TITLE: Give Me Flowers While I'm Living
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. Not suitable for children, Baptists or Republicans.
SUMMARY: You can't plan for the future when the present is stuck in the past.
ARCHIVE: This story belongs to Lori, or as she is affectionately known around here...Nonny.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
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 personally think Chris Carter, et al, should just give them to me, since they're not using them anymore, and anyway, I treat them much, much better, but there you are.

Author's notes: This story was commissioned by Lori, who made a donation to the Red Cross Katrina Disaster Relief Fund. Thank you.

Give Me Flowers While I'm Living by Mik

There should be a law which requires it to rain on the day of a funeral. There is something intrinsically wrong with laying a man into the ground for all time while the sun is shining and birds fill the bright air with cheery song. On days such as that, children should be on swings, and playing baseball and flying kites, not putting flowers on a wooden box and being told to say goodbye to Daddy.

I'd known Maxwell Hollander fourteen years. I'd eaten meals at his table. I had given gifts to his children. I had not always agreed with him, but I respected him as an agent and as a man and I resented that he was dead. Perhaps I resented the reason he was dead. No hero's death for him, he was simply one random death in a dozen shot on a street corner, filling his car for the weekend. My only satisfaction was that the man who shot him was already moldering in his own wooden box.

He would be gratified, I thought, at the turnout for his funeral. Over a hundred agents at all levels were there. Friends and family from around the country were there to offer comfort to his wife, to his children. An honor guard was there to offer her the flag that had draped his coffin. There were pipes to play him off to Heaven. And then, it was over, and we all filed by to murmur something kind and pat the gloved, trembling hands of his widow.

As I walked back toward my car, I saw him standing just off to my left, and I felt a twist inside me. He was staring down to the thinning crowd around the open grave, his jaw set so hard it looked as if his face might crack. He did not acknowledge me as I passed. I went on to my car feeling a little heavier than I had felt before.

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I had settled in with a bucket of ice and a bottle of Scotch to contemplate the gross injustices of life when, as I raised my glass in the first of what was to be many salutes to Max's memory, my mobile rang. I thought about ignoring it. I was off duty, I was mildly (to put it mildly) embittered by recent events, I was alone and not by design, so there was not one compelling reason for me to respond to the demands of a piece of technology I could toss out a window with absolutely no effort on my part.

But it is not in my nature to ignore things; I stand when I hear the National Anthem, I bow my head in prayer, my chest swells with hope every March when I hear that first guttural 'Play ball!', and I answer my telephone when it rings. "Skinner."

"Assistant Director Skinner, I'm so sorry to disturb you tonight." Her voice was soft, her tone regretful. "I know this was a difficult day for you."

"What is it, Agent Scully?" At her first syllable I was already putting the glass down and self-consciously rising to tuck my shirt into my trousers. "What's wrong?"

"You know I would never involve you in a personal matter, Sir. It's just..."

"Yes?" I prodded. There was only one reason she would call me. My blood pressure was starting to climb. "What is it, Agent?"

"It's Agent Mulder, Sir," she said, as if neither one of us knew that would be the only reason for her to call. "He's not..."

I hated those verbal ellipses she was so fond of using. "He's not what?"

"Not himself, Sir," she blurted.

"Agent Scully," I said, exasperated, "when is he ever himself?"

"Yes, Sir." She waited a moment. "He appears to be inebriated, Sir."

Well, good on him, I thought, he's a few steps ahead of me. "Is he attempting to drive? Operate heavy machinery? Perform heart surgery? Does he have easy access to his weapon?"

"No, Sir."

"Then let him be, Agent Scully, let him be. Let him get fried, spiffed, toasted, skinned, lit, plastered, even...dare I say it? shitfaced. So long as he's not endangering himself or others, it is no concern of mine. Or yours," I added reproachfully.

"Sir," again she hesitated, "it might be a concern of yours."

I admit, at that moment, it was damn close to impossible to remain impassive. "How is that, Agent Scully?"

