TITLE: ...But Dreams Are Free - Chapter 04 - Little Willie
Won't Go Home
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk.
This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't
like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with
caution. Of course if you have four arms you can
throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: Four years after Choices Cost.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Nnnnnnnnnope.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all
other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions
and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is
intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd
rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.
But when I become king...
Author's notes:
Yeah, I know I said I wouldn't finish this...but...
If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop
If you didn't like it, come see
me, anyway. Pet the dog.
...But Dreams Are Free - Chapter 04 - Little Willie Won't Go Home
by Mik
Days of rain are always worse than days of snow. Weeks of rain can create circumstances that, in the strictest rule of law, would justify homicide.
Mulder was restless. That in itself is not a remarkable observation. He's not a tranquil person in the best of situations. He moves. He shifts. He fidgets. He paces. He does absurd things with drinking straws. He makes weapons out of folds of paper, rubber bands and paper clips. And those are the best of situations. In the less than optimum days of our waning time together, he was like a small tornado, whirling around the rooms, sometimes passing by without so much as a rustle of paper, sometimes wreaking havoc within a wide periphery. He scattered, he piled, he toppled, he moved, he sorted, he reorganized, he carried things from one room to another, started ambitious projects only to abandon them after a few hours. And in between, he moved, he shifted, he fidgeted, he paced, and did absurd and/or dangerous things with common household items and office supplies.
I found myself stepping over the wreckage everywhere; magazines, file folders, stacks of CDs, DVDs, and books, cardboard boxes half filled with all of the above. Yet, wherever I went, he was not. It felt as if I kept happening upon the scene of a crime moments after it had occurred, with the smell of gunpowder still stinging the air, but the perpetrator had already fled.
For a few days I tried
to live with the mess, hoping he'd settle down or get bored with the process and
clean up after himself. Then I thought back to the days of
Of course, despite the agitation which inspired the destruction, he never uttered a word of complaint. Now that he'd made up his mind to leave, there was no point in grumbling about the cold, the boredom, the damp, the isolation, all that combined to create his weather imposed prison. Now all he had to do was just mark days 'til his sentence ended and he was released. He managed this by not talking at all. On the rare occasion where I happened upon him, he either had a book in his hands, or a headset over his ears, or both. And a big invisible sign around his neck that read: Just Don't Ask.
If a situation demanded a word from him, it was always polite; never an edge, never a chill, nothing I could call him on. In bed, he was compliant. That's all. If I wanted to hold him, he was still in my arms...not stiff, mind. That would have indicated anger and that would initiate conversation, so if I pulled him into my arms, he came willingly, and stayed 'til I released him. If I wanted sex, he went through the motions...with just enough enthusiasm that I could not protest. And it was all very unsatisfactory.
If the situation were reversed, if I were the one leaving...say...due to terminal illness, I'd distance myself from him, I suppose, in an effort to make the departure less painful for both of us. But I believe that, like me, he'd be desperate to make every moment 'til then count. Unlike me, he would not simply accept my withdrawal. He'd fight, he'd cling, he'd follow, he'd cajole. And I would relent. I'd have to. So, like him, I refused to accept his attempt to cauterize the veins before the amputation, to ease the loss. I had to.
I started stalking him, determined to convince him that he was not only leaving a cold climate, and a place that didn't seem like home, but he was abandoning me, someone who loved him, someone he claimed to love. Every time I found him, I held him, I caressed him, kissed him, stroked him. I never spoke, just gave him gentle, physical reminders of what he had with me. It was a great plan, it just didn't get the play time it deserved.
He was hard to find, hard to touch, and it wasn't that long before we weren't alone. Agent Scully arrived on our doorstep, bag in one hand, baby carrier in the other.
Mulder had never seemed particularly interested in the miracle child. The ambiguous origins left them both without that connection parents usually give birth to simultaneously with the baby. Agent Scully could never be called anything less that a dutiful mother. She provided every physical necessity and went through every appropriate motion. She even made a rather heroic effort to love him.
Mulder, on the other hand, considered the child with clinical curiosity and little more. He had been faithful in providing for the child's material needs and comforts, but beyond that he had little or no interest in him. Upon Dana's arrival, he greeted her as if she was the Coast Guard and he was part of the cast of Lost. The child got the merest glance and a vague, "He's grown."
