TITLE: Ignorance is Hell - Chapter 01
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: SRA
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: Who says ignorance is bliss?
ARCHIVE: No.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current. Takes place immediately after 'The End'.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder 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 am king
Author's Notes: In the spirit of the Mummy Returns, this one rises from the dead and walks among us. Thanks to the High Priest and Priestess for making me open the tomb at last and let this one out.
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.
Ignorance is Hell - Chapter 01
by Mik
My gut always tightens when I enter this building. It smells of death. Oddly, that smell has somehow failed to permeate Agent Mulder. He never brings it into the office. I resent that Agent Mulder has once again brought me here. It is never a social call. It always involves weapons being drawn or punches being thrown. Today, I don't anticipate either, but I expect both. A contradiction? Part and parcel with Agent Mulder.
It's been three days since anyone saw him. Four days since his former office was turned into the Bureau Barbecue. He had already been reassigned, but he walked out of those smoldering ruins emotionally rearranged. No one has heard from him since. He has not answered any phone, land or cellular. Repeated attempts knocking at his door have resulted in silence. The only comfort is that there have been no reports of gunfire from this building.
At number forty-two, I knock, not really expecting a response. "Agent Mulder?"
Silence.
I knock again, a little louder. "Agent Mulder?"
I don't even hear the dull drone of his ubiquitous television. Now I am disturbed. I try the door. Then I consider the lock. Easily breached. In fact, I have done it before I even fully completed the thought. I step inside.
He's lying on that green thing...sofa, futon, bed?...in ratty cut-off jeans and a tee shirt I wouldn't even use to wash my car. Sprawled out, one foot resting on the floor, hands on his chest in a casual way, looking as if they had just been tossed there, he is motionless. He hasn't shaved since I saw him last. This is jarring. I am accustomed to the sartorially gifted Agent Mulder. On a positive note, he is alive. He opens his eyes and says, "Come in, won't you?"
"You didn't answer your door," I say. His apparent good health makes me feel foolish for bursting in, gun in my hand.
Despite the appearance of his superior, he remains supine. "Because I did not want company," he answers levelly.
"What about your job?" I return sharply. "Don't you want that?"
He laughs - snorts, really. "What job?"
"You were reassigned -"
"I was put on Administrative Leave." He looks up, surprised. "You didn't know?"
I look equally surprised. "No."
He twists his head to look at something - the clock on his VCR? He rolls upward and at the same time reaches for something on the floor. It is a bottle, a familiar one. "It's after five. Buy you a drink?"
I look at my watch. He's right. I holster my gun. "Sure." At the moment, I could use one.
He waves, with the bottle, toward a door to my right. "Glasses are in there. You'd better bring two."
Which means he's been downing whiskey straight from the bottle. I give him another look. He seems sober. I go into an extremely spare kitchen, open cupboards that are nearly bare, and can only find two glasses - with cartoon characters on them. I shake my head. At this point, I do not care. I bring them in and look around. There is that green thing, and a very uninviting ladder back chair at the table under the window. I ease down beside him on the sofa. "Agent Mulder -"
"Let's have a drink," he insists. He splashes liberally into each depiction of Marvin the Martian and holds a glass out to me. "To the F.B.I." He draws out each initial. He closes his eyes. "I'm trying to turn that into a nasty acronym, but I'm not quite there." He tosses the whiskey back like iced tea and puts the glass down on the table with a satisfied smack of his lips. "This is flattering, A.D. Skinner, Sir," he says pleasantly. "Did you come to see if I was dead again?"
"Yes," I answer honestly, and take a sip. It's good whiskey, which surprises me. I didn't think Mulder drank, at all. Why would he be drinking oak barrel aged whiskey? "No one has seen or heard from you in three days. It's called job abandonment."
