always an observational thing. Noticing, but not noticing.

"Hey, have you eaten?" Blair opened the refrigerator and peered in.

"Not yet."

That nearly-gone lettuce smell drifted out again just as Blair said, "How about a salad?"

"That lettuce is pretty ripe, Chief."

Blair dug down in the crisper, pulled out the head of lettuce and wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, you're right." He tossed it into the trash can. He dug back in and came out with a plastic container. "My romaine is still good, though. How about that?"

Story of his life. His lettuce was gray-brown and rank, but Blair had good lettuce to share. "Okay."

Blair pulled more salad fixings from the refrigerator, radishes and carrots and one of those organic cucumbers that always looked like they were a couple of days past prime, and started rolling up his sleeves. The flexing of his arms, the shift and sway of his ass in those tight jeans was way too interesting.

Jim didn't think he would last, standing there so close, without doing something really stupid. Like grabbing Blair. Like telling him... He wasn't sure what comprised really stupid at this stage. He just had the feeling he was about to do it. "I'm going to grab a shower." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the bathroom even though Blair had his back turned. "If you want to hold up on that until I'm finished, I'll help."

Blair waved towards the bathroom. "Go on. I've got it."

It was a relief to step into the tiny room and close the door, to stand in the dark, eyes closed so there wasn't even a possibility of compensating.

Okay, he could do this. He'd wanted a return to normalcy, and there was Blair out there, puttering around in the kitchen and slamming doors and muttering as he looked for the salad spice. Just like dozens of other evenings. They would eat, and clean up, and maybe watch the cable news. Lose themselves in some other country's problems for a while. He could do this. If he could just get his skin to stop burning and tingling, he could manage.

He stripped off his clothes and climbed into the shower, adjusted the temperature up as hot as he could stand it. Turned the spray adjustment to soft and fizzy.

Blair chose the shower massager because it had a variety of adjustments, and he'd thought that when Jim's senses were acting up, some of the lighter ones would relax him. Good instinct, even though it worked in a way Jim was sure Blair hadn't intended. On a couple of the really softer settings, if he got the temperature just right and the angle just right, the play of water felt like fingers dancing over his skin.

And he had the temperature just right. All he was lacking was the angle. The water was soft and fizzy down his back. Like standing in a wash of champagne bubbles. He spread his legs as wide as he could, thrust his ass back to let the water cascade between his thighs. Damn! That felt like he was dipping his balls into champagne, and maybe there was something to be said for not having the angle just right. For just...going with the flow...

He sighed jerkily and leaned down a little further, bracing a forearm on the wall. His cock was standing up, pink from the heat, and hard and ready. A couple of strokes was all he needed. He was so on edge...just a couple, and then he would be able to manage normal, for a while anyway.

But it felt so good, he couldn't resist just drawing it out a little. Teasing a bit. Dragging his fingers along the underside of his cock without tightening them. Aware of every whorl of his fingerprints. Every bubble in the water. Aware of Blair, normal and working in their kitchen. Aware of how Blair looked naked. Back arched. Cock curving back towards his belly.

It was a good thing he held off. If he hadn't, Blair would have walked in just as he started coming, and there wouldn't have been anything he could do but shudder and moan and paint the tile with his semen. As it was, Blair slammed his fist into the door in a caricature of knocking, then pushed it open without waiting. He stepped into the steamy room in a bubble of clear, cool air.

Jim barely had time to wheel away. To let go of his cock and slap his hand onto the wall. Damned clear shower curtain! Another of Blair's bright ideas, this one to make the small shower seem less claustrophobic.

He was nakedly aware of the view Blair had. Of the water was still spilling down his back, tickling the backs of his thighs, teasing his balls. He gulped in a couple of breaths, willed his erection to subside. As usual, it ignored him. It ignored him and gave all its attention to Blair. To his elevated heartbeat and his musky, still slightly Skinner-like scent.

"How about a little privacy here, Sandburg?"

"Funny you should choose that word, Jim."

There was something strange with Blair's voice. Low, unnaturally quiet, but almost quavering, vibrating on a note that his cock felt. Jim twisted to look over his shoulder.

Blair was standing just inside the partially closed door.

With a peculiar, unexpected pang of disappointment, Jim noted that Blair wasn't even looking at him. Despite how he was standing, with his palms flat on the wall like a perp about to be searched, with his legs spread like a whore about to be taken. One step to the left and Blair could see every inch of his swollen cock, but Blair wasn't even looking.

He was looking down, long sweep of hair hiding his face. Staring at the book in his hands.

Shit! Oh, hell... He'd forgotten the book. The damned book of poetry over which he'd spent a maudlin evening. That took some of the wind out of his sails. His cock wilted respectably enough that he could turn. He cupped his hands under the spray, pretending to direct it onto his face while he viciously twisted the silky sex spray to needle sharp. "What is it, Chief? You're freezing me here."

Blair held the book up. "I think you'd better come out of there, Jim. We need to talk." He turned on his heel and went back out the door, leaving it wide open. "Now."

It was another of those moments when his body obeyed the strength in that voice as if Jim was a puppet and Blair had jerked his strings. He'd had a lot of those lately. He rinsed, dried himself and wrapped a towel around his waist.

Blair was waiting for him at the end of the hall, arms crossed. The book lay on the dining table, open to the page Jim had marked. Teach me to hear mermaid's singing, or to keep off envy's stinging, and find what wind serves to advance an honest mind.

Shit...

"You were listening."

Jim tried to step around him, escape upstairs with the excuse of getting dressed, but Blair sidestepped with him, blocking his path.

He'd spent two days wondering what he was going to say and hadn't thought of one thing. He'd thought, maybe, when it came down to it, when he was Blair was staring him in the face, something would come to him. It didn't.

"Don't you even think about lying to me about this, Jim. There's not enough coincidence in the world to explain this."

"I wasn't trying to think of a lie, Chief. Just...how to explain."

"Explain?! You eavesdropped on me. Youyouyou..." Blair spluttered to a stop. "You spied on me when I was--" He waved his arms in the air. "Doing that. What'd you do, Jim? Follow me back to the hotel? Stand out in the hall and listen to us fuck?"