"He's making remarks, Sir." She paused and I could tell she did not wish to continue.

"Remarks, Agent?"

"Yes, Sir. Somewhat inflammatory in nature."

"Indeed." I didn't ask. I would not. I refused to.

"Yes, Sir. Regarding you, Sir."

I should have seen this coming after the look he had given me at the cemetery. I sighed, as if to convey how very tiresome I found the situation. "Where is he?"

"He's at home, now, Sir. I drove him home."

Well, what do you want? I thought, a fucking medal? "I'm on my way."

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Agent Scully, still in the black arrangement she had worn to the funeral, was standing outside number forty two, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, almost as if she was trying to contain something that threatened to explode out of her like the alien from John Hurt's chest. I opened my mouth to ask her why she wasn't inside, trying to siphon caffeine into any cooperative orifice, when a sound exploded from within the apartment instead.

Singing.

Either that or John Hurt was reliving his death scene on the other side of that door. "But the way things seem to go, you might leave me any day."

I looked at her.

The wailing continued. "I'm tryin' to pretend it'll work out in the end."

She looked at me.

It reached a crescendo. "I'm cryin' but my tears are far away."

I patted her shoulder. "Why don't you run along home and get some sleep? I'll handle this."

She continued to look at me, incredulous.

"It's okay, I promise not to put him out of his misery." I nearly made a fatal mistake then and only caught myself as she was turning away. "Do you have a key?"

"Yes." She groped in her bag and came up with one, but she didn't hold it out to me right away."

"I'll return it tomorrow," I assured her.

She handed the key to me but did not move.

"Thank you, Agent Scully." I reached for the door. She was still watching me. "Goodnight."

There was another sound from within. "If you can't give me flowers while I'm livin'...please don't throw them when I'm gone."

She winced. "Goodnight, Sir. Good luck."

I nodded and slid the key into the lock.

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What I found inside was almost heartbreaking; disheveled in appearance, bleary eyed, pacing in agitation, gripping the neck of a bottle of red wine as if he had just strangled the life from it. "Oh, Mulder," I said sadly.

He whirled on me, albeit unstably, and blinked at me. "You! Fuck off."

"Agent Mulder, I-"

"Fuck off, you bastard."

I risked a step toward him. "What are you doing?"

He stumbled back several steps. "I'm havin' a party," he answered, "an' you're not invited." To drive this point home, he took a long swig from the bottle and staggered back another step. "So you just take your holier than...than me attitude and go on home." He paused for another swig. "To your house."

He staggered forward this time and I caught his arm, wresting the bottle from his hands. "Red wine, Mulder? What kind of drink is that?"

He reached for the bottle. "Sssssssnob."

"I may be." I gave his shoulder a gentle push and he sank into the battered club chair like lead. "A good man died today." I went to the side table in the dining area and found a bottle of decent whiskey. "He deserves to be mourned with something better than Fresno's finest." I grabbed two glasses on my way through the kitchen.

He was sitting crumbled in the chair, eyeing me suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"Well, as it happens," I put the glasses on the table and settled on the sofa, "I was getting ready to drink to Max's memory myself when Agent Scully called me. I see no reason why I shouldn't join you." I splashed a little liquid into each glass.

"I do," he muttered, but he took the glass anyway. "Why did Scully call you?"

"She was concerned for you."

He wrinkled his nose over the glass. "She concerns too much." He frowned and looked away. "That's not right."

"It's close enough." I raised my glass. "To Max Hollander."

"To him," Mulder agreed. He almost sipped but put the glass down on his knee. "You know, I don't need you coming to the rescue just because Scully concerned..." he frowned again, sucking in his lower lip. "Got concerned," he amended. "She got concerned."

"Yes, she did." I raised my glass again. "Come on, now. To Max."

Mulder didn't lift his glass. "Why should I drink to him?" His voice wasn't so belligerent now. "I never drank to him while he was alive." His face pinched up for a moment. "Seems kind of hypocritical to drink to him now."