His eyes narrow slightly. Like the whiskey bottle, it's familiar. "I didn't realize until yesterday that you're not my A.D., anymore," he murmurs thoughtfully. "Kersh is stuck with me now. Anyway, he's the one who signed the Administrative Leave." He reached across the clutter of the table with a grunt, and holds out a yellow and brown paper.
I glance at the telegram. A week. Why would they suspend him? On what grounds? And why would they take him away from me? Good Lord, I sound like a broken hearted teenager. "I haven't gotten any transfer instructions," I tell him. "Just the notice that you had been reassigned."
He sighs and reaches for the bottle. I stop his hand. "How much have you had?"
He blinks at me, amused. "Today?"
"Mulder."
"Stop, Daddy," he sneers. Then he sighs patiently - as if I'm the one being difficult. "Look, you're not responsible for me anymore." He points to the telegram in my hand. "You've been released. Go." He makes a shooing gesture with both hands. "Flee."
I drop the telegram. "I'm not walking out on you, just because you've been reassigned. I don't leave men behind, Agent Mulder. Especially not under fire." I ease the bottle out of his hands. Up close he really looks bad; his eyes are red, he looks exhausted, and the beard is not a fashion statement he might want to consider keeping. "Have you eaten anything today?"
He focuses on me. Yet he really does seem sober. "No."
"Come on." I stand up, trying to encourage him likewise. "Let's go get a sandwich. The fresh air will do you good."
"Look, Walter." He pauses, surprised that it came out that way. Then he grins, obnoxiously. "May I call you Walter?" He nods, not waiting for a reply. "Good. Look, Walter, I'm fine. I'm a little pissed, a little pissed off, but I'm fine. You don't owe me anything, you aren't obligated in any way. I know you did everything you could to keep the X-Files alive, but we've both got to let go now." He finally breaks free of my hold and slithers downward. "So, please," his voice is suddenly as soft as a prayer. "Let go."
"What about Agent Scully?"
He flinches a little. "She needs to let go too."
"What about Diana?"
He doesn't look up. "How is she, by the way?"
"She'll recover. She's asking about you."
He answers with a jerky shrug.
His responses disturb me more than his disheveled appearance. How could he not care about Agent Scully? And how could he show so little concern for a woman that everyone assures me was once the biggest part of his life? I hear myself asking, "What about me?"
He looks up, bewilderment and amusement playing on his lips. "What about you, Sir?"
"We've been through a lot together, Agent Mulder. Are you going to just brush me off, now that you've been reassigned? Aren't you going to fight this? Aren't you going to -"
"I'm tired of fighting, Walter," he says, and the name isn't a sneer now. "Scully's tired of fighting. It's for damn sure Diana never wanted to be a part of the fight. They win." He throws his hands up, and his voice quavers a little. "I give up."
For some reason, that angers me. "Bullshit, Mulder. You don't understand the concept. Heaven knows how many times I've tried to explain it to you; but you don't give up. You are...genetically incapable."
A little smile cracks the miserable, exhausted expression. "All right, I'm retreating." He flicks me a sidelong glance. "How's that?"
"Come on. I'll buy you a sandwich. We can talk old times." I try to get him to stand again. Only now I can see how sober he isn't.
He sways a little and catches my arm. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sir. Altitude and I are having a disagreement at present." He drops back down on the sofa.
I might be feeling sorry for him. I'm not sure. I know I'm angry at him. I know I'm concerned for his well-being, if he has such a thing, but I think I also feel just a little bit sorry that he's been pushed to the point where he's trying to crawl inside a bottle. "Okay. Let's order pizza or something. While you're giving in, Agent Mulder, you might as well give in to having dinner with me, one way or another."
He gestures faintly toward the telephone. "Speed dial."
I pick up the receiver and turn it over. Taped inside is a speed dial list. Antonio's is number two. Scully is number one. TLG is number three. TLG? I push pound and number two. "What do you want?"
He shakes his head slightly. "How brave are you?"
I give him a stern look. "Pretty brave. I'm here, aren't I?"