And, oh, shit!, that was an angle he hadn't considered. He'd been so focused on why, he'd never thought of explaining how he'd done it, in Mulder's room. In Mulder's bed. "That's need to know, Chief," he said lightly. "I'd rather not say."

His attempt at a joke didn't impress Blair. "Rather not say? You eavesdropped on me! You'd better say."

A flair of something--fury, agony, fire--jittered in his stomach. It felt almost like the panicked scream that had thrashed in his belly when he'd thought he was going to drown in the dark, alone, in Mulder's room. His jaw clamped down so tight he had to force it to move. "There's nothing to say, Sandburg."

Blair pushed him, hand flat on his chest, an oval heat stamp on his skin.

He took a step back, then another.

"Don't you do that to me, Jim. Don't you dare try to shut down and pull that Ellison jaw clench on me. There better be something to say, and it better be something that makes me understand this, or I'm outta here."

Jim tried to bristle, but he couldn't manage the faux indignation that normally worked so well. Couldn't turn his back. There'd been a time, before Blair, when walking away had been so much simpler, so much easier to do. He sighed. "I was with Mulder, and things just got out of hand. I know it was a shitty thing to do. And I'm... I'm..."

He stopped, because the word that should come next was caught in his throat. Words didn't come easy to him. And that last word was hardest of all when it was for real. People said it everyday, in the line at the supermarket and to strangers on the street. And parents said it to kids when everything was coming apart at the seams, and they didn't really mean it. All the seams popped anyway. The word didn't make any difference. It didn't make the world better when the seams popped and blood spilled out onto the floor. But he wanted to make a difference. He had to make a difference this time.

"I'm sorry, Chief." And then, words used up and courage spent, he managed to turn away, but he still couldn't walk away.

A warm hand touched him very gently. Not moving, fingertips just fitting to the slats of his ribs. His skin was cool from the shower, still a little damp, and Blair's palm radiated warmth all along his side.

"Okay," Blair said, very slowly, very deliberately. "I'm calm. I'm calm about this. Just...take it from the top. Make me understand."

He darted a glance at Blair and quickly looked away. Mistake. Big mistake, looking at those blue, blue eyes. Like drowning in topaz. It would be easier if Blair stayed angry, kept his arms crossed and his fists balled, his head moving, hair flying around his head like it was full of static electricity. Blair's anger, the panic it generated, had given him words. Now he had to concentrate. To think about what to say. Where to start.

He took a deep breath, Blair's hand following the rise and fall of his ribs. "On the sidewalk, that night outside the restaurant, after you walked away, Mulder told me where his room was. And he seemed to be making a big deal out of the fact that it was next door to Skinner's. I couldn't figure out if he coming on to me, or trying to tell me something about Skinner. Warn me, maybe. And I thought, I'd just walk down the hall. Walk past Skinner's room and check him out before you got there. But then you came up, and when he opened the door, I saw how he looked at you. I knew you'd be okay with him. Then Mulder opened his door, and he invited me in. And it just...got out of hand. I didn't mean to keep listening."

In the ensuing silence, Jim drew in another deep, deep breath. It inflated his lungs and it inflated his stomach, peeling it up off his spine and settling it back down where it belonged. And, god, he felt better. He felt so much better. Ten pounds lighter, getting all those words out. Washed clean, confessing. That peeled, raw feeling disappeared, replaced a tingling awareness as if every hair on his body was standing up and his skin was all new.

He could feel Blair, every curve and shadow and muscle, a heat portrait etched across his back and wrapped around his ribs. Soaking into his flesh.

"So, you and Mulder were..." Blair made a vague gesture with his hand. Suggestive, but nothing like his usual punch with the fist.

Was it possible that he sounded a little jealous? A little breathless? Jim didn't dare risk another glance at him to find out. There was enough exhilaration singing in his blood without adding the impact of those eyes. "Yes. And it just--"

"Got out of hand. Yeah, I got that part. But if you knew I was okay, and you were there to be with Mulder, why'd you listen in the first place?"

Jim closed his eyes, but it didn't shut out the memory. That sliver of light drawing him like a magnet. Skinner's hands, cupping Blair's ass, moving down his chest. "The connecting door was open. I--we saw you. The two of you together. I closed the door, but...I couldn't close off the sound."

Just like he couldn't close off the images now. Blair naked and aroused. Just like he couldn't stop wanting to be the one make Blair look like that. He sucked in a deep, ragged breath, tried to stay in the present when his body wanted the past, wanted...more. His cock, tense and angry and unrelieved, thickened. Swelled up against the rough terrycloth, threatening to tug the towel free. . Trying not to draw attention the way his cock was pushing at the towel, he caught the tucked edge and pressed it against his hip.

"I should be so pissed at you, Jim," Blair said finally, his voice quiet. Intense.

Should be... The implication ghosted across Jim's arm, word tendrils across his back. Blair's fingers flexed, digging into his spine, and Jim's mouth went suddenly dry, tongue sticking to his teeth.

Blair's fingers walked down the bumps in his spine. His voice dropped another octave. "I should be so pissed at you, but all I can think of is you listening to me and getting so turned on you couldn't stop. That's what happened, isn't it?" The fingers reached his towel, teased there a moment, half on his skin, half on cloth. "Isn't it?"

Jim barely pushed the word out, and it sounded rusty and awkward. "Yes."

Then Blair tugged, and the edges came lose. Jim let the towel slip through his fingers, let Blair take it. Damp cotton brushed against his hip, then Blair let the towel drop. Cold air swirled around his thighs, his balls.

Blair's hand teased across his hip. His voice teased through Jim's mind. "You watched us, and you listened to us." Blair leaned in, resting his hand on Jim's hip, just at the curve of his ass. Whispered the last into his ear. "And it makes me so hot to think about you with Mulder. Listening to me."

Jim shuddered and flushed, swaths of heat up his belly and his neck and his face.

Blair caught his arm and turned him gently, pushed him back into the refrigerator. And, god, that was cold against his back, his ass. His nerves all shouted at the same time, screeched in shock and pleasure.