"It's respectful to his memory, Mulder," I chided.

"And the measure of my respect is...what? The alcohol content of my beverage? Drinking coffee would show less respect?" He gulped the whiskey and shuddered. "And water would be totally disrespectful." He banged the glass down on the table. "It doesn't fucking matter. He's dead."

"Yes." I emptied my own glass. "And he deserved better."

"Better?" Mulder levered himself forward and grabbed the bottle. "Of course he deserved better. We all deserrrve better. You want respect for Max?" He pulled himself to his feet and swayed there. "Here's to you, Max." He tipped the bottle back and took at least three healthy swallows before I could get to my feet and wrench the bottle away from him.

"That's enough, Mulder." I pushed him back into his chair.

"Hey! Just bein' respppec'ful."

"You don't even know what I mean, do you?" I demanded angrily. "Max Hollander was a good man, a good agent, even a good soldier. He did two tours in the first Gulf war. He was a hero. He deserved better than to die because of someone's coke induced dysphoria."

"What difference does it make?"

I looked down at him. "What are you talking about?"

"What difference does it make?" he repeated. "He's still dead."

I wanted to slap him for being so insensitive. "The man was a hero-"

"There's nothing heroic about death." The slur was gone from his voice, color was rushing to his cheeks. "It doesn't matter if he died on the beaches of Normandy or he fell off his roof, cleaning the gutters in drag. The Bureau is still missing a good, effective agent. His wife is still going to sleep alone. His children are still without a father. So..." he struggled upright, "what difference does it make?"

I stared at him. "You're right," I conceded, at length. "You're absolutely right."

Mulder sagged as if defeated. He rolled his head back in exhaustion. He reached for the bottle in my hand, raised it to his lips and murmured, "To Max."

He looked so vulnerable then, world weary and without hope. I wanted to gather him against me, comfort him, croon reassuring words, but when I held out my arms to offer him solace, he stepped back again. "That's what bothers me" he announced as if it had been the next item on the agenda. "Who's going to comfort me?"

"I..." I had to borrow one of Agent Scully's ellipses while I tried to comprehend his question. "That's what I was trying to do."

"No." He moved beyond me, rubbing his arm in agitation. "Who is going to comfort me if something happens to you?"

"Oh." Now I understood.

"Who's going to know to comfort me?" He looked at me, fingertips folded against his chest. "Who will gather around me and hold me up if some coke head takes you out in a convenience store? Who's going to hand me a folded flag if you go down in the line of duty?"

He stopped to drag in air. "I'll tell you whom. Nobody. I'll just be one of a contingent of dutiful subordinates gathered at your grave. And what if it's me? Will you be there to see my wishes are honored? Will you put on widow's weeds for me?"

"Widow's weeds?" I echoed. I didn't know what else to say.

"Shut the fuck up," he snarled.

Actually, I did know what to say. We'd had this discussion before. I just didn't want to say it.

"I'm sick of this, Walter," he told me, the tiniest crack in his whiskey roughened voice. "I'm sick of feeling dirty, sneaking around, hiding in that damned cloak room of denial. We are lovers, aren't we, Walter?"

"Well, of course we are, but-"

"No buts." Something sad came over his face, something infinitely sadder than everything that came before. "Are you ashamed of me?"

"No. Of course not. It's just that-"

The sadness hardened. "Are you ashamed of yourself?"

"No." Well, yes, I was, but I wasn't admitting that to him. "We've been through all this before. In this political climate-"

"That's bullshit. There are gay men on television, gays in films, music, history. Hallmark makes cards for gays and lesbians. There are even gay men in politics. It's time, Walter. I don't want to be in anything anymore. I want to be out. And I want you out there with me." He glared at me. "What do you say, Walter? It's either you or someone like you."

I stood up straight, glaring down at him, admittedly trying to intimidate him. "I don't like ultimatums, Mulder."

