From: "Sean Spencer" <seans13@hotmail.com>
Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 23:40:09 CDT
Subject: Baccarat Piece: Meter Man by Sean Spencer
Source: direct


BACCARAT PIECE: METER MAN
By Sean Spencer
seans13@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: SRA

RATING: NC-17

KEYWORDS: Skinner/Mulder Slash

SPOILERS: Anasazi

SUMMARY: Disturbing Vineyard memories

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Bill Mulder and Tina Mulder are
the properties of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Television.
Copyright infringement is not implied or intended in their use in this
work of fiction.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Familiarity with Incipient Alliance will help in
understanding some aspects of this story.

WARNING: The NC-17 rating in this story is for the sensitive subject
matter and not from graphic description of m/m loving, consensual
sexual activity.

Special Thanks to Drovar for a thorough beta reading and Chammy for her
suggestions.

...................

Chilmark, Massachusetts
July 1977

Bill Mulder was astounded at the disarray of the Chilmark house, the
house where his ex-wife and son lived. Finding Tina in a drug-induced
haze wasn't new. But his fifteen-year-old was nowhere to be found. It
was past 9 o'clock in the evening already. The boy's Timex was atop the
bureau; Fox never left the house without the watch strapped to his
wrist. The door to the basement was ajar. For a brief minute, Bill
Mulder feared the worst. Not the boy, too, he thought.

Mulder almost stumbled down the creaky steps in his haste. Relief
washed over him upon finding the boy was asleep on the old battered
blue couch. But Bill Mulder's mouth set in a grim line. Fox was half-
naked with the distinctive scent of sex and sweat in the air.

Being an intelligent man, Bill Mulder surveyed the "crime scene", and
quietly walked around his slumbering son. There were at least three
used condoms on the bare basement floor alongside an empty tube of KY.
One didn't have to be very bright to figure out what happened here.

Mulder tapped his foot on the peeling linoleum, thinking of how to
proceed with this. Fox was growing wild in the Vineyard while Tina was
in a perpetual drugged stupor. It remained for Bill Mulder to verify
whom Fox's sexual partner or, God forbid, partners were.

He did the logical thing. He reached over to the boy's shoulder and
shook him roughly awake.

"Fox, wake up," he said.

The boy stirred then ran the back of his hand against his mouth. Bill
Mulder grasped his son's thin shoulder and squeezed once more. This
time, Fox woke up with a start and looked wildly around the basement.
The boy gasped then covered himself as best he could.

"Who were you with?" Bill Mulder asked. He hunkered down. "The truth,
Fox. Was it some girl?"

The moment's hesitation and indecision on the boy's face was telling.
He drew himself up from the couch, keeping his jeans on his lap.

"Yes." Fox answered.

"The truth, Fox." Bill Mulder knew when the boy lied and he certainly
was lying now. Mulder reached for the empty tube of KY and shook it at
Fox. "Was it a boy? Was it?!" Then Bill Mulder's feeling of dread
caught up with him.

"Yes, sir." Fox hung his head. Bill Mulder closed his eyes for a brief
second as his worst fears were confirmed. He wasn't aware of his hand
tightening on the boy's shoulder.

"Tell me who he is, Fox. He can go to jail if he's much older than you
are. Were you raped?" Did the boy know what rape was? "Did he force you
to do dirty things with him?" Mulder couldn't believe he was asking his
son such questions. His raised voice echoed in the basement. Damn Tina
for not paying attention! "Who is he, Fox? Who?!"

"No one forced me to do anything! It wasn't rape!" The boy's voice
cracked in defiance.

They were screaming at each other but Tina two floors above couldn't
even hear this. Bill Mulder felt an icy calm settle over him. He took a
deep breath. "I can ask around, boy. If you won't tell me who it is,
I'll send both of you to jail!"

The boy's bravado started to crumble with his eyes darting from side to
side as the consequences of his actions started to sink in. Bill Mulder
hated himself for the trapped look on Fox's face. Mulder hated himself
for the way his voice had lowered and grown cold. He was threatening
his own son, his own child. But it was the only way he knew to get
answers from the boy.

"Fox, who was it? Who were you with?"