"Did you like listening to me fuck?" Blair rested his palms on the refrigerator, framing his head. Trapping him in place. Blair leaned in again, crowded in on him until he had no personal space, no air left to breathe. But Blair didn't touch him anywhere. Not even the erection straining so shamelessly out from his body.

Blair didn't even glance at his cock. His gaze slid over the planes of Jim's face, eyes narrowed and dangerous and filled with laughter, as if he knew how maddening it was to be so naked, so close, without being touched.

"You like hearing me fuck?" Blair repeated. He slid his palm down Jim's body, skimming shoulder and nipple and hip. Fingers traced the length of his cock, menacing, promising, but not touching. Ghosting warmth across his skin. "Looks like you'd like to do more than just listen."

Jim flushed hot all over, skin burning, no more gentle streaks of warmth. Just flame and bone and muscle that wanted to go in twenty different directions. Shift towards Blair's hands and lean into his mouth, and arch towards the bulge in his jeans. Sink to his knees and roll over on his back. Spread his legs. "Yeah, I'd like that."

It was a rough, husky understatement, with his knees starting to give way and his cock begging to be stroked and his spine jittering like he was on speed, but apparently, it was enough.

Blair pressed in on him, finally touching from shoulder to knee. Abrading his skin with denim and dragging flannel across his nipples. Polishing the tip of his cock with the smooth, body warmed metal of his belt buckle.

Blair breathed across his collarbone, "You know what I did. Tell me what you did."

Jim pressed back harder into the door of the refrigerator, trying to soak up the chill, to cool the heat. He was willing to confess every sin on his soul if Blair would just stay there, against him, talking over him. Branding words into his throat. "Everything you did," he said hoarsely. "Mulder wanted me to...do what you were doing to Skinner."

Blair froze, fingers barely touching his cock. Blair's pulse shot up so fast it made Jim dizzy to hear it. It roared in his ears like a tornado.

"He knew you could hear us? You told him about your senses?"

Jim groaned. Only Blair's voice could make that sound erotic, like decadent, sloppy, kinky sex. "He guessed. He... Chief, please. No more talking. You're killing me here."

Blair's cock was hard as stone, a truncheon with steel teeth and denim skin stabbing into his hip. He rocked into it, groaning, and Blair grabbed his head, clamped it. Savaged his mouth, making up for all the soft, hot words and the feathery breaths and the barely there touches. He bit Jim's tongue and licked his lips and scraped teeth against his teeth. Swallowed his cry of ecstasy.

Jim arched back, thrusting high enough that his cock slid over soft flannel, hard enough that his balls tightened, ready to spill. He arched his back and spread his legs and grabbed onto the round corners of the refrigerator with both hands.

And Blair stepped back.

The release was so abrupt, Jim almost fell. All that had been holding him up was his arousal. The need to keep as much of his body in contact with Blair's as possible. Without that, he didn't think his legs would work.

Blair opened the top button of his shirt, leaned for another hard, demanding kiss. "You look really hot there, but I don't think our first time should be on the refrigerator. Do you?"

Jim shook his head dumbly, trying to work some blood back into his brain, not sure if he was saying yes or no. Or if he cared where their first time was, so long as there was a second time.

Blair walked away, shedding his shirt as he went. Tossing it across the back of the couch as he passed. He paused with one foot on the stairs. Casually flicked open the button his jeans. "Come upstairs, Jim, and we can do anything you want." Then he started up, peeling off his t-shirt as he went.

Jim suddenly found the strength to follow the trail of clothing. Shirt. T-shirt. Tennis shoes. Belt. At the head of the stairs, crumpled denim, one sock peeking out from under. And on his bed... Blair. Naked. Waiting for him. Reclining on his elbows with one knee canted out to the side. Body on display. Cock hard, pointing up his belly and beckoning.

Jim crawled over him, knees and elbows threatening to unlock. He remembered he'd wanted Blair to crawl onto the bed, up over him, but this was good. This was very good. Moving up over Blair, straddling his thighs, leaning down to let his cock kiss Blair's. Blair's was wet, the head all slick and shiny, and he slid down. Took it in his mouth.

Big as a plum and shiny smooth. Salt taste thick as honey, but not quite sweet. He tasted so good. Felt so good. All this time, living with the dry, silky, musk scent of Blair's arousal, and finally he had it on his tongue, in his hands.

Blair dropped his head back. His hair brushed the mattress, teasing the sheet. "Oh, that's good, Jim. So good."

But that wasn't-- They weren't the right words. Blair was supposed to say, You're so good at that. No. You're too damn good at that. And the tone wasn't right. There was arousal there, in Blair's husky voice. But where was the passion, the laughter?

Blair fell back flat on the bed, tilted his hips up, begging for more. Dug his fingers in the back of Jim's head, demanding more.

With one last, reluctant lick, Jim let him go. Crawled up until he was face to face with Blair. Losing himself in those blue eyes. He'd never felt such tenderness for anyone, not in his whole life. It hurt, and he didn't quite know what to do with it. How to get it out of his chest. "You should go," he said, before he could lose his nerve. "You should go with Skinner. I'll be okay."

"What?!" Blair struggled beneath him. Pushed himself up so fast he almost butted Jim in the mouth.

"I heard him ask you."

"Then you must have heard me tell him no."

Jim rolled off to the side, covered his eyes with his forearm. Reached for something to cover his erection, but the sheet was tangled under Blair.

Shouldn't have an erection, not while he was saying these words, but he couldn't shut it off. Couldn't shut out Blair, the smell of him and the heat of him. "I heard you tell him you couldn't leave me. Not that you didn't want to. I know you chose to stay, and it means a lot." It meant the world, but there was only so much revealing he could do in one day. And he had just about run his limit. "But I can't let you do this. I'll be okay."

"Idiot." Blair shook his head and loomed up over him, exasperation and affection wiping away his frown and making the word sound like an endearment. "That wasn't what I said. I said I can't leave you, and I can't. But not because I can't. Because you're it for me, Jim. You're..."