He wasn't intimidated. His eyes narrowed. "And I don't like cowards." He got to the door and yanked it open. "Get out." He smiled grimly. "If you'll pardon the expression."

And just like that, I found myself on the other side of his door, the other side of his life.

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I can't say I didn't see it coming. Oh, not at first, of course. I would never have willingly begun something with someone who had different expectations for the relationship. At the time, I didn't even plan to begin a relationship. At the time it was just a bust gone bad, a couple of beers in a small town dive and consolation in someone else's arms.

It seemed simple enough. I was there, he was there, I was interested, he was amiable. The difficulty was that I had been attracted to him for a long time and despite all rules, regulations and reasonable behaviors, I couldn't let that opportunity pass. I had long suspected that, even if he were not gay, he was not ambivalent to extreme experiences.

One night with him and I was addicted. To my surprise, for every sour word he had for me out in the field, there was an equally sweet kiss for me in bed. Those first couplings were clumsy; lack of practice on my part, lack of experience on his. It had been years since I'd had a hard, willing body under me, and with each encounter he was more willing. That long, lanky body was a playground of passion and within weeks, I went from looking forward to an occasional play date to wanting never to go home.

Still, I'm not a stupid man. Homosexuality may be becoming more and more accepted in media and law, but in reality it is still an old boys' world, and those who stray from the 'ideal' of manhood pay a heavy penalty at work and in society. Call me a coward, but I've worked too long and hard and believe too much in what I do, to lose it all for the sake of another man. I thought Mulder felt the same way.

I'm not sure when it went from wanting sex all the time to wanting all Mulder all the time, but I suspect his feelings were neck and neck with mine. In the first weeks, there was never a time, place or need for an exposition on my feelings about being 'out'. And suddenly it was too late. He put his hand on mine in a restaurant. A simple gesture, but it conveyed the world. Without even thinking, I had jerked my hand away, searching the faces around us to see if anyone had seen what happened, and never looked at him.

The meal was eaten, not in silence but in forced conversation. Mulder was determined to fill every second with animated sound. We said nothing walking back to our respective cars. We said goodbye cordially. Mulder managed to not even look mildly wounded, much less angry or hurt. And that made me feel even worse. I drove around D.C. for a few hours, trying to find courage on a street corner. All I found were purveyors or flesh or drugs or combinations of both, and I wanted neither. I drove down to Alexandria, banged on his door at four in the morning, dragged him to bed, fucked him blind and then...yes, only then, told him my sexual proclivities were not for publication and not to ever expect public acknowledgment of our private activities.

That was two years ago and he'd never given me any further consternation on that matter.

Until now. Until I found myself standing on the other side of his door no longer welcome inside. I went home and did my drinking to Max's memory alone.

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The next day, the silence from the basement was deafening. I saw Scully walking along the mezzanine just before lunch, but she was alone, and I didn't feel comfortable approaching her to ask after her partner. Later on, I heard through the water cooler gazette that Mulder had come in, but went home in the early afternoon, quite sick.

Any other time I would have left early, myself, and gone to check on him. Maybe to comfort him, feed him, even coax him to come to my place for a while. That night I remained in my office 'til well after eight. I can't say I got a single thing accomplished, except resisting any urge to go look in on him. After all, he was probably just suffering the revenge of the grape, and he could do that all on his own.

The next day, it was harder. A Saturday, I had no easy excuse to go into the office, and no project at home held allure for my disquieted nerves. Saturdays, when Mulder was not in the field, were usually our days. We watched baseball, when it was in season, or videos (war movies if I chose, porn if it was his turn). We argued politics. It wasn't that we were so different in our beliefs, he just loved taking an opposing position to rattle me. Or we had sex. That was usually what it all came down to, everything else was male foreplay.

He rarely stayed the night. It wasn't that I wouldn't like to hold him all night, to not wake up alone, but I didn't want to risk him being seen leaving. My condo community was remarkably conservative, the whole complex ought to have been painted red after the last elections. They wouldn't look kindly on two men flouting accepted mores. Still, it would be nice to fix breakfast with him now and again. Take a hot shower together, watch him shave. Better yet, shave him myself. There was something so...