"It was...the meter man." Fox's lower lip shook. Bill Mulder raised his
eyes to the ceiling. Then counted to ten. For some reason, a bizarre
memory popped into his head. This present tableau of Fox with clothes
and hair in disarray reminded Mulder of his son as a toddler learning
how to dress himself.

Despite his best efforts, a blinding rage overcame him. Mulder bodily
hauled the boy from the couch and marched him upstairs and into the
shower.

"Clean yourself up," Bill Mulder brusquely said, turning the water on
cold.

While Fox yelped in the bathroom under the frigid spray, Mulder packed
a suitcase. As he went through the boy's clothes and chose a few items,
thoughts raced through Mulder's head. Statutory rape. Fox was only
fifteen while this meter man was an adult. But if he and Tina filed
charges, the boy would be dogged forever by this. The local Vineyard
population was tiny and given to gossip.

"Get dressed, I'm taking you with me," Bill Mulder said when the boy
returned to his room.

Fox looked so scared and lost that Mulder relented and his voice
softened. He almost, almost put his hand over the boy's slumped head.
But his arm dropped uselessly at his side. "I'll figure something out.
Hurry up."

Mulder chose to keep silent during the drive to catch the last ferry
Vineyard Haven, lest he say something he'd regret. Besides, he and his
son never talked much after Samantha disappeared. Mulder's bad temper
didn't improve with peak summer traffic to and from the Vineyard. He
took the time to mull over the options available to him for Fox's
behalf as they made their way to Boston.

..........................................

No words were ever said about what was found in the basement at home.
It was near midnight in Dad's Boston townhouse where Fox huddled under
the blanket on the couch. He did something so wicked and dirty that it
was unmentionable.

Fox's throat tightened as his mind endlessly replayed the scene of
being found out. A tear trickled out of the corner of his eye. He never
knew that the past few weeks' activities could land him and the meter
man in jail. He heard Dad on the phone, talking rapidly to someone.
Then Fox shuddered when he heard Dad yelling at Mom by long distance.
Now Mom knew what a wicked son she had. Fox squeezed his eyes shut,
trying to stem the flow of tears. He pulled the blanket over his head
and placed the throw pillow over his ears to shut out Dad's angry
voice.

After a near sleepless night for Fox, they drove to Rhode Island the
next day. Dad still kept mum about everything and resisted any of Fox's
awkward attempts at conversation. Just a few miles from the
summerhouse, Dad slowed down the car then eased off the country road.
Bill Mulder came to a full stop beside a low building. From the sign on
the wall, it was a doctor's office.

"I want to make sure you didn't catch the clap from the guy screwing
you," Dad said with a bored tone in his voice as he shut off the
engine.

Fox was speechless. He'd never heard his dad talk that way, using those
words. He went rigid with shame. He clumsily stepped out of the Ford.
With a firm hand on his shoulder, Dad shoved him through the door of
the clinic.

A nameless doctor took care of things, obtaining specimens from him
then he was given a painful shot on his butt. He was then led to a dark
room and told to wait.

..................

"He'll forget his summer fling," Goldstein gratefully puffed a
cigarette Mulder offered him. Both of them were in the parking lot. The
surrounding trees served to disguise the extensive medical complex
right under their feet. "Kids these days...getting into all sorts. I
tell you it's those hippies back in the sixties. We're seeing the
results of it today, all their talk of free love and utter nonsense."

"Call me if any of the cultures or tests turn positive," Bill Mulder
muttered angrily as he threw his own cigarette butt to the ground and
heeled it to bits. The meter man was going to pay; Mulder was already
thinking of ways to avenge for what happened to Fox.

"Tell him his ass hurts from an infection he got from the toilet seat
in the Y," Goldstein inhaled some more then blew off the smoke. "He'll
buy it. Keep the facts consistent.

"Remember," the doctor continued, "he'll have nightmares from the
mindwipe for at least a week. He needs lots of sleep for the false
memories to integrate. Make him take the hypnotics and don't forget the
fluids. The last thing we want is dehydration."

Mulder looked up and put on an artificial smile when a pale Fox was
wheeled out to the parking lot.

"How are you, Fox?" he asked with false cheer helping the boy into the
car. Fox curled up into a heap into the backseat.

"My head hurts," the boy said faintly. "I want to go home, Daddy."