Jim swallowed. The muscles in his chest clamped down. And there was that panicky scream, rumbling around in the pit of his stomach again.

"You're it. The one. It. The whole enchilada." Blair slid over next to him, draped a knee across his thigh, stroked back and forth over the ridges of his ribs. Pressed a kiss to his brow.

"I don't-- I don't know. I didn't know."

"That's how it's always been for me, man. From the day you slammed me into that wall. That's why I followed you that day. Because I knew I couldn't let you get away. I've wanted to tell you for so long. But I didn't think you were ever gonna get here, where I could tell you. I mean, you just have this thing about being independent. About being in control. You only date women you couldn't possibly fall in love with. And guys are like cannon fodder, good for getting off, but not good enough to bring home. I've wanted you for so long, but I don't want to be just another one night stand. Or an impossibility."

Jim covered his eyes again. Mulder saw possibilities, and Blair saw impossibilities. And all Jim saw was bits and pieces that he couldn't connect into a whole. But Blair laid it all out so succinctly. Everything he'd been struggling to fit together all week. Blair already knew it. Condensed it down into ten sentences or less. Jim Ellison in one paragraph. And Blair understood. Accepted it. Accepted him. Warts and all.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Breathed in the air of his home, of his bed with Blair in it. It was better than confession, having that weight next to him. He rolled over onto his stomach, spreading his legs and burying his face in the sheet. Already trembling with anticipation.

Blair breathed in audibly. His palm ran the line from shoulder to thigh, slowing as it passed over the curve of Jim's ass.

Jim pushed up, just a little, with his hips. It was as close as he could come to asking for what he wanted.

He looked over his shoulder at Blair and spread his knees wider. "You said we could do whatever I wanted." Grinned when Blair gasped in a breath and raked him from head to toe with that hot, blue gaze. He could get used to Blair looking at him like that. To hearing that quickstroke in his heartbeat.

Blair caressed his ass again. Fingers trailing over his skin. Nails scratching lightly along the crease, and Jim shifted. Opening himself up, granting permission.

Blair touched him. When he shivered and pushed up for more, the finger came back wet and slick. Circled around, making his muscles quiver and tighten. Then loosen. Pleasure shot through him as if Blair was striking matches on his body. Raking them over his skin. Sparks trailing and spitting, running along his nerves like fire racing for a fuse.

Blair pushed, and his body opened, then tensed. Wanting the invasion, but resisting it.

"Jim? Have you done this before?"

"Yeah. I just never liked it much. I mean, I like it. It feels good. I just don't like--" He shuffled through words long unused and dusty, looking for the right combination.

Blair kissed his shoulder, dragging a raspy tongue along the curve of the bone. "You don't like giving up control of your body. Being so vulnerable with someone you don't trust."

He shivered. Warts and all. "Yes."

"We don't have to do this now. We could--"

"I want to. I trust you. I-- When you were in Skinner, it was... I couldn't believe he--"

"Sh-h-h." Blair covered Jim's mouth with his fingers. "Don't. Don't get me started with that again, because it makes me crazy. Save that for another time, and you can tell me everything you and Mulder did. Everything you thought. And I'll let you drive me wild." Blair's eyelids drooped, heavy and hot with promise. "But tonight, there should just be you and me here. Just us in this bed. Okay?"

Jim nodded, dumbstruck again by the depth of Blair's power over him, by Blair's understanding and his own response to it.

Blair walked on his knees over to the nightstand, and Jim rose up on his elbows to look at him. He'd never had a woman in his bed who could rival that sensuous curve from shoulder to thigh. His fingers twitched with wanting to trace it.

Blair rummaged though the drawer, found lube and condoms. "Come here. Let's try something."

Jim crawled to him, reaching greedily, but Blair shifted from under his hands. Moved Jim, guiding him until he lay on his back, propped half on Blair, half on the bed. Almost on his side, his neck supported by the hard strength of Blair's arm, his knee lifted to expose him to slick, stroking fingers. "Is this okay?"

Jim nodded, tension catching at him again Blair popped the lid on the lube and the slick, sweet scent wafted out. But he liked it like this. Lying so close to Blair, warmed by him, cradled by him. Still free to move.

Blair kissed along his face tenderly, from hairline to jaw and back again, taking his attention from what his fingers were doing. "It's so good to touch you like this. To know you trust me."

Jim closed his eyes. Gave himself up to the touch of Blair's mouth. To the hypnotism of Blair's voice saying all the right things, in just the right tone. Blair's fingers moved in him, and he couldn't remember them getting there. Couldn't remember any pain, or stretching. Just slick, delicious movement.

"You know that I'm going to make this so good for you that you're going to scream?"

He laughed out loud. "God, Sandburg, what an ego." Then gasped with surprise and pleasure as Blair stroked his prostate. The matches clawed at his skin again, hissing as they struck and caught. He might just go ahead and scream now.

Blair managed the condom one handed. Ripped it open with his teeth and had it half unrolled down his cock when Jim reached to help. He didn't need to help, but he hadn't really gotten his hands on that sturdy cock yet. Not the way he wanted to.

Blair squirted lube for him, and he stroked it on. Losing himself in touching, making sure every inch was covered. Pumping and pumping, shadowing the moves with his hips because his own cock was jealous and neglected. It felt good to be this comfortable with someone, to be so easy and mellow and so tense with wanting to come, but in no real rush to finish it.

Then Blair said hoarsely, "Enough."

Blair shifted him around, still holding him so securely, and pulled his knee up into an odd, cocked angle. Shifted and shifted, rubbing against him, stroking against him until he was ready to yell, and finally, Blair's cock seated against him. Steady and hot and blunt, teasing the muscle unbearably, but not pushing. And Blair whispered in his ear, "You do it. Whatever you want."

He understood, finally, the position and the awkward angle of his knee and the way Blair was taking so much of his weight. Giving him the control. Always giving him what he needed and accepting what he needed. Trusting him. Making it possible for him to trust.