But I couldn't let myself think that way. We had an agreement, an understanding. It was our own version of for better or for worse. It was wrong of him to give me an ultimatum like that.

I had to get out of the house. I had to find something to distract me. I thought about a movie, but there was nothing out I didn't want to share with Mulder, or wouldn't make me think of Mulder. I had no need to shop. I didn't have the energy to go to the gym. So I showered, shaved, dressed and drove to the nearest flower shop and picked up a nice, somber, respectful arrangement of flowers.

Max had been killed a week ago and, although I had seen her at the funeral, I worried for his widow. I didn't bother to call ahead. Somehow it seemed kinder to just appear there, rather than leave her to make excuses to let me out of the obligation of visiting.

She looked older, centuries older than the last time I'd been to the house. Her eyes and mouth were drawn downward as if weighted by lead. She tried to muster up a smile for me, but it was beyond her. It seemed as if all of her strength was focused on remaining upright and breathing. She thanked me for the flowers and invited me in. "This is a lovely surprise, Walt," she murmured in a voice that warbled with the remnant of tears. "Can I make you some tea?"

"No." I put a hand on her elbow and willed her to remain upright until I could get her to a chair. She'd never struck me as a frail woman, but at that moment she might have crumbled in my fingers. "I just came to see how you were doing. To make sure you weren't alone."

"Yes." She drifted down into a chair. "That was good of you." She looked around the living room. Usually it was cluttered with books and papers and toys, evidence of a joyful life but today it was unnaturally tidy and somber as if someone had swept all the life out of it. "It's very...empty today." She looked down at the flowers still in her hands. "The children are at his parents...their...their grandparents' house still." She stood. "I'll put these in water."

I stood as well. "I'll do it," I offered, as if I actually believed I might find a vase of water just waiting for me to fill it with the flowers.

She smiled at me as if she'd had the same thought. "It's all right."

I followed her into the kitchen. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Oh, just coming around is enough, Walt." She opened a cupboard and pulled down a blue ceramic cylinder. "All of you...from the Bureau...you've been so good to me." She pulled a knife from a drawer and began cutting the stems. "Without your support, I might..." she looked at the knife in her hands.

"Let me do that," I said quickly, easing her away from the counter.

"Oh, I'm not suicidal," she said with a grim laugh. "But if it hadn't been for the way all our friends gathered round me in those first awful days, I might have just died. Died of pure grief." She looked up at me, her eyes watery and pale. "Do you have any idea what that's like, Walt? No...that's unfair of me to ask. I know you'd grieve for Sharon, even now." The tears spilled over, and she covered her face in her hands.

I stayed the afternoon with her. I couldn't leave her alone. Fate had already done that cruel deed. We talked about Max, remembered his good points, commiserated on the bad ones. We even managed a laugh or two. We looked at photos and she told me stories about their wedding and the birth of each of their children. As we talked the weight of the lead that pulled at her eyes and mouth lessened. She sat up a little straighter, she seemed a little less old.

When I finally took my leave, as shadows filled up that artificially uncluttered room, she put a hand on my arm, squeezed and whispered, "Thank you, Walt. Talking about him...no one wants to talk about him around me, but talking about him brings him back to me for a while. For a while he's still alive." She squeezed again. "Thank you."

As I walked down to my car and drove away, her question gnawed at me. Did I understand what it meant to die of pure grief? Would I mourn that way for my ex-wife? Probably not. Our time of mourning for the marriage was long passed. Would I mourn like that for Mulder? The idea of him dying and leaving me behind was so painful that, for a moment, I couldn't breathe. I had to pull to the side of the road and force great gulps of air into my lungs. He was right. If he died, I'd truly be alone. No one would understand my loss, my grief. And if something happened to me, no one would understand his.