"Tell them you want the Mulder Special." He settles against the back of the couch, and runs his hands over his eyes. "Ah, I feel like shit."
I order the pizza, watching him from the corner of my eye. His hands stay over his eyes and I wonder if the light is bothering them, or if he's trying to hide tears. "Why don't you go take a shower while we're waiting?" I offer. "I'll make some coffee. You do have some coffee, don't you?"
He waves his fingers again, toward the kitchen. He doesn't move another muscle.
"Mulder, I know I'm a guest here, but -"
"Guests don't pick locks," he says mildly. "They are invited in."
"All right, I know I'm an intruder here, but -"
He smiles, eyes closed. "That's better."
I sigh impatiently. "You're pretty rank, Mulder. Take a shower."
He opens one eye. "Is that an order, Sir?"
"If it has to be."
"Because you outrank me?" Perfectly straight-faced, not even a playful little twinkle in his eyes.
It's my turn to shut my eyes. When I open them, he has come forward, but is holding his head in his hands. "I really don't want to move right now," he is mumbling.
"Come on, Mulder." I catch him under the arms, and pull.
He comes up, straight, almost wild-eyed, and grabs my shoulders. "Make the room stop spinning, please?"
I start guiding him toward the two doors on the other side of the room. "Mulder, how much have you had to drink?"
"I have no idea," he confesses, pointing toward the door on the left.
It's a bathroom. A surprisingly clean bathroom. I have a fetish about bathrooms, I suppose. Once you've dug latrines for a living, you harbor a deep aversion to unclean bathrooms. I give him a slight push. He staggers inside and gropes for the edge of the sink, remaining upright. "Can you get undressed by yourself?" I ask him doubtfully. I'd better not be squeamish about this, it was my idea.
He's squeamish enough for both of us. "I think I can." He gives me a little wave and pushes the door shut in my face.
I stand there, listening. He grunts a couple of times, mutters to himself, and the water goes on, so I know he didn't keel over. I go back to the kitchen and rummage for coffee. Much to my surprise, he's got a bag of the good stuff in his otherwise empty refrigerator.
Coffee made, I lean against the kitchen counter and look around. This is a weird apartment, just like its tenant, I decide. There is absolutely nothing personal in the place. It is completely devoid of personality, and yet it is every inch Mulder; cluttered in a very Spartan way. He has no personal pictures - just some generic things that could be in a motel room and a poster on the far wall, practically obscured by a do-it-yourself bookshelf. He has a fish tank. I think there are fish in it today; the occupancy seems to vary from day to day. His coffee table, and the table under the window are scattered with papers and files and books, yet not one of them looks like leisure reading. The rest of the walls are bare, the limited furniture is plain. It's as if he found this place, and sat down, as is. The only thing that makes it his own is something that is completely out of his character. Two empty bottles laying beneath the coffee table. Good grief, Mulder, are you trying to kill yourself?
I cock an ear toward the bathroom. The water is still running. The coffee is done. I'm a little concerned. I tap on the door. "Mulder?" I knock a little louder. "Mulder!" I try the door. It isn't locked. I push. The steam hits me, like a living entity. Behind the flimsy shower curtain I see no silhouette. Heart starting to pound, I push the curtain aside. He's sitting, knees up, arms around his knees, head down. "Mulder?"
He lifts his head, squints at me. "Come in, won't you?" he drawls.
"Good God, Mulder, you scared me." I look down at him, realize I am looking at one of my subordinates - ex subordinates - naked. I jerk my eyes away, uncomfortable. "Are you all right? The coffee's done."
He's still squinting. I think he's trying to figure out why it's suddenly two against one. "Can you hand me a towel?"
I look around, find one, and shove it in his direction. Then I lean in and turn off the water, thinking that's not something he should try to do in his state. I draw a deep breath, decide I'm secure enough in my manhood, and hold out a hand. "Do you need a hand getting out of there?"