He pushed down and Blair held steady and something clicked. That directional arrow that had been fluttering in him all his life, that Blair sometimes sent spinning in a different direction, found true north. Found home and snapped into place. Connected. He was connected. A connection like he'd never had with anyone in his life.

He let his weight take him down, pierce him, crying out with the pleasure and the sweet, brief pain.

Blair sighed in his ear. "God, Jim, you are so hot. So hard. It's so good to be in you." Blair bit him and kissed the marks and rocked up slowly into him. "So good. You're so beautiful."

Jim moaned and started to move, increasing the pace, and Blair whispered, "Stroke yourself. Touch yourself while I watch."

As he did what Blair asked, the words went on and on. Blair's voice, not so controlled as it normally was, but so sweet. Telling him how good he was and how tight and beautiful and exquisite he was and how good he sounded. That voice, and words no one had ever applied to him. And he let go and just moved, hard and fast and sure. Finding just the right angle and just the right pace, and he couldn't remember why he'd ever disliked being fucked. Being so full and so stretched and so invaded. He couldn't wait to do it with Blair on top of him, pressing him into the mattress.

It felt like he'd made love to Blair a thousand times before. Like Blair had been in him before, a part of him. And it had always been like this for them, in sync and in step. He hadn't been in any rush, but he suddenly couldn't wait. And he said only, "I'm close."

Blair gasped, "Jim. Oh, Jim." And froze. And it was Blair who shouted, who gave a strangled scream and surging into frenzied motion. Digging up at him. Coming in him. Swelling up hard and pulsing in rhythm to his heart.

Jim whimpered and fell back, and let Blair take his weight. He moaned as he came because he knew Blair wanted to hear him. His orgasm flowered and flowered and billowed out over him. Spilled in hot, wet splatters. Ever widening circles of pleasure, putting out the fire and washing away the streaks where the matches had raked at his skin.

And when he was through, shaking and weak, Blair was still there, holding him. Arms wrapped tight, cradling his head, palm splayed over his heart, one leg supporting his bent knee. His voice was still there, crooning against his skin, bringing him down the same way it had lifted him up.

Like Mulder, Blair had one of those cocks that didn't deflate very fast, and it was still ballooned inside him, throbbing with sluggish aftershocks. When he eased away, it left Jim feeling hollowed out, exposed, but not empty. Just content and limp and open.

Blair disposed of the condom, tugged at a corner of the sheet and swiped at himself, then leaned over Jim to wipe his belly and his fingers and his still so sensitive cock.

Then Blair pulled him back over onto his body. "Wow," he said simply.

"Uhm-m," was all Jim could manage as he slumped, letting Blair take his weight again, enjoying the heartbeat against his back. Any real words would just have been tainted with smug, stupid delirium anyway.

Blair stroked his fingers through his hair and said lazily, "I should wash up."

The thought of the awkwardness of trading places in the bathroom was enough to rouse Jim, to make his sluggish muscles work again. He rolled, slid, pinned the smaller body beneath his. "Not yet." He didn't want to be alone in the bed. Didn't want the loss of weight and warmth.

Blair went limp, threw his arms wide, laughed up at him, eyes droopy and sated. "If you don't mind sweaty and sticky, I'm all yours, man."

Jim traced the soft, tender skin from Blair's elbow to his ribs. "I could get used to sweaty and sticky."

And he leaned down for his first really sane sensing of his lover. Touching all the places he'd never been able to touch before, to savor the things that had skimmed past him in the last few minutes. The differences in skin texture and body hair. In scent and taste. Blair's neck, right at the hairline, smelled like peaches, but tasted salty, and his lips smelled salty but tasted of creamy salad dressing and Jim. His nipples smelled glossy but felt pebbled. The center of his chest, where the hair was thick and curling was sweeter even than his mouth. And his armpits were okay to nuzzle, but the inside of the elbow sent tiny tremors washing along the skin and caused Blair to wriggle and emit snuffling protests.

He had reached Blair's navel, the whole world of explorations waiting there, when Blair pushed at his shoulder. "Jim. Jim. Man, come on. I love being sniffed and chewed like a new dog in the neighborhood, but I've got to get up."

Jim rolled the side, setting Blair free. After all, if he investigated everything now, what would there be to do later? And he grinned, happy and satisfied, because he couldn't imagine ever getting tired of going over the same ground. Again and again.

"You know what the old dog does to the new dog in the neighborhood, don't you, Chief? He raised and lowered his eyebrows, not caring that the joy that swelled up inside of him was spilling over into silliness.

Blair laughed and shook his head, eyeing him suspiciously.

Jim grabbed him and tossed him over on his back. Pushed his knees back towards his chest. Leaned down and nuzzled his face into Blair's groin. His tongue snaked out traced the length of his sticky cock, and his semen was sweetest of all Blair's tastes. He tickled Blair's balls and the insides of his thighs. He paused, looked up. "The old dog sniffs the new dog's--"

"Jim!" Laughing helplessly, Blair struggled, tried to kick his feet free. Grabbed his sides, then his saliva shiny cock. "Oh, man, don't. I've got to go to the bathroom. You're gonna make me pee on myself."

Jim stopped as abruptly as he'd started. Gave Blair a push on his shoulder to help him up. He hesitated, not quite sure he dared what he was thinking, but it was preferable to the alternative. To lying there remembering and wanting that intimacy. "Okay if I join you?"

Blair paused at the head of the stairs.

Jim drew in a breath at the sight of a smiling, naked, sex rumpled Blair looking back over his shoulder at him. The sun had almost set, and the only light in the room was from the windows below. It cast Blair's profile in a warm glow, turned his hair into a rainbow of brown and gold. Shadowed the curve of waist and hip and ass.

Blair tilted his head, looked at him quizzically. But he said only, "Sure. Come on."

Jim was going to have to answer questions later for that request. He could see it in his partner's face, but he didn't care.

"Hey, Chief?" Jim turned down the flame underneath the soup he'd decided to heat up for lunch as he called up towards the loft bedroom. "Sandburg, front and center."

Overhead, the bed squeaked. A foot, then something round, then another foot hit the floor. The round thing, probably a pencil, rolled, the feet padding behind it. After a couple of curses, the escaped object was found and tossed back onto the bed.

