#poor skinner

I’d heard that laugh before. Not often, granted. She hadn’t had much to laugh about the last few years. But it was unmistakable. I tried not to turn and look, but then I heard it again, and the pull of it was irresistible. It bubbled up in her, the laugh, like she was the first person to discover joy. Clean and pure and contagious, like a baby’s laugh. And there was his laugh, a rumbly chuckle that harmonized with her high-pitched giggle. Her honest-to-God giggle. There was no other word for it.

I scanned the place casually, pretending not to. They weren’t at the tables. They weren’t in the booths. I didn’t see them anywhere, until—a glint in the short dark hallway that led to the bathrooms. Red hair. She was pressed up against the wall, looking up at him while he leaned over her. Damn if I hadn’t seen the same look on their faces before somehow in every meeting, even when they were sitting five feet away from each other in separate chairs. My field agents. Mulder and Scully.

Huh. I’d wondered for years if they were together. Maybe they had been, maybe not. They’d had that kind of way about them since day one. This was less ambiguous: in the shadows, in a bar, his arm against the wall beside her head as he tilted toward her. She tipped her head up toward him, a crystal-clear invitation. Hell, I almost ran over there and kissed her. But she wasn’t looking at me. Mulder took his sweet time closing the gap between them, but then they were kissing, in a leisurely way that suggested this was far from their first time.

Lust hit me like a punch to the gut. The way they kissed: you could feel the hunger in it from across the room. She nipped at his lower lip and he grinned. She reached out and hooked her finger through the belt loop of his jeans, pulling him closer. Her back arched as he pressed against her. He said something, his mouth skidding across her cheek to her ear. She laughed again, throatier, huskier. Aroused. Asking. He kissed her again, deeper, and it looked like a promise. His arm slipped around her waist and locked her body against his.

Fuck. I hadn’t gotten laid in way too long. I had to stop watching them. It was creating an uncomfortable situation for me in more ways than one. But after every swallow of rum and Coke, I glanced back and then away again. I couldn’t help myself. They were attractive people, that was just a fact. I’d spent too many years with them not to know that. It occurred to me that I knew what their sweat smelled like. For some reason, that didn’t help my situation. I could almost feel the friction of denim on denim, could almost smell the worn leather of his jacket and the citrusy shampoo she used to rinse away the funk of the morgue.

They might not even make it back to whichever one of their apartment was tonight’s destination. They might shift sideways until they tumbled into the bathroom. He might pick her up and fuck her against the creaky metal partition between the stalls. She might slip her fingers under his waistband right there, coolly competent, and jerk him off in the hall while he whispered promises about what he was going to do for her later, how he was going to worship her with his body. Mulder was the type, all that brooding romantic shit. He probably ate pussy like it was his religion. And I had no doubt Scully could give as good as she got. I’d known a few Catholic girls in my day.

Scully moaned. I swear I heard it from across the bar. Mulder had his hand in her hair, his other arm still around her waist. She was clutching his jacket like her knees were too wobbly to hold her up. Their kisses were faster now, a little sloppy. Six years of restraint, abandoned. I mean, goddamn, I’d seen them make a handshake look like a hard fuck. I could only imagine what they were actually getting up to in the bedroom. Or the bar bathroom. Or, and I don’t know why this hadn’t occurred to me before, their isolated basement office.

I was in trouble. I was never going to be able to look at either of them again, or go down to the basement office. It was going to smell like sex in there, regardless of what had actually happened. I could imagine what had happened, over and over, probably for the past few month. Actually, I couldn’t stop imagining it. It was a fucking shame they were my subordinates. A real fucking shame. As in, a shame I couldn’t fuck them, or at least watch.

My glass was empty. I glanced down. No way I was getting up. I tapped on the bar for another. I needed to at least shift myself somewhere less obvious. I was sitting right under a light, which was no doubt illuminating my big bald head like a full moon. The only thing I had going for me was that they were so wrapped up in each other, they didn’t seem likely to notice anyone else.

I glanced back over. Mulder had both hands under Scully’s ass. I could see his fingers flexing, kneading her ass through her jeans, maybe lifting her and spreading her cheeks so she could anticipate the way she’d open for him later. She had both arms twined around his neck, her hands in his hair. She was tonguefucking his mouth. It was all I could do not to groan into my glass. I was hard as a rock, throbbing with jealous need. I slurped the ice out of my drink and crunched it to distract myself. My hand and I were going to have a brief encounter after this, maybe in the same damn bar bathroom. Maybe another solo rendezvous when I got home, unless I found someone willing to go with me. But fuck, there was no way I’d last long enough unless I found some quick relief.

When I looked over again, they were gone. The back alley exit was still swinging closed, Scully’s laugh drifting through it one last time. At least I wouldn’t be jerking myself off in the stall next to them while they were fucking, although on second thought, that had a certain tawdry appeal. Either way, the night was over. I drained my glass and slapped a 20 on the bar to cover my tab. There were other bars in this neighborhood. Maybe I’d find a date there. This bar belonged to Mulder and Scully now. I’d never be able to come here without seeing them kissing in the shadows. Kissing and touching and moaning and that was either an unproductive line of thought or a way too productive one, depending in your point of view.