"We're going to the summer house for a few days, Fox," Mulder said. He
winked at Goldstein and waved him a goodbye. "You look peaked and the
air will be good for you."

..................................

At the isolated summerhouse, Dad helped him into his own bed, instead
of the loft upstairs. In his disoriented state, he wouldn't have been
able to climb the ladder without falling over. He really, really wanted
to go home to the Vineyard, back in his own bed. However, Dad would get
miffed if he asked for Mom. Things were sure hairy since the divorce.

Fox couldn't understand why he kept dreaming of someone heavy over him
and kissing him. Someone without a face. The sinister dreams were
mixing up in his mind. Once in a while, Dad would wake him up to make
him drink a pill with juice.

More than once, he woke up with his underwear wet and sticky. His wet
dreams had never been this frequent. Each time it happened, he shakily
changed his underwear and shoved the messed up one inside his bag. The
next three days passed in a blur; all he could remember was the
pounding headache and the occasional nausea. Gradually, the headaches
and wet dreams subsided.

Once he was better and was finally aware of things around him, Fox grew
worried. The mornings had a faint chill and when he checked with Dad,
he was startled to find that August was nearly over. How come it was
almost fall? Did he miss the whole summer?

He tentatively tried to find out about his memory loss. Dad wasn't
someone you could ask such things. Fox was scared that it was something
like what happened when Samantha disappeared.

"You've been sick the whole summer," was the only thing Bill Mulder
told him. "I brought you to Quanochautog to recover."

Sometimes they played cards, but most of the time, Fox rested. He
reread his old Hardy boys and Jack London books, the only books in the
summerhouse. He still needed lots of sleep and Dad kept reminding him
to drink gallons of juice.

Once he returned to the Vineyard a week later, Fox found Mom was well
again. She only had a few "bad" days, instead of "bad" weeks or months.
He now had Samantha's room and he had a whole new bedroom set. Mom said
he needed a bigger room with him almost grown.

For some reason, Fox avoided going down the basement. But he went down
once and found that the basement was cleaned out, entirely empty. His
mom had done a late but very thorough spring-cleaning.

His new room was better. It was bigger and had a large window. This
late in summer with the weather still warm at noon, he had a great view
of sailboats on the Sound when he sat at his new desk. Everything
matched: his desk, his new bureau, his headboard and the chest at the
foot of the bed. The thick blue rug on the floor had an interesting
pattern. It was a perfect boy's room, like from the Sears Roebuck
catalog that he and Sam used to pore over on lazy rainy days. His old
toys and stuff were relegated to the closet in his old room.

It should have been perfect, but the sense of unease pervaded
everything. Mom said he was a big boy now and was going to be senior in
the fall. Still, she followed him everywhere, always asking where he
was going and with whom. It drove him nuts how she kept reminding him
to be home by the time the streetlights were on. It was a strange
curfew for a fifteen-year-old. Dad called every evening at eight, even
when they had nothing to say to each other.

Dad was almost religious in taking him to Boston on weekends, unlike
before he got sick. Dad and Mom talked to each other in low whispers
when Dad came to pick him up for the weekend. He could hear them
through the walls. But when he'd come out of his room, they would
abruptly stop talking. Fox couldn't shake off the impression that they
were talking about him, about some secret. Were Mom and Dad spying on
him?

He must have been very ill this summer that they took extra special
care of him like he was wrapped in cotton wool.

Some nights, the bad nightmares plagued him, snatches of someone's
large bulk looming over him. He always woke up from those dreams with
wet pajama bottoms, but the nightmares became less and less then
disappeared altogether when he started his senior year.

....................

November 1995

"Uuhhnnhh!!!" Mulder abruptly sat up in bed. He took stock of where he
was. It was past midnight. Skinner was asleep beside him in bed and
hadn't noticed he'd awakened.

Mulder couldn't remember the nightmare. It wasn't the Samantha dreams.
There was something dark and sinister and he vaguely remembered someone
sweaty and heavy over him.

But what made him shiver was the phrase he heard, someone's choked
baritone and Mulder distinctly remembered "virgin boy". Skinner was the
only one who ever called him that, and the AD only said it once a few
months back. The nightmare voice certainly wasn't Skinner's.