A moment later, Blair appeared at the rail, backlit by the warm light pouring through the skylight. He clutched his glasses in one hand and a hair tie in the other. A strand of his hair was sticking out at an odd angle, and he was bare chested, barefoot, wearing his house jeans. Jim's favorite's, the ones with paint spots and rips in the knees and a practically threadbare seat. He was eagerly anticipating the day rips appeared there. They were only half zipped, barely hanging on Blair's narrow hips, showing not even a sliver of underwear beneath.

Jim stared, the hand holding the spoon hovering in midair. Taken by the sight of his partner and questioning why these little frozen moments of wonder kept happening to him. Like something out of a sappy romance novel, moments when he was struck dumb by Blair's radiance and his beauty and the way he could make even ruined denim look like sex.

Two days since they'd become lovers, years now that he'd seen Blair every day... He couldn't possibly look different this morning than he had last Tuesday morning when he cooked breakfast dressed only in boxers and an undershirt. Or two weeks ago, when he walked through with only a towel wrapped around his waist and water droplets clinging to his chest. Or last year, when they went fishing in Canada and Blair fell in and had to sit by the fire all afternoon wrapped in a blanket. He couldn't possibly look different now. So why did he?

Blair did a classic movie double take, glanced back over his shoulder to find whatever had Jim mesmerized. "What?"

"Must be the light," Jim mumbled, suddenly aware that he was dripping broth all over the counter. He turned away, cupping his hand under the spoon.

"Jim-m-m... You called me?"

"Oh." He twisted, looking for the dish towel. "Skinner's on his way up."

"So soon?" Blair's heart did that little Skinner-blip. "It's way too early for them to be on the way to the airport."

Jim was feeling so mellow this morning, he didn't even mind Blair's reaction. Well, not too much. But enough that he was glad Mulder and Skinner were heading home.

The last two days had been nerve wracking. Simon had agreed to let the case go cold, but Skinner had knuckled under to Mulder's insistence that they at least try to find the other lookalikes. Between Mulder's frenzy to find something and Skinner's insistence that they proceed with snail-like caution, then Mulder's frustration and fury when they finally had to admit defeat, it was a wonder Jim hadn't shot somebody. Even worse had been seeing Blair with Skinner, watching them put their heads together and discover a new joy in working together, seeing how crazy Blair was about the guy. Still worse was having to admit, finally, that Skinner was okay and a damn good cop and as trustworthy as Blair had said he was. It was worse, knowing that he'd been wrong, worse than when he didn't trust Skinner, because now he knew, hands on, what he stood to lose if Blair changed his mind.

"Is Mulder with him?"

Jim stopped the swish, wipe, swish of the cloth, tilted his head a little, listened.

Skinner was alone in the elevator, just passing the second floor. Mulder was sitting in the car in the parking lot, fiddling with the station settings on the radio.

"No. He's in the car."

Blair slipped his glasses on, tossed the hair tie back towards the bed.

"If I wake up with that thing in my butt, Chief, I'm tossing it out."

Blair disappeared from sight, voice floating playfully back down to him. "If you wake with something in your butt, lover, I'd appreciate it if you check what it is before you toss it out."

Jim waited, grinning up, for Blair to stick his head back over the rail and leer. When he did, Jim assured him, "We'll make it a rule." So far, he hadn't awakened that way, but Blair did have some innovative substitutions for an alarm clock.

"Yeah, I need another one of those." Blair struggled with his jeans, trying to get the beat-up, crooked zipper to work. "I was hoping Mulder would come up."

"He will." Jim waited until Skinner raised his hand to knock before he opened the door. Smiling blandly, Jim pretended not to notice Skinner's surprise or subsequent frown at having the door snatched out from under his knuckles. "Come in."

Skinner stepped across the threshold, his hesitant body language a far cry from the self-possessed man who'd dominated Simon's office only days before. He was wearing the same long, elegant coat he'd worn that day, but with a different suit, this one single breasted, and a shirt so white, Jim wanted to blink his eyes.

Skinner's gaze flitted around the room, skirted over him, slowed at his chest, then slid away. The quickly hooded appreciation made Jim glad he'd chosen the tight, black t-shirt instead of the loose pullover he'd originally pulled blindly out of the closet. Made him want to puff out his chest even further, as did the sight of Blair, bouncing down the stairs.

"Walter." Blair had put on a pair of Jim's socks and was buttoning his shirt.

His jeans were zipped, Jim was glad to note. The memory of him, naked in Skinner's arms, still had the power to make Jim sweat, but he wasn't so sure he wanted Skinner tempted by that half closed zipper now that Blair was his.

Blair stopped at the couch, the spring in his walk slowly eking away so that the last couple of steps were leaden. "You're early. Did your flight change?"

"We're driving to Seattle and catching a flight from there. Scully called, and Mulder wants to connect up with her. And I haven't seen the Seattle office since I left. I thought it'd be nice to look around. Watch them all scramble when they get an unannounced visit from an AD."

Blair tried to grin, but ended up only grimacing and scuffing a toe on the floor, all that radiance dampened.

Jim couldn't help it. He shifted a little closer to Blair, a little closer to Skinner. He'd promised himself he wouldn't flaunt the two of them in front of the man. He didn't know how Skinner had reacted when Blair told him they were together, but Jim couldn't imagine feeling anything but despondent at losing Blair a second time. He offered his hand to Skinner. "Have a safe trip."

Down on the street, Mulder shut off the radio and climbed out of the car.

"Thanks." Skinner's body language was a little different, and so was the handshake. Still strong and sure, but more like the greeting he'd given Blair that first morning. Holding on just a bit longer, fingers clinging. "You take care of Blair." Skinner met his gaze with a look that said he knew what his options were if Jim didn't.

"You know I will."

Blair brushed Jim's hand as he was drawing it back, slipping past into Skinner's arms. He went inside the coat, just like that first day, and Skinner wrapped him up automatically. Glancing at Jim as if he expected him to protest.