He shakes his head. I step back, almost to the door, just wanting to make sure he won't end up on his ass when he stands up. He doesn't move. I look back at him. "Mulder?"
He has dumped the towel in his lap and is gripping both sides of the tub, his mouth twisted into a frustrated grimace. "Is that offer for a hand still good?" he asks, sounding thoroughly disgusted.
I chuckle a little, I can't help it. The expression on his face I come across the bathroom, my hand extended. "Give me the towel, you're going to get it soaked." I take it away, set it on the toilet and reach for him. He comes up quickly, unsteadily, and teeters dangerously before bracing his free hand against the wall.
"Can I have the towel now?" he asks, looking a bit embarrassed.
I'm careful where my eyes go. "When you get out of the tub." I hold out both hands. "Come on." I back up a step, bringing him over the edge of the tub to the mat. Then I let go and hand him the towel. He's got one hand braced against the wall. The other is holding the towel strategically. "I'll be outside," I offer. "If you need me for anything. Don't let pride put you on your ass, okay?" I yank the door open and step out, but I don't move away. I want to hear him not fall down.
A minute later, the door jerks open, and he steps out, still dripping, the towel around his hips. He tosses me a glare, and moves into the next door, his bedroom presumably.
The pizza arrives. I pay for it, bring it to the coffee table. There's no place else to eat. He comes out, in sweats and another tee shirt that has seen better days. He looks a little green. "I don't think I want that," he says.
I open it. No wonder. The Mulder Special evidently requires extra everything, including anchovies. "You've got to eat something," I argue, but it's weak. I'm not sure I'm not a little green at the moment.
He folds himself onto the floor, legs crossed. It's a surprisingly graceful move for a man who couldn't manage to climb out of a tub. "Could you pick everything off?" he asks.
"That would leave you with what...cheese, sauce and crust?"
"No cheese."
"Sauce and crust."
"No sauce."
"Mulder, I can get you a piece of bread if that's all you want." Still I catch myself pulling everything off in one sticky mass that looks faintly like what Mulder might do if I forced him to eat this. "Here." I hold a piece out to him.
He takes a tentative bite. "Why?" he says.
I look down at him. "Why what?"
"Why did you come?"
"Because you haven't been to work in three -"
"How did you know? You're not my supervisor anymore."
I know I look guilty. I feel guilty. "Agent Scully called me."
He arches a brow. "How did she know?" There was an odd note to his voice, not quite bitterness.
"That I don't know." I take a bite. It isn't bad. It isn't fatal, no matter how it looks. I feel him watching me - both of me, I suspect. "She's probably been looking for you. You two usually talk every day, don't you?"
"We did when we were partners." He puts the crust down on the tabletop.
I hand him a paper napkin. "Mulder, you two will always be partners, no matter where you are assigned."
He draws a deep breath. "I think I need a drink." He reaches across the table.
I snatch the bottle out of his reach. "No, you don't."
He looks up at me. He's miserable. I can see it. I'm almost tempted to give him the bottle, put him out of his misery. "I'd like to point out, Walter, that I'm over twenty one. Way, way over twenty-one, and if I want to get tight, I can. I'm not driving, my gun's at the office, and I couldn't open those windows if I wanted to. Now give me the bottle."
"Mulder, the last thing you need is another drink."
"No, the last thing I need is someone telling me the last thing I need." He reaches again.
I jerk the bottle back against my chest. "No."
His face is black with anger. "Don't make me take it away from you."
I can't help laughing. "Don't think you can try."
He uses both hands to push himself up, and one of his hands ends up in the middle of that squishy piece of crust. He slips, slides sideways, and is back on the floor, staring up at me, unable to decide if he should laugh back or swear at me. "Come on, Walter," he says in a wheedling voice. "Just one lousy drink and then you can tuck me into bed and go home, knowing you've done your patriotic duty."
"I'll fix you a cup of coffee," I offer, rising.
"That will keep me awake."