Mulder shivered again and got up to get a drink of water from the tap.
He splashed a little water over his face and went back to bed. The bed
sheets had cooled in his absence. But as he slipped in beside his lover
and spooned up against the AD's slumbering body, the older man's
comforting bulk of muscle was akin to a large blanket of warmth and
security. Mulder drew closer, slipping an arm under Skinner's own until
his questing hand encountered the pacifying sensation of the warm mat
of hair on his lover's chest. Try as he might, Mulder only recalled
faint and fleeting impressions that wouldn't gel into coherent form.

He woke up a couple of hours later with the exact same nightmare and
accompanying sensation. This time, he woke with a cry and disturbed
Skinner's sleep.

"What is it, Fox?"

"A nightmare...again," Mulder said embarrassed. "It's nothing."

Mulder felt the mattress dip as Skinner turned on the bed and faced
him. The AD's hand trailed along his bare shoulder in the darkness and
finally cupped Mulder's face in his hands. Skinner shifted some more,
and Mulder felt his lover's face very close to his own, the sweet
breath on his lips.

"Are you sure?" the AD murmured sleepily.

"Yeah, its...nothing really," Mulder said as he grasped Skinner's hands
and pulled them away from his face, then gently kissed each palm. "Go
back to sleep," he whispered.

.............................

Skinner woke up the next morning to find Mulder squirming beside him.
It had been another restless night, another night of nightmares. It was
Sunday, only six o'clock, but there was no way that Skinner would be
able to sleep again. He glanced with concern at Mulder, who was buried
under the sweaty tangle of sheets.

The X-files team hadn't investigated any stressful cases lately. The
last few weeks involved the pursuit of missing persons but Skinner knew
that there were no mutilated bodies or anything horrific like that.

But then again, when were the pressures in their lives ever relieved?
Law enforcement was stressful enough. This relationship was stressful,
too. They constantly had to think of their moves when they were
together.

Skinner pursed his lips in concern when Mulder twitched again. The AD
rubbed his hand over his own face for a minute. Then he sighed then
gently untangled the sheets from his sleeping lover. Mulder already lay
on his front, which made it easier. Ever so carefully, Skinner drew
nearer and lay on his own side with his head resting on his hand. He
ran his other palm lightly over the smooth skin on Mulder's bare back
in even long strokes, soothing the bunched muscles of his lover's broad
swimmer's shoulders. Skinner's backrub had the desired effect because
within a few short minutes, the younger man seemed to sink into a calm,
dreamless sleep.

..........................


"Sir, can I have a minute with you?"

Skinner turned around and saw Agent Mulder a few feet away.
Fortunately, the office hallway was empty, save for the two of them.
They drew off to one side. The AD could tell this wasn't going to be
about work.

"I'm skipping the cabin this weekend," Mulder explained.

"Other plans? A hot date?" Skinner asked with a straight face.

"Dad's lawyer called," Mulder said, completely serious. "I have to go
over his things so his estate could be finalized."

Skinner's frowned. With Bill Mulder already dead six months, it was
high time for Mulder to perform this final act of farewell.

"If it's okay with you, I'd like to be there." Skinner lowered his
voice. "Unless...that is, unless you don't want to or you don't want
your old neighbors to see us together."

"No, I don't care about the neighbors. " Mulder paused. Skinner relaxed
at the visible relief his lover exhibited. "Yes, I'd like it if you
could come, too"

They took turns driving that weekend. Mulder informed him that they
could make it in less than four hours since it's off-season. Mulder had
the first leg, taking the fastest route to the Vineyard. The agent
occasionally pointed at interesting spots along the way. They made good
time with Mulder's driving. They stopped at a HoJo's near one of the
expressways. The restaurant was packed to the gills with weekend
travelers, but they were able to find an empty booth. Mulder brightened
when the cheery waitress informed him they still served breakfast.

"Big Breakfast Two," Mulder said without looking at the menu. "Make it
scrambled, and lots of coffee."

"I'll have the Irish oatmeal and orange juice."

Mulder was restless as they waited for the food. He tapped the utensils
continuously against the table, irritating Skinner enough that he had
to reach across to still Mulder's hand.

"You okay?"

"Quit asking me that! You and Scully keep asking me if I'm okay when I
have to deal with my family," Mulder scowled, but his grip on the fork
and knife didn't lighten. "I'm starving, that's all."