"I'll miss you." Blair muffled his face in Skinner's shoulder. "And this is not good-bye," he said fiercely. "Right, Jim?"

Their scents, mingled, wafted up to Jim. Shades of that first day, again, except that mixed in with the scent of the two men was his own scent, part of Blair's now. "No. You're always welcome here."

Skinner stepped back, disentangling himself from Blair. "The same for the two of you. If you're ever in DC..."

The elevator creaked to a stop, and Mulder ambled along the hallway, paused outside, but didn't knock.

Jim opened the door with even more of a flourish this time, because he knew what was waiting. Mulder was propped in the doorway, posing, one arm draped overhead on the frame, one stuck in a pocket, holding his coat back in an elegant sweep. Like a model in a magazine, he looked lanky and graceful and cocky. And absolutely gorgeous. He grinned at Jim like they'd pulled off some difficult magic trick.

"Agent Mulder." There was a low, warning, questioning note to Skinner's voice, a reprimand at the invasion, but his gaze flicked over Mulder. It was appreciative even if his voice wasn't.

"Sir," Mulder answered. He was in silky mode, Jim noted. Wired and ready for mischief. "I came up to say good-bye."

Skinner plainly thought Mulder didn't need to make any farewells, but he didn't say anything.

"And I needed to return this to Jim." Mulder pulled a book from under his arm. "Thanks for suggesting it. And you left this in it. I thought it might be important."

He handed Jim the book, opened to a business card. Another one of Mulder's. Pristine white, with the raised Bureau logo in one corner. And on the back, printed with precise, clear strokes, Mulder's personal numbers for home and cell phone. Scully's numbers in case he couldn't get Mulder. And a note at the bottom, in a cramped script, In case you ever need to exchange information...

"Thanks." Jim turned to put the book on the counter, shielding the cover on which the author's name was printed in big, bold letters. "I've got something for you, too."

Blair recognized the book anyway. "Jim, you didn't..." His mouth dropped open and hot spots of color blossomed on his cheeks.

Jim gently pushed up on his jaw with the tips of two fingers as he passed him on his way to the couch. "It'll be okay, Chief." He fished in the pocket of his leather jacket, drew out a long, slender plastic box, tied with a single strand of green ribbon. He handed it to Mulder.

Puzzled, Mulder took it and opened it. It was a toothbrush, white with a black trim, just like the one Jim had broken, but in a protective traveling case.

Mulder laughed aloud and gave Jim a good, hard, back thumping hug. He ended it by letting his fingers linger just a little too long on the bristly hair at the back of his neck. "Thanks, Detective. You don't miss a thing, do you?" His eyes were bright, hot, deliberately provocative, so broadly flirtatious that there was no doubt he was provoking Skinner.

Jim wasn't sure if he was glad he didn't have to ride to Seattle shut in a car with the man, or jealous that he'd miss the fun.

Behind him, the provocation worked just fine. Two heartbeats pumped overtime, Blair's rising up the blip scale rapidly, sending out a rush of torrid air, Skinner grinding away at his enamel in rhythm to his pulse. Jim winked at Mulder before turning back to his kitchen and his lover, who sounded like he was hyperventilating himself towards a faint.

"Like to watch, do you?" he murmured as he moved past.

"You are such a dick," Blair said plainly, affectionately, not caring if the other two heard. But the sadness had lifted from his voice, and the radiance was back. He moved over, sticking out his hand to Skinner. "You two be careful. And call us when you get home, okay?"

Skinner looked from Mulder, fidgeting in the doorway, obviously ready to get going, to Jim leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, an easy smile on his face, to Blair, smiling up at him with repressed laughter and open love shining in his face. To the book, lying facedown on the counter. With the name printed in huge letters on the spine. His eyes widened.

Jim almost felt sorry for the guy. His innate stiffness, the dignity that he wore like skin, wouldn't allow him to acknowledge what was going on around him. Maybe if Mulder hadn't been standing there, shifting from one foot to the other, looking at him with that sharp as a fox gaze...

Skinner took Blair's hand. "I'll call you tonight."

Jim suppressed a grin. That was a threat if he'd ever heard one. Blair was in so much trouble...

Blair wasn't any more intimidated by a Skinner growl than he was by an Ellison one. He glanced up in time to see Mulder wave and disappear down the hall, then pulled himself into Skinner's body with his grip on his hand. Hugged him hard. "Anytime, man. Anytime." He pressed a kiss to the corner of Skinner's mouth. "Love you. You be careful."

Jim's estimation of the man went up a notch. Though Skinner had no idea that Mulder had walked away, he didn't flinch from Blair's show of affection. His arms went around the smaller man and tightened briefly and his mouth grazed Blair's hairline, that spot at the temple that tasted like pears. "I love you, too." Then he stepped away. Walked out of the door without glancing back. Strode off down the hallway after Mulder, who had already pushed the elevator button three times.

Jim couldn't decide whether he wanted to burst with tenderness or burn with jealousy or shout with triumph. There was a tight, little place inside that had never unwound, despite falling asleep in Blair's arms and waking to his morning kisses. And now, seeing Skinner walk away and Blair still there beside him, it started to unfurl.

Blair closed the door, lingering for a moment, fingers resting on the knob, face pensive.

Jim rested his fingers on Blair's, stroked the fine hairs on the back his hand. Leaned into his broad back just a little, reassuring his body with warmth and touch that Blair was still there. He knew it was illogical, because even if Blair hadn't told Skinner he couldn't leave, he'd still made his choice three nights ago in Jim's bed. And he still could walk out any time he chose. But Jim felt like Blair had chosen him again. Once more. For the final time.

"Man...I cannot believe you gave Mulder that book. What did you tell him?"

Jim stroked his hands up Blair's arms. Rested his fingers on his shoulders and his thumbs under the heavy fall of Blair's hair. "Just that he needed to go a little slower and pay more attention to the people around him and the choices they make. And that he should ask Skinner to teach him to hear the mermaid's singing."

"Jim..." Blair rolled his forehead on the door, his voice wavering between exasperation and laughter. "That is such a complicated situation. It's just not that simple for them."