Few of us get to choose our manner and time of departure. However, if we're lucky and smart, we can prepare for what we leave behind. We can leave a legacy, plan for our loved ones. It was time I started thinking smart.

I went back to the florist shop. The girl seemed amused when I selected another arrangement, this one far less somber. "Either she's very lucky," she said, handing me my change, "or you are."

"Me," I assured her, shoving the money into my pocket. "I'm very lucky."

His car wasn't in its usual place. So maybe I wasn't so lucky after all. But I was prepared to wait it out. I climbed the stairs to number forty two and settled against the wall, rehearsing my speech. Some of his neighbors sent me curious glances as they came and went. I know I must have made a picture, leaning against his door frame, roses in hand. I know my face got hot imagining what they were thinking, and more than once I considered turning away and going home, but I kept seeing her face, hearing her whispered grief, and I remained where I was.

I might have stood there an hour, perhaps a little more, when shifting around to ease the discomfort of standing still, I inadvertently knocked a hand against his door. I might have stood there a lot longer if I hadn't. He opened the door, looking surprised, then irritated, then surprised again.

"You're home," I blurted stupidly.

"Yes." He looked at the flowers and then met my eyes, his own narrowed. "I can shut the door and we can pretend I'm not," he offered, already pushing the door toward me.

"No, no." I put a hand out to stop him. "I didn't see your car and I thought..." I felt that burn back in my face.

He glanced past me, into the hall. "How long were you going to stand there?"

I shrugged. "As long as it took."

He looked at the flowers again. "You know…I don't know that I'd care to have a man standing at my door with flowers. It could be misinterpreted," he finished, just short of a sneer.

I shook my head and came across the threshold. "No, it couldn't. People would assume, rightly so, that your lover was bringing you flowers." I held them out.

He didn't take them. "Well, gosh, we can't have that."

"Mulder." I tried to catch his arm, but he was already turning away. "This is an apology."

"I don't need it." He was in the kitchen, pouring coffee.

"And...and...a get well." You coward, Skinner.

He didn't turn around. "I'm fine."

"And..." I swallowed, "a proposal."

He was very still for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was tight and forced. "What sort of proposal?"

"You were right, Mulder. You have a right to be a part of my life. You have a right to be recognized. You have a right to..." I found myself starting to choke. "If I..."

He turned around, watching me as warily as any cat.

"I don't want you left alone if I," I swallowed hard, "if I died."

Something stiff and angry in him crumpled up and he dropped back against the counter, his hands gripping the edges behind him. "Do you know what you're suggesting?"

I nodded.

"Can you do that? Can you do it and not turn on me in six months and blame me for making you do something you didn't want to do?"

It was a fair question. Wholly unromantic, given what I was trying to do, certainly not what I expected him to say, but it was typically analytical and typically Mulder. "I can't promise there won't be times when I don't regret the decision. But there would be fewer regrets than if we stayed the way we are."

He stood there for a moment, sucking at his lower lip, his eyes lowered and dark with thought. When he looked up, he asked, "Want some coffee?"

Expecting so much more, I nearly staggered under the weightlessness of his response. "Is that all you have to say?"

"For the moment." He reached for a cup. "Do you want some?"

I nodded, and dropped the flowers on the counter. I could have saved myself fifty bucks and just sent him an email, I thought grimly. "Do you have something we can put these in?"

He shook his head and held out the coffee. "But, I'm sure you do."

"What does that mean? You don't want them?"

"No, I do. I want them very much. But I want to see them tomorrow, and I won't be here tomorrow."

"Where will you be?"

"At your place?" It was a question. A simple, wistful question. And it was bigger and more profound and more romantic than anything I had said or done.

I put the cup down, scooped up the flowers and barked, "Grab your toothbrush. Let's go."

He arched a brow. "Just my toothbrush?"

"I've got everything else you need," I promised him.

"You know what, Mr. Assistant Director Skinner, Sir?" He finally put his cup down. "I've known that all along. Let's go."

- End -

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