Skinner backed off. He and Scully had this tendency to hover over
Mulder when he was stressed out. There was something about the younger
man that just invited such concern. But isn't that what lovers or good
friends are for--to stay by one's side in times of need?

The AD sipped at his glass of orange juice and just managed not to spew
juice over the table when the waitress finally arrived with their
order. Big Breakfast indeed. Mulder literally had a platter before him,
not just a plate, filled with bacon, eggs, hash browns, sausages and
toast. Cholesterol city. Well, at least he still has his appetite.

Sure enough, Mulder wolfed down his Big Breakfast, leaving a clean
plate. Skinner teased and asked for a strip of bacon, which Mulder only
gave up grudgingly. The AD had to shake his head over that one. It was
obvious that Mulder's nervous energy allowed him to eat so much without
gaining a pound.

On the second leg of the trip, it was Skinner's turn to drive. The AD
glanced over at his suddenly silent lover. Mulder didn't even complain
about the music from the car radio. A lot of mutual ribbing usually
went on when they argued over what music to listen to, especially on
long car trips. But not today. Maybe Mulder was bracing himself.
Skinner realized Mulder was going to undergo a rite of passage for
anyone whose parent had died. It was doubly painful if one had to go
through a parent's things alone.

"I tried to do this a few months back." It was almost a mumble.

"Excuse me?" Skinner turned down the jazz music from the radio, while
navigating through the smooth traffic on I95. Mulder had his head
tossed back against the headrest with his eyes closed.

"I went back to West Tisbury five months ago," Mulder repeated. "I was
supposed to do this then."

Five months ago. When they were each alone on a raft, drifting apart,
courtesy of the dead son of a bitch. Skinner's grip tightened on the
wheel.

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know," Mulder said wearily. "I couldn't make myself go through
the front door. I remembered how he died. We're always dealing with
people whose relatives die violently. We know what words to say; hell,
they taught us that in Quantico. But it's different, you know, when it
happens to yourself.

"I can still remember the sound of the of the gunshot. All the
blood...and his brains..."

Mulder's voice abruptly caught. Skinner glanced over at the younger
man. Skinner briefly touched the back of Mulder's neck just to reassure
him.

"I mean, for someone like me, a gunshot to the head is no big deal,"
Mulder's voice was a monotone. "I've seen enough mutilations to last me
a lifetime. I even eat in the morgue when Scully does an autopsy. I
don't know...he hurt me, he hurt Mom and he hurt us. And all along he
knew about Samantha and heaped the blame on me. But I still feel like
shit every time I think of how he died."

"You're supposed to feel like shit when your father dies," Skinner
stated. Mulder remained silent.

.......................

They crossed Sagamore bridge and arrived just in time for the noon
ferry at Wood's Hole. With the Cape choppy and gray plus thickening
clouds above, the trip was rough, leaving Mulder queasy and moody by
the time they reached the Vineyard. Skinner was pleasantly surprised at
the gingerbread bed and breakfast inn Mulder chose for their stay. No
mere Holiday Inn for this trip. They were led to the Captain's Room
where their separate rooms were connected by an oak-paneled living
room.

The gray weather with Mulder's morose mood took a turn for the worse,
however, when they neared Bill Mulder's West Tisbury home. Although the
house wasn't in any way rundown, or anything visibly broken, six months
without an occupant already gave it a neglected air.

It was a house not much different from the neighbors: set on a small
hill, white clapboard sidings, dark roof, and a wide wraparound porch
so common in the area. As they went up the overgrown walkway, Mulder
remembered the hours he'd spent as a teenager on weekends here when his
father gave him a list of chores to do. Mowing the lawn was no problem;
what got to him was he had to do the weeds, too, which he hated.
Shoveling snow was okay, too, because it meant a couple of hours away
from the enforced "togetherness" of a custody weekend.

The wicker furniture on the porch was cracked from being out here in
the late dry, fall weather. Ancient leaves crackled underfoot as they
stepped on the porch. Mulder drew a deep breath before opening the
front door with the key from his wallet.

His jaw set as his nose encountered the interior's musty air. He
switched on the lights. Skinner visibly started as Mulder stiffened.