I look down at him. One hand is still lifted up, almost in entreaty. "And your point is?"
"I don't want to be awake." He says it so calmly, as if it should be patently obvious to me.
"Mulder."
"Skinner."
Why am I giving in? I know he doesn't need this. I know I don't need it, either, and yet, here I am, filling Marvin the Martian up again. "You can have it, if you can get to your feet and come over here and sit down. And," I add as he rolls to his knees, preparing to push himself upward. "And if you promise to sip it, and eat a piece of pizza."
"No anchovies," he declares, and manages to get himself almost upright.
"Then why do you order them?"
"I used to like them," he confesses. He stands, remarkably steady, and licks sauce from his hand and wrist. I have to look away. There's something almost erotic about Mulder's cat-bath imitation. "Then one night," he continues, moving very carefully, "I looked up and it seemed all my fish were watching me. After that..." He shudders and drops down beside me. He smells of soap and heat.
I carefully pick the offending topping from another piece of pizza and hold it out to him. "Garlic's supposed to be good for intoxication," I tell him.
"So's sex," he retorts.
I shake my head. "Settle for garlic."
He sighs, cups the pizza piece with both hands and settles back. "I usually do."
We're quiet for a while. It's an interesting experience. One wouldn't ordinarily associate silence and Mulder. His mind is at work, though. I can feel the heat radiating off that nuclear plant he calls a brain. He finishes the pizza, at last, and holds out his hands. "I really, really want one more drink, just to tip me over the edge." He looks at me. "I was almost there when you arrived."
I'm actually feeling guilty for postponing his drunken stupor. "Are you saying you haven't slept in three days?"
He nods slowly, thoughtfully. "I close my eyes and I see the office. I start wondering what I'm supposed to do now. I try to imagine my place in the Bureau, in the universe, for that matter. Was my entire purpose in life to be a thorn in that black lunged bastard's side?" His chin drops to his chest. "Would the world fall apart if I ceased to exist - I don't think so." His eyes flick to mine. "I'm not suicidal," he says flatly. "I just want to get some sleep."
I do feel sorry for him. Not because he's poor, put upon Mulder, but because he's obviously exhausted. "Here." I hold out his drink. "But sip it, slowly."
He takes it from me, and tips his head back, letting a little slip down his throat. "You know, this burns when you first taste it. After awhile, it's just a nice little warmth."
"You're going to be sick as a dog in the morning," I predict.
He smiles up at me grimly. "Promise?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've been drinking for three days straight. No sleep, no hangover."
"Then you should sleep." Not that that makes any sense.
He's still smiling. "Oh, you want me to be sick."
I give him my patented 'Give me a break, Mulder' scowl. "Finish your drink and go to bed."
He shakes his head slowly, faintly regretful that he must disobey a direct order. "I can't, Sir. You're sitting on it."
I turn back to look at him. "You don't have a bed?"
He points to the other door. "I have a wide, flat thing in there where I put my laundry."
I get up, step to that door and look. It's a small room, with a double bed that doesn't look long enough to accommodate him. It's covered with books and stacks of underwear (well, Mr. Clinton, Agent Mulder wears boxers too), and a bag from the dry cleaners, filled with dress shirts. I look back at him. He has apparently lost interest in the drink. He's watching me. Very deliberately, I go in, shut the door, and begin to fumble around, putting away his laundry, hanging his shirts, putting his books (The Myth of Quantum Physics?) in a stack on the floor. I turn the pale green spread back and find what appear to be clean sheets. I return to the door and open it. "Come on. You're sleeping in here tonight."
He shakes his head. "I don't think I can."
Hands on hips, I'm exasperated. "Why not?" He's as difficult as a petulant child.
His face gets wistful. "I just can't. Look." He focuses on me again, and sits forward, putting the glass down, half full. "You've been a good Samaritan. You made sure I ate, and washed behind my ears. Go on home. Enjoy the weekend. And thanks." He pulls himself to his feet, and hardly sways at all.
