TITLE: ...But Dreams Are Free - Chapter 06 - Leave the Pieces

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 20^th 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 06 - Leave the Pieces

by Mik

Guilt makes days longer. It makes nights colder. It wrings the pleasure out of the little things you always enjoyed doing. It makes coffee bitter, and music flat. It dulls the colors of nature, and sharpens the loneliness of wilderness.

I was bathing myself in guilt. And any moment when I might let myself forget that I held another man in my arms, Agent Scully would find some way to remind me that, not only did I break my commitment to Mulder, but I tried to force another person into the murkiness of our mistakes.

Mulder never called. No tentative little note to say 'yes, I've arrived, and I think it's going to work out, and by the by, have you managed not to slit your wrists or eat your gun in your loneliness?' No message on my phone to say 'you really are a jackass, and are you even a bit sorry?' There is no Hallmark card to say 'I don't want to come back, but please tell me you miss me'. Maybe there is, but if it exists, he didn't send it to me.

Dustin called periodically, though. First it was a cool 'sorry it didn't work out'. Then there was an email, some 'If you're my friend you'll send copies...' type of cyber extortion. Then a call to let me know there was going to be an 'Irish Night' at the restaurant. I don't know where he got the idea I might be Irish, or even cared to pretend I was Irish for the sake of free beer and corned beef, but it was nice that he invited me.

And I called Agent Scully. I didn't want to. I didn't want to turn into one of those pathetic people that need to say the same words every night, and cry because nothing had changed. I didn't want to turn her into the person who had to say the same thing back every night, and point out that nothing could change until I changed. But I called her every night.

She always denied telling him what I'd done, but his silence told me he knew. She always professed surprise and disappointment that he had not contacted me, but she always did it in such a way that I felt it was my personal failure, not his. Still, I called her every night.

I guess it was my way of proving to both of us that I wouldn't even think about cheating on him again.

And then, without my noticing, without me making any gesture to mark it, it had been a month. It was snowing almost daily, the soft, silent, dark as night kind of days where the ground is gone, and the house floats in rolling white clouds with a black sky and an alien shininess of sunlight. The silence made the days longer, and the weeks go faster, which made no sense, but there it was.

Suddenly I was shopping online for gifts, and cutting down a tree to put them under. I was facing Christmas, and I was alone.

I bought gifts for Dana and the baby. And for my sister-in-law's kids. And Kim. And even for Dustin. And, yes, I bought gifts for him. And when they arrived, I wrapped them and put them under the tree. And I pretended he'd be there to unwrap them even though he didn't believe in Christmas and never once gave me a gift.

I sent out cards with pictures of the snow on the trees around the house, and cardinals in the bird feeder. I played Christmas carols over my supper preparations every night, and found a recipe for eggnog that substituted scotch for rum.

And every night, I checked my email, hoping for even something as simple as an electronic Christmas card from him, but none came.

Agent Scully agreed to come the week before Christmas so we could celebrate before she went on to her brother's. I braved the bad roads down into town to pick up a turkey, and the necessary fixings. I was leaving the market, following the boy with the box of groceries when I bumped into Dustin...or perhaps he bumped into me.

We nodded to one another in that uncomfortable way of people who disagree but must, for appearances' sake, not come to blows. He considered the contents of the box as the boy hefted it over the side of the pickup. "Having company for Christmas?" he asked politely.

There was a taunt in his eyes, but I was surprised to see that it didn't entirely disguise something almost forlorn there as well. "An old friend is coming," I explained, with a gruff cough to hide my discomfort.

"An old friend?" he mocked.

"No, not that one." I didn't mean to sound as guilty and pathetically angry as I did. "A woman who used to report to me when I was with the Bureau." I don't know why I felt compelled to tell him that, but I did. "A very nice young woman who is going to the West Coast for the actual holiday, so she'll be here next week." I tipped the box boy and he didn't hover. "Going to the City for Christmas?"

"No. I'm here for the month."

"Working at the lodge?" I leaned into the bed of the truck and secured the box and its contents with bungee cords.

"No, it's closed for the holidays." He leaned in beside me, his hands mingling with mine, gloved fingers rubbing against gloved fingers, as he helped me tie everything down. "He never came back?" he asked under his breath.

"No."

The taunt was gone, and the forlornness was clear. "I'm sorry."

I put my hand on his. "So am I."

He pulled back and stepped up on the curb again, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well...good to see you."