Bloody handprints, now blackened by time were all over the light switch
at the wall opposite them. Mulder's handprints with his father's blood.
The agent froze for a long minute. The vision of his father's blood
abruptly pulled him back to the drug-induced turmoil of that night. It
took all his control not to shudder.

"I didn't have it cleaned," Mulder explained tonelessly. He forced
himself to look at the blood. A blackened trail of gore marred the
hardwood floor. Mulder remembered his anguish and the way his voice had
cracked when he called Scully. He remembered his father's last words,
the way Dad's ravaged scalp had flapped loosely against his own
bloodied hands and arms. "You know how crazy things were when he died."

Mulder tried to pull away when Skinner drew him into a brief hug. But
he couldn't keep away from his lover's comforting touch. He softened
against the older man until his sense of unease lessened.

"Where do you want to start?"

The older man was militarily efficient. They went through a room at a
time, first hauling out the remnants of Bill Mulder's life from drawers
and closets. Then Mulder chose which things to keep. He was dreading
what he would find.

He was ambivalent over what to do if he found anything related to
secret government projects. He craved such information on the whole,
but at the same time, he didn't want anything more to mar the already
tainted memories of his father.

Fortunately, Bill Mulder was never a packrat, unlike Mom. This West
Tisbury house was Bill Mulder's weekend retreat from Boston. No
startling revelations awaited him as he went through his father's
things. Whatever secrets Bill Mulder had, he carried them to his grave.
Except for photographs of his family in the living room, taken when
they were still a real family, there wasn't much evidence that his
father had a wife and children.

.....................................

Once in a while, Skinner surreptitiously looked over his shoulder to
see how Mulder was doing. But there were no major upsets today. The
younger man would occasionally comment about a memento. Skinner was
disturbed when he saw that Mulder was targeting most of his father's
things for the junk pile.

"Hey, don't you want that?" Skinner cautioned when Bill Mulder's
college diploma was placed on the pile for things to be thrown away.

"Why? I know where he went to college, isn't that enough?"

"But..." Skinner's voice trailed away awkwardly. Who was he to say what
Mulder should and shouldn't keep?

"Look, Walter," Mulder said in a low voice. "I hardly knew him, okay? I
don't know what was important to him, so it's difficult to choose."

Skinner shrugged and patted Mulder on the back. With the agent throwing
away most of the things, it was easy going.

...............................

The only room left was the basement. Skinner stepped out for a minute,
his arms easily lifting a heavy box out to the front yard. Mulder stood
by the basement door. He held the knob then pulled back once again. An
echo of excitement then shame washed over him. The jumble of feelings
was enough to make him disoriented. It was a brief sensation, so brief
that he couldn't even identify what he felt. Maybe it was residual
nausea after that ferry ride.

"If Dad put it down there, it's probably useless," Mulder loudly
announced, more for his benefit than for Skinner's. He resolved to go
through the basement as fast as he could. They hauled out all of the
old boxes and junk. Under the dim basement light, Mulder suddenly
ceased moving when he spied the battered couch in one dark corner.

It was just a flash of memory, but Mulder knew exactly how the nubby
material felt against his bare butt. And the way it scratched on the
back of his bare thighs. And the way it smelled. It was a disturbing
sensation. Why would he remember that? Mulder shook his head yet again.

"Hey, babes, you okay?" Skinner found Mulder running his hand over one
arm of the battered blue couch. "Fox?"

"Huh?" Mulder's head cleared. "What?"

"You...okay?" Skinner was embarrassed at asking again.

"I'm fine," Mulder said with irritation. He jerkily stuffed more boxes
and carried them up the basement steps.

"We're almost finished down there," Mulder called from the top steps.
"I'll start in the kitchen. Walter, could you finish up in the
basement?"

Without waiting for his lover's reply, Mulder moved to the kitchen. He
brushed the memory aside. He had a good memory, an excellent memory. He
remembered almost everything since he was a little kid. Samantha's
abduction was the only glaring gap that he was aware of. So what was it
about the couch that made him so uncomfortable?

As he cleared the kitchen, Mulder tried to recall anything more
specific from the tactile memory. But try as he might, nothing more
definite was revealed to him.

..................................

It was late afternoon when Bill Mulder's things were either in garbage
bags for the local collection or in the two boxes Fox chose to keep.
Another box was set for Goodwill. Mulder took a final look around the
house, going from room to room. He locked up the house and helped
Skinner load the car.