Jim massaged the tension in his shoulders. "It can be, Chief, if they just take the leap. The rest of it will work out somehow. But Skinner's like me. Without somebody to push him, he's never going to take the chance. And I felt like...I owed him a chance."

A chance he was obviously going to get soon, as the elevator alarm sounded, indicating that somebody had hit the emergency button and stopped it between floors.

//Agent Mulder, what the hell are you--?!//"Then Skinner's breath huffed out as Mulder moved in on him, and there obviously wasn't any question as to what Mulder was doing.

Jim laughed softly and rested his chin on Blair's head.

"What?"

"So much for Mulder slowing down. He stopped the elevator, and he's pinned Skinner in the corner."

"Oh, man." Blair snickered, too. "Poor Walter."

Skinner's coat swished against the steel wall of the car. //Mulder, this is completely--// The words broke and gave way before a hissing intake of breath. //--out of line.// Each word came out slower, with less force. //I'm your...// Until finally, they were swallowed up in a groan and followed by the sound of air puffing over skin.

Jim's cock jumped in sympathy, in recognition.

Blair rocked back into him. "What's Mulder doing to him?"

Jim slid one hand around to the front of Blair's jeans. With the other, he pulled Blair's collar away from his neck. He pressed down hard on Blair's cock at the same time he blew a stream of feathery cool air down into his shirt.

Blair jerked. Moaned. Rocked his hips forward, trapping Jim's hand between his rapidly filling cock and the door.

//Agent Mulder, this is totally--// The words broke, giving way to another hiss. //--inappropriate.// Then Skinner spoke more forcefully, as if he was dragging himself out of a Mulder-induced stupor. //Agent Mulder.//

Mulder shut him up with a kiss. If Skinner's moan and the boneless slump into the wall of the elevator were any indication, it would register on the Richter scale.

Jim leaned into Blair, pressing his own growing erection into that tight ass, stopping the slow roll of hips against the door and his hand. "I wish you could say that to me," he whispered, not daring to speak the words aloud, surprised and exhilarated and frightened that he dared to say them at all.

Blair turned his head so that Jim was breathing on his temple. "Say what?"

"That...love thing that you say to Skinner."

Blair's heart thumped, echoing in the door, through the wood. It set the whole apartment to reverberating with his rhythm. "I can say it to you. I'll shout it from the roof if you want me to, just as long as you're ready."

Blair reached back and wrapped his arms around him as much as he could, flattening his palms on Jim's thighs, and spoke into the door. "But be sure, Jim, because it won't mean the same thing that it does with Walter. I'll always care about him. He will...always make my heart race. But I lived with him two years, and I loved him, and when it was time, I let him go. He let me go. It didn't mean forever for us. But that's what it will mean if I say it to you. And I just want to be sure you're ready to commit to that."

Jim leaned in just a bit more, touching his forehead to the side of Blair's forehead, rubbing gently against skin and curls. Teasing himself with the heat and scent-aura of Blair. "I think I'm ready. Whenever you're ready to say it."

Blair turned, moving carefully so that Jim didn't have to step away. Stopped in the circle of Jim's arms, lay his palm on Jim's heart and met his gaze squarely, without blinking. "I love you."

Jim swallowed up the words. Breathed them into his lungs, down into his bloodstream and felt the champagne of them bubble through his veins, his marrow. Become part of his flesh. He followed the flow down to Blair's mouth.

Kissed him fiercely, tenderly. The way he'd always wanted to kiss Blair, with handfuls of curls crushed in his palms, strands like twisted ribbons pouring through his fingers. Blair tasted of pencil lead and breakfast and toothpaste and...Jim. His body, his semen from their lovemaking that morning. His saliva from their kisses.

"Blair..." he whispered it hoarsely, trying to find the other words. The words, like I'm sorry, that came so easily to other people. He nuzzled Blair's forehead, hiding himself in the taste and scent. Afraid that if he tried to speak, his throat would close, and all the tenderness, the belief, that had been building would suddenly shrink. He waited for that tight place to grind down again, but it didn't.

"I love you, too, Chief."

Blair rested his head on Jim's shoulder. Caressed the back of his neck with light strokes of his fingers. Quiet and calm and peaceful.

The whine of the elevator alarm ceased. In the background, Jim had been aware of the sounds generated by the struggling of two strong bodies, two strong wills. The protests becoming whimpers and soft sighs, and the rustle of clothing being rumpled and wrinkled. He shifted his attention slightly, keeping Blair and the hum of his body and the slow stroking of his hands close, but checking to make sure Mulder and Skinner were okay.

The elevator clanged as it bounced to a stop on the first floor. The doors opened, and Mulder stepped out.

"Jim?" Blair touched his face, stroking lightly. "Jim, you okay?"

He held up his hand, signaling for Blair to wait. To let him listen.

Mulder stepped out of the elevator alone, just his footsteps moving off the carpeted floor into the foyer. Skinner didn't move from where he was braced in the corner. He barely breathed. Jim could hear his knuckles whitening as he gripped the hand rail.

"Jim?"

"Sh-h-h... they're okay. I think Walter's just having an Ellison moment."

"A what?"

"Sh-h-h."

Mulder turned, gritting a whorl into the tile with the leather sole of his shoe. //You coming?// It was a strangely unMulderlike voice, tender, without the silky, insolent jeer that usually simmered just below the surface of whatever he was saying.

//We can't do this, Mulder. Think about what you're risking.//

Oh, yeah, definitely an Ellison moment. Hanging on by just the tip of his fingernails dug into steel.

The doors started closing. Mulder slipped through just in time. //Let's see,// he teased. //Hot sex, companionship, romance, really hot sex. I am thinking about it.// He took Skinner's arm, pulled. //Come on.// But Skinner resisted.

Mulder leaned in and slid his hand to the back of Skinner's head, fingertips tracing over the smooth scalp. Down his broad back. Pulling him forward until their foreheads touched, holding him just like Blair was holding Jim.

//It's okay,// Mulder whispered. //The mermaids sing to me all the time. I'll teach you.//