I nodded and pulled my keys free. I reached for the door, paused and looked back. "Come for Christmas Eve, if you're free." I climbed up behind the wheel and ground the ignition starting up and pulling away.

My face was red. It practically warmed the cab of the truck. I'd done it again. I'd flirted with, and issued an invitation to a handsome young man. I had never been flirtatious, even with women and as much as I'd hungered for Mulder the long years before, I could never bring myself to flirt with him. Our relationship was black and white, before and after, a line of demarcation where one moment I was here and he was there and we were two separate people with two separate lives, and the next we were one another's body, heart and soul.

That had certainly changed. One hears the expression that someone, in the wake of a death, or break up, that they feel as if they'd lost their right arm. I did not. I felt more like a right arm which had lost my body.

Now I was searching for a new body, and Dustin's seemed to be a good fit. I wasn't accustomed to the concept of wooing. I did not woo Sharon, I did not woo Mulder. But this young man, pretty in a masculine way, required wooing. So I had made the decision; if I did not hear from Mulder by Christmas, I intended to woo the pants off Dustin.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Agent Scully and the baby, William, arrived on schedule, despite blowing snow and the anticipated early holiday traffic. Knowing her, she'd probably planned her departure, and calculated travel time to the last snowflake. She'd always been a very capable young woman, and motherhood seemed to have heightened that capability to the nth degree. It was a pity in some ways, so much focus on detail, and not so much focus on the larger picture. She'd come to rue that, as I had done.

I gave her the tour, holding William like a bachelor uncle; awkwardly but with good intent. She approved of the tree, admiring both the Christopher Radko pieces I'd collected over the years, and the silly attempt at the Martha-Stewart-decorates-a-lumber-camp look I'd done with pinecones and juniper berries. It made her laugh when I described it thus. It made me ache, because I could hear Mulder saying it, with just the right note of wry mockery.

William seemed to approve of the packages and pre made bows, because the moment he was put down, he made a lunge for them. In short order, the gifts were up on a table, and a ring of chairs became a barricade around the tree.

We managed not to discuss Mulder that evening, even though he might as well have been with us, his presence hung that heavily between us. We listened to Christmas music, I served my eggnog, she was impressed with the meal. We talked about the Bureau, she brought me up to date on a couple of cold cases which had finally been resolved. It pricked me a little that someone else had found the perpetrator after I left, but I had to look at the larger picture and be happy that the victims would finally have closure.

We talked about her work at Quantico. She talked in firm, positive tones, listing duties and pleasures. It was a bravura performance. She wasn't going to tell me what she wanted to say, and she certainly wasn't going to tell me what I wanted most to hear.

Even after William had been put to bed, and we sat before the fire and the tree, she said nothing about him. I wanted to know he missed me, that he knew he was wrong, that he wanted to come home and needed me to call him and tell him it was all right. I would have been happy to know he was well and happy and not suffering or in need. I would have accepted even the pain of knowing he had settled into his new life, and found someone else. But she gave me nothing, not the smallest scrap.

My bed was emptier than ever that night. Just a few feet away slept the person who knew all the secrets and longings of his mind and heart, and we couldn't even talk about him. Didn't she understand? Didn't she care?

We woke late, or perhaps we never slept and just stayed in bed late to preserve our dignity. At least I did. I couldn't have her reporting back to him I couldn't sleep. I know it was childish, and I know it wouldn't change one thing about the situation, but I have my pride.

We exchanged gifts; she gave me a very fine sweater which I suspect she made herself given the way the sleeves joined just a bit too tight under the arms for comfort, though I assured her it was fine and fit perfectly. I gave her some books on child psychology, and a necklace with an angel holding a pink stone. I gave William things that were described as educational and made a lot of noise. I think it provided an advanced course in banging on tables, but he seemed happy, and the pinched look around Dana's eyes could have been evidence of a sort of revenge for holding back information about Mulder.

We put together a lunch of leftovers and talked about inconsequential things for another hour or so, and then she looked at her watch and announced she must go. I didn't regret it. I packed some sandwiches, thanked her again for the sweater and waved to them from the deck as they backed down the drive.

Even though it was still raining, and cold enough to make icicles of my breath, I couldn't think about going back inside to that emptiness, to that cold of a different scale. So...I walked. All the way down to the dock, to stare into the steel blue and black of rain roiled water. I walked back, and circled the A framed lodge that had become my prison. I ruined a good pair of suede loafers trudging around in the glue-like mud, and I'm quite sure I ruined that sweater she made me as well, I could feel it shrinking on me, drawing up, threatening to squeeze me to death, but I kept walking.