"Fox? Fox Mulder?"

Skinner looked up and found a man by the gate. He estimated the man to
be in his late fifties or early sixties, graying with a non too clean
T-shirt and worn chinos. He wasn't exactly unkempt but he didn't look
like he took care of himself too well either. Skinner could tell by
Mulder's blank face that he didn't recognize the stranger.

"Yes?" Mulder acknowledged the old man politely.

"It's Tom...I'm Tom." The man acted as though Mulder should know him.
"Last time I saw you, you were fifteen, weren't you? You've filled out
well."

Skinner's sixth sense kicked in. He didn't like the old man even if he
seemed harmless. But this Tom person was looking at Mulder a little too
closely, as if devouring him. To assuage himself, Skinner moved a
little closer to his lover.

"I-I'm not...I don't really remember you. I'm sorry."

"I lived in this area all my life. Used to see you around. You were a
kid last time I saw you. How old are you now?"

"Older than fifteen," was Mulder's terse answer.

"I'm Walter Skinner," the AD shook the old man's hand hastily. He put
himself between Mulder and the stranger. "Fox's...friend. I'm helping
him clear up his dad's house."

"You're more than his friend, ain't 'cha?" Tom stated matter-of-factly.
Skinner hastily dropped the man's hand from his grasp. Mulder froze
where he stood. "You're Fox's man. Nice to see you after all these
years, Fox. See you around."

"You know him?" Skinner asked incredulously as they watched Tom's limp
away.

"No," Mulder shook his head.

The big pile of garbage bags was placed as neatly as possible by Bill
Mulder's fence. Mulder sealed up the house. He'd have to arrange for a
cleaning service to make the place presentable for buyers.

"Ready, Fox?" Skinner stood outside the porch as Mulder finally closed
the West Tisbury house for the last time.

"Yes."

Skinner clapped his lover on the back then squeezed his shoulder. The
gesture was sufficiently buddy-like so as not to arouse suspicions with
the neighbors. But Tom, whoever he was, knew they were more than just
pals. Why?

"Walter, thanks for helping me out here."

"No problem. Maybe we can do something touristy tonight. I never knew
this was such a pretty place, you know, where you grew up."

"Yeah, the Vineyard is great. It's where 50% of my family disappeared
or got killed. Let's get out of here," Mulder finished. He hopped into
the car. Skinner followed.

Mulder drove like a wild man, tackling the hilly terrain up-island to
Chilmark like a motocross event. They stopped briefly at Gay's Head,
the strangely-named lighthouse at the southern end of the Vineyard. All
in all, it was like they were the only ones taking in the sights at
this time of year.

............................

Skinner woke up at dawn the next morning. They hadn't made love last
night, with Mulder too emotionally exhausted after clearing out his
father's house. The younger man had been skittish the moment they were
down in the dim basement, and the strange old man's appearance only
worsened Mulder's mood. The agent had been decidedly jumpy throughout
dinner. Skinner had been upset, too. Yesterday was an unpleasant
reminder of having done the same chore, clearing up his mother's things
less than three years ago.

Skinner dressed hastily. They had to leave before noon if they wanted
to catch the ferry. However, the AD wanted a few more glimpses of a
fading Americana before they left. Having been to almost all fifty
states in the course of his work as a field agent, Skinner liked to
capture the essence of a place in his mind. He didn't want to fall into
the trap that plagued other people who went on countless business
trips: of thinking that one town or city is just like the next one.

The air was brisk in the morning haze. The mournful sound from a
foghorn could be heard in the distance. Skinner's steps on the gravel
path leading to the boats echoed loudly in the thick air. The skin on
his neck crawled when he turned around. Someone all too familiar was
sitting by the bench near the docks. Despite his instincts to avoid the
man, Skinner felt strangely drawn to him.

"See you're a morning person, too," Tom nodded.

"What do you want?" Skinner challenged him.

"I don't want anything," Tom said expansively. "I take morning walks
just like you. I need to improve the circulation in my bum leg. He
loves being fucked up the ass, don't he? Deep, he likes it."

"Fuck you!" Skinner saw red. He had the man's collar in his large fist
before he realized what he was doing. "You little shit!"