"Mulder, don't make me pull rank on you again," I warn. "I'm not above putting you in that bed, bodily."
He grins at me, but there's nothing in his eyes. "Why, A.D. Skinner, I didn't know you cared."
"Come on, Mulder. Just go to bed."
He glances at the windows. "It's still light outside."
He reminds me of a little boy sent to bed the first day of Daylight Savings. "You haven't slept in at least forty eight hours. Your brain isn't going to care how light it is." I crook a finger. "Come on."
"I can't." He leans over, as if he's going to start tidying up, and he sways dangerously.
I barely catch him before he goes head first into the pizza box. I realize, with a start, the muscles beneath my fingers are trembling. "Come on, Mulder," I say again. "Let's go."
"I can't sleep in there," he insists, trying to brush my hands away. "No television."
Then I remember. Agent Scully once inadvertently let it slip that Mulder suffered from some sort of sleep disorder. "Try it," I encourage. "I'll stay here for a little while, until you're asleep."
"Oh kay." He gives me a look that says 'I hope you know what you're asking for', and stumbles toward the bedroom. "Hey, where's my laundry?"
"In the chest of drawers," I answer, guiding him toward the bed.
"The what?"
I point, not realizing that he's baiting me.
"Is that what that's for?" He snickers a little as I dump him at the side of the bed. Impulsively, he tugs at my tie. "Come on, A.D. Skinner. Lighten up."
I make the fabric slip from his fingers. "Come on, Agent Mulder," I say, matching his tone. "Go to sleep."
He grins again. This time there's just a little mischievous light in his eyes. "Read me a story?"
"I don't think so."
An outrageous pout. Now I know he's drunk. "You're no fun."
"Never intended to be," I assure him. "Close your eyes, go to sleep. I'll be right out here if you need me."
He lets himself be folded into the bed and rolls onto his side. I draw the bedclothes up over his shoulders, feeling oddly tender and parental. "This is weird," he says as I move toward the door.
You think it's weird, Mulder? I just tucked one of my Special Agents nighty-night. "Think of it as a new experience, Agent Mulder," I suggest dryly. I pull the door to, but not completely shut. The coffee smells wonderful, but I go back to the table and pick up the glass of oak barrel aged whiskey in the Marvin the Martian glass.
*******************************************
The unfamiliar sound jolts me awake as sharply as if someone stood at my shoulder and shook me. It isn't exactly a groan, and it isn't exactly a cry. It is just a sharp sound of protest, accented with pain. I'm actually on my feet before I realize I have heard it. It comes again, from Mulder's bedroom. It is dark, and I stumble a little going to the door. I feel a little fuzzy, and it takes me a moment to realize I had emptied my glass and his, too, before drifting off to sleep.
Mulder is on his back. I can see him, highlighted in the moonlight from the window. The bedclothes are pushed down. He is naked. I don't remember him undressing, but his tee shirt and sweats are on the floor, in a heap by the bed. He suddenly thrashes to his side, nearly teetering off the bed, as he makes that sound again. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up as I rush over to keep him from tumbling to the floor. "Agent Mulder," I say roughly. "Are you all right?" Which speaks, of course, to my state of mind. No one who is 'all right' would make a sound like that. Having used my knees to keep him on the bed, I reach out to put my hands on his shoulders, tentatively push him back onto his back. "Mulder. Wake up."
He answers with a plaintive sigh, his fists clenching and unclenching. I don't mean to look at him, but it's hard, in that position, not to notice the way he's built; long, lean, muscular. It's trite, but it's Mulder. He's not really built to be a centerfold in a woman's magazine, but he's not to be overlooked, either. His skin is a pale gold in the moonlight, it reminds me of champagne? An odd association. There are a few visible reminders of the dangers he's faced in his line of work; his upper thigh, his shoulder, under his ribs. He does not have an abundance of hair anywhere but on his head and between his legs. For one moment, I indulge in that age old, surreptitious comparison that men always do in locker rooms. Even in sleep, he's thick and well shaped. I scold myself for my inappropriate behavior and start to back away from the bed.