Dana's curious smile, and assessing gaze faltered only slightly as she took in our home. It was clear his response disappointed her. I felt compelled to show some interest. "He has grown. He's really turning into a good looking kid." I eased the carrier from her fingers. "Did you have a good drive up?"
"Traffic was a little heavy." She put her bag on the chair by the fire. "But I planned for it, so it wasn't too bad." Hands on hips, she took the place in again slowly. "Wow, this is impressive." She smiled at Mulder. "You must love it."
That surprised me. I was certain she knew exactly how much he hated the place. And if she knew that, she must know that I knew, and there would be no need for pretense.
Evidently Mulder felt there was, for he answered with a shrug. "Coffee?" he offered.
"Uhh, yeah." She looked toward the door. "I have another bag..."
"I'll get it," I said quickly. Might as well give him the privacy to set her straight on her misapprehensions.
"Coffee?" he called after me.
I nodded but didn't turn around. I didn't want to accidentally catch her expression when he told her. Moreover, I didn't want to see his. I might accidentally see excitement, eagerness or joy.
Outside, her personal vehicle, a sedan known more for safety than flash, was pulled in behind my truck. Her bag sat on the back seat. It seemed a little big for a weekend visit, and she had already brought in a bag for William, so it wasn't likely she was packing for two. It was lighter than expected, for its size, as if she was planning to bring back more than she brought. Struggling not to read more into it than might actually be there, I grabbed the bag and locked the car.
I confess, I lingered outside the front door, wondering what they were talking about, if I would interrupt some planning session if I went in unannounced. Finally, feeling foolish for loitering outside my own house, I pushed the door open. Mulder had his back to me, preparing coffee, and Dana was at the table, William's carrier before her, talking more to the baby than Mulder.
They both turned when I entered. Mulder's face was even more pinched than usual but Dana looked bright and eager. "I love your place, Sir," she said with what I want to believe was genuine enthusiasm. "It must be so peaceful here."
"It is," I said carefully, taking a surreptitious glance in Mulder's direction as I put her bag near the stairs. "Of course, there is such a thing as too peaceful."
Mulder jerked a look over his shoulder...first to me and then to Scully.
"Oh, I don't think so." She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, and sent her gaze over the room, and up to the peaked ceiling. "I could learn to like this."
"Could you teach Mulder?" I suggested, and wished in the next instant I could bite my tongue off.
She arched a brow at Mulder as he brought her a cup. "Mulder, you're not happy here?"
He was glaring at me, but he kept his voice level as he answered, "It's not that I'm not happy, I just..." he stopped. His shoulders sagged. "I hate it here."
"Mulder!" Dana looked at me anxiously, and then looked at him. "What a terrible thing to say. Oh, you're joking, aren't you?" She chuckled, tolerantly. "Of course you are."
His lip pulled back in a sneer, but he forced his expression to soften, but I couldn't say if it was for her sake, or mine. "Of course I am," he said easily, moving toward me, cup in hand. "How could I be unhappy anywhere, so long as I'm with my main guy?" He draped an arm across my shoulders and turned back to her, as if we were presenting that mythical united front. "Right?"
When I didn't immediately respond to his lie, his fingers dug into my shoulder warningly. "Right," I grunted.
It was only then Dana seemed to understand something, perhaps a fraction of his meaning. "Right," she murmured.
"Well," I said with feigned heartiness, "after that long drive, you must be hungry. What would you like? We can drive into town, or I can start supper early..."
"Oh, no...I'm fine." Now she was sending frantic eye signals to Mulder. Frantic for her. Imperceptible to everyone but those trained in MulderScully speak.
William, either sensing tension in the air or feeling he had to have his share in the conversation, let out an impatient noise that could have been an expression of pain or simply enjoying the sound of his own voice. Dana hurried back to the table, hunching over the car carrier, with a maternal sort of coo, checking for pins, moisture, or any other potential source of discomfort.
Mulder turned his head just enough that, as his eyes slid right, they met mine. There were daggers in his.
"Well," I said, breaking the embrace and bringing my cup to the table, "I insist. There's actually a decent restaurant in town. We'll have supper there."
"Yeah, if you like rustic, you'll love that place," Mulder agreed sullenly.
Agent Scully was frowning in the baby's direction, but she wasn't frowning at him. I think she was very disturbed by tension she'd encountered. "Well, maybe another night. I don't know if it's a good idea to take Will out in this weather."