I thought about the times we had walked around this cabin after we bought it. I was so happy, he was so happy for me. I should have realized it then, that his enthusiasm had nothing to do with our future in that house, it was only that he was so pleased to see me happy about something. Whenever I made suggestions, asked for opinions about my plans for the place, his answer was always a tolerant 'Whatever you want' and an indulgent smirk.

He loved me then, I knew it and I know it now. He loved me so much at that point in our lives it never occurred to him to consider how my dreams, my future could affect him. I don't think we realize that it is both a gift and a curse when someone loves us that much. Better for us, in the larger scheme of things, for him to have been his characteristically selfish self within our private lives than to be so soppy with love that he let me knock him down with my plans.

Did it follow, then, that I loved him less? No, quite the opposite. I loved him so much I thought I could make his life perfect. I believed I was good for him. I wanted so much to be the thing that made his life whole and complete, and God help me, happy.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After Dana's visit I found myself sitting in front of my computer more and more, waiting, but I didn't know for what. Her visit was my last hope to hear from him. What reason would be left for him to open the door, invite me back in? I did, in that pathetic period, stop calling her. I stopped not because I felt betrayed, not because I no longer wanted to feel guilty, no longer wanted to hear her opinions. I stopped because the only thing I could say to her was 'Have you heard from him? Why hasn't he called?', and I would not say that. Never.

Christmas Eve arrived, and it was probably the loneliest in a life that had seen plenty of loneliness. How sad are the lights of a Christmas tree lit for no one to see? I cooked only because I hadn't eaten for a day, perhaps two. I laid out the table as if I really expected that jolly fat man to squirm down my chimney with a forensic psychologist in his bag. I put on festive music, hoping it would lift my spirits above my grief to appreciate the Season. And I sat down at the table, wine glass within my trembling fist in danger of being destroyed, while I stared across the table at the empty chair, the unfilled plate.

There was a noise outside. Not a deafening bang or the creeping of someone trying to be stealthy. Just an out of place sound. I didn't get up to look, mirthlessly deciding if it were Santa Claus he didn't need my help, and if it were one of Stephen King's characters, with an ax, he would at least break up the monotony.

"Am I late?"

I turned with a jerk, splashing wine across the table. "N-no." It wasn't a forensic psychologist poking his head around the door with a rueful smile, but at that point, even the ax murderer would have looked good, so an out of work actor/part time bartender was a nice surprise. "You're just in time. Come in, come in." I stood, sopping the wine with my napkin, flustered, trying too hard to sound hearty. "I hope you're hungry."

He came into the room, brushing snowflakes from his shoulders with one hand. "Wow. It looks good."

I shrugged faintly. "I was in a mood to cook." I moved forward, and offered him a tentative hug. "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for asking." He returned the embrace with one hand then backed up to produce a small package from behind his back. "I...didn't know what you'd like," he said sheepishly. "But I wanted to bring you something."

I was, at that moment, infinitely grateful for those hours spent shopping online. "Thank you, I'm sure I'll like it." I put it on the table and went to the tree. "I hope you will as well."

He looked stunned. He took the package and turned it over in his hands. "You got a gift for...me?" He handled the gift exactly as Mulder would have done, but with different motivation. Mulder would have been looking for some indication that the thing was going to explode when he undid the bow. Dustin just appeared to be marveling at the idea that it wasn't sealed with duct tape.

I felt anxious. "You're not Jewish or something?" Mulder always used that as an excuse for not observing Christmas even though he did not observe Chanukah either.

"Oh, no." He laughed at the notion. "Just didn't expect you to think of me."

"Oh, I did." I took the package back and set both aside. "Here. Get out of that coat. We can eat first, while it's hot."

"Sounds good." He let the jacket fall off his shoulders. "Where can I wash up?"

I pointed, and he left me, draping his jacket over the back of the chair as if it were at home there. I put the packages under the tree, marveling at the difference between the two men, and wishing that Mulder had some of the charms of this young man; the easy affection, the hopeful spirit, the giving heart, the warm proximity.

Of course, of all those charms, I would have taken the warm proximity. Forget thoughtfulness, forget gift giving, forget timely arrivals, just arrive. What the hell is wrong with me? Dustin is warm, friendly, good looking, spirited and here.

Dear God, I miss Mulder.

- END chapter 06 -