Then with growing horror as comprehension dawned, everything fell into
place. Skinner's grip on the filthy man's collar tightened. He only
stopped when he heard the man wheezing. Tom coughed and bent over as he
fought to catch his breath.

"He doesn't remember! Fox doesn't!" Tom gasped out.

"What did you do to him?" Skinner hissed. No one was around in this
early hour. Even the docks were devoid of people.

"I fucked him, I fucked him good when he was a kid," Tom straightened
and Skinner's fist drew back to punch the guy in the face.

"If you hit me one more time, Skinner," Tom threatened, "I'll press
charges. You don't want Fox to remember what we did. Mulder said Fox
doesn't remember. He did something to make Fox forget about me. I kept
my promise to Mulder. I never touched his boy again."

For a minute, confusion added to Skinner's turmoil and rage especially
with Tom's statements about "Mulder" and "Fox".

"After that summer, he don't remember me at all. One thing about Fox,
he has a good memory. But you saw him at West Tisbury, he can't place
me. His dad did a good job, making him forget." Tom limped away, taking
advantage of Skinner's bewilderment.

Skinner stood trembling with rage on the hotel's lawn until the man
with his uneven gait faded in the distance. The AD had to take a seat
on the very bench where Tom had sat. He debated with himself about what
to do. Skinner didn't even have to think about it for a long time. He
purposefully strode back to the hotel and up to his room.

He found Mulder in his boxers toweling his hair dry. Beads of water
stood out on his lover's skin, lending a sheen to his body.

"Fox, let's make love," Skinner growled. He threw the towel aside and
aggressively kissed Mulder. He wanted more than anything to blot out
the knowledge of Tom's conversation; he wanted to reaffirm his position
of being the only man in Mulder's life.

"Walter...whaat?" Mulder chuckled when they tumbled awkwardly on the
bed. Skinner tugged down the fresh pair of boxers from his hips. The
younger man laughed in surprise then gasped when Skinner took him in
his mouth.

.......................

Skinner's intensity was breathtaking. The more Mulder moaned and
panted, the more Skinner took their excitement up another notch.

"You're mine, aren't you, Fox?" Skinner's eyes bored into Mulder's. The
corners of the AD's mouth glistened with Mulder's come quite visible to
the younger man in the morning sunlight.

"Yes, of course...ahhh...Walter, yes!"

"Am I yours?"

"Walter, you're mine." Mulder sensed how important this was for the
older man for whatever reason. They continued to sweat and strain
against each other. The love between them throbbed and swelled. They
gasped and grunted, the bed creaking incessantly as their excitement
blossomed. Then Skinner peaked.

"You're mine," Skinner murmured repeatedly as he kissed Mulder fiercely
as he withdrew his spent member. Mulder gave a throaty groan of assent.

..............................

It was a month before Skinner got up the nerve to ask about Tom. Mulder
definitely had no memory of him. But as Skinner probed about Mulder's
summer in his fifteenth year, the younger man only had vague
recollections of being ill for at least a week. He never associated his
unease about the blue couch with Tom.

The West Tisbury house remained on the market for a long time.
Potential buyers recoiled in shock when they discovered that a man had
died violently there by gunshot. It was more than six months later
before a yuppie dismissed the house's bad karma, desperate in his own
way to get a Vineyard property by hook or by crook.

"Dad was there, in Quanochautog," Mulder reminisced as he lay in bed
beside his lover on a late night, a night when all his defenses were
down and he could talk about some painful segment of his boyhood. The
deal for Bill Mulder's house was closed just that afternoon. "Why
wasn't Mom there? Dad was there the whole time."

"Maybe he had his own way of taking care of you." Skinner felt slightly
ill with the knowledge that he himself was suppressing to his deepest
recesses. Never was he going to tell Mulder what he knew about Tom.
Never.

Mulder had promised himself he was never going to set foot on the
Vineyard again, not if he could help it. That afternoon, he had handed
the keys to the real estate agent with a flourish, his mood light
hearted as if a great burden had been lifted.

END OF BACCARAT PIECE: METER MAN

Feedback highly appreciated! seans13@hotmail.com

BFU:http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dimension/1367/index.html

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"A beacon in the night."
Mulder in reference to Skinner
Nisei
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