I hadn't even noticed that it had begun to rain again, covering the windows with sheer grey curtains of gloom, but it seemed appropriate atmosphere under the circumstances. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry, I didn't consider that." It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night if we didn't get this out in the open immediately. If nothing else, as his closest friend, she deserved to be prepared for what now appeared inevitable. "Then I'll see what's in the pantry. Excuse me. Mulder," I called over my shoulder, "why don't you tell Dana about your exciting opportunity?"
"'Exciting opportunity'?" She looked up, her fingers unerringly continuing the autopsy of a soiled Pamper. "What sort of opportunity? Mulder?"
When I looked back, Mulder was trying to stop the conversation in its tracks with a warning glower in my direction. "It's just an enquiry," he repeated, yet again.
"Yes?" Just that one word.
But it was the stick
that broke him like a piñata; words spilled out of him like candy and scattered
on the floor between us. "I've been offered a job teaching forensic
psychology to second years at my old College at
"It sounds like a great opportunity." Dana lifted William from his carrier and draped him over her shoulder, patting gently. "But, of course, you won't accept."
There was a moment of glacial silence. I looked at him. He looked at me.
"I won't?" He looked at her.
"He won't?" I looked at her.
"Of course not," she told me, easily,
confidently. "Mulder, how can you work in
"What life?" And those words were the detritus of emotion she had tossed away.
The glacier began to melt, and we were all sinking into wet, rushing, unstable mumbling and half formed explanations. I was trying to be placating, trying to be understanding and managing to come off as a pompous jackass. Mulder was indignant and scrambling for explanations for that indignation, and managing to come off as a belligerent punk. Agent Scully was caught between us, weighing everything against her own values and desires and, quite possibly, her own maternity. How could I let him go? How could he want to go? How could we allow our life, our home to be torn up over something as stupid as a job? Why couldn't we find a compromise? Why wouldn't he give in? Why wouldn't I?
The thing she seemed to be missing, or unwilling to see, was that, until that point, we weren't angry at one another. We loved each other, we wanted the other person to be happy. We didn't want to make either one give up anything, but…now we both realized we didn't want to give up anything, either.
"I can't take it anymore," he finally exploded. "It's cold, it's muddy, it's quiet, it's twenty fucking five miles to the nearest Starbucks." His voice crept upward in both pitch and volume once that dam had burst. "The cable here sucks, internet's a crapshoot, the local newspaper is nothing but gossip, recipes and stories on the local crops, we have no neighbors for six months of the year, the road's closed almost as long and," he paused to drag in breath, loudly, "let's be honest, you can only sit out on that deck and look at the lake so long before you want to start shooting geese with your handgun just to assure yourself you haven't fallen into a Norman Rockwell painting."
Agent Scully and I stared at him when he finished, red faced, huffing, still pointing at the view of the lake, which was currently obliterated by a grey sheet of rain. Then, slowly, her eyes swung around to me, tacitly giving me my turn to rebut.
"I...had no idea you felt that way." That was a lie. I did know. He made it impossible for me to hide in ignorance. "I didn't know you felt so strongly."
"Then you're blind."
"Mulder!"
"No, no, Dana, he's right." I pulled away from the table, shaken, destroyed. He had withheld so much from me lately that when he finally opened up, it had to be violent, he had to burst, to explode, to shatter me. "I guess I have been. I didn't want to see how bad it was." I approached him, pulling him into my arms, and holding him tight. "You deserve to be happy, Mulder." I backed up, patting his shoulder. "You should go, find out if that's the thing that makes you happy. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
I climbed the stairs, feeling as if I'd assumed the weight of Atlas. Below me I could hear the clatter of a chair as Mulder staggered back into it, and Scully's remonstrative hiss, "Get up there. Go to him. Don't leave it like this."
He didn't, of course. Although I waited hours, hoping, praying, and already accepting that both were useless. I could fight for him, and he'd stay, and nothing would change. I could love him enough to let him go and maybe...maybe he'd realize he loved me enough to come home. Either way, I'd keep waiting.
When he did come up, hours later, it was to pack, wordlessly. Although he met my eyes once or twice, he would not speak, and because he would not, I could not.
And in the morning, they were both gone.
- END chapter 04 -