Just as I reach the door, he cries out again, and I hurry back, feeling a need to comfort him that I do not understand. "Shh," I whisper, kneeling beside the bed. "It's okay." For a moment, looking down at that miserable, lost expression, I fight an irrational urge to gather him into my arms and comfort him. Perhaps it's the latent father in me. Perhaps...it's something else. The idea startles and dismays me, and I start to back away.
He finds my arm, clenches tightly, his body going rigid. "Tired," he mutters.
I wince. He's actually hurting me. With my free hand, I stroke back the dark hair falling down into his face. "I know." Then I realize, he's describing how I feel at this moment. I gently pry his fingers from my arm, ease the blankets up to cover him - or is it to hide him? I back away again.
In the living room, I reach for the bottle and pour myself two fingers and toss it back. I'm shaken to have noticed Mulder's sexuality. I have never looked at any man with lascivious intent before. I have never looked at a man with any sort of intent, except what was absolutely appropriate for the occasion. But for one moment there, I experienced a longing for contact with another man. Perhaps it wasn't sexual, but it wasn't right, either.
I pour another glass and sip it, staggering back to the sofa. I sit, remembering all the times when Mulder invaded my thoughts, for no apparent reason. I never fantasized about him, I never allowed my gaze to linger on him a moment too long, and yet, he has always held a bizarre, even morbid fascination for me. I imagine having conversations with him on all sorts of subjects. I sometimes wonder how he would approach a problem, how he would feel under certain circumstances. I never associated these unbidden considerations with any particular emotion, but now I have to re-evaluate them. I catch myself remembering how he felt, pressed back against my chest, panting and raving under the influence of LSD, or squirming beneath my body, when he thought he saw demons behind me. Did I enjoy that?
No! I assure myself. It's nothing more than whiskey and worry. Nothing more than being put into such an intimate situation. Still I should go, I tell myself, but I know I'm too sleepy, and I've had too much to drink. Besides, I promised Mulder I'd be here for him.
*******************************************
It's hot. It's breathless. I feel as if I'm being weighed down, in warm, soupy air. There's intense heat and weight on my shoulder, across my waist, on my upper thigh. Slowly I open my eyes. I blink. A strange room, pale green walls, a window with no curtains. A narrow bed, not long enough for me, not wide enough for us both. Both?
Gingerly I let my eyes slide downward. Shit. Dark head on my shoulder, long arm draped across my middle, a hard leg resting on my thigh. My naked thigh. What the hell happened here? Mulder, you son of a bitch
It takes me a minute, but I manage to extricate myself from his embrace without waking him. My head throbs dully, my heart pounds sharply. My clothes are draped over the back of a chair in the corner, very neat, as if put there with great care and purpose. I inch to the edge of the bed and reach -
"Uhnn." Something like that. I look over my shoulder. Mulder's on his back, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. "What the hell " He lowers his hands and looks at me. Then he jerks upright, sitting on the other side of the bed, looking poised for flight, those oddly Asian eyes of his almost round with terror. "What exactly happened here Sir?" His voice actually squeaks as he gets to the end of the question.
"Nothing," I say, almost desperately, dragging my clothing against myself like some compromised maiden. "Nothing at all."
He looks as if he might argue that, then he nods, accepting it, grabbing for it. "Of course." He scrambles for his sweats just as I reach for my underwear. His face is an almost comical mask of formality. "Thank you for coming by last night. It was very considerate of you." He tugs his tee shirt over his head, as I step into my slacks.
"Not at all," I say stiffly. What the hell happened? I send a quick glance toward the bed, trying to discern any indication that we might have...oh, God, I can't even articulate it in my head. "How..." I pause. My tongue is thick. "How are you feeling this morning? Better?"
"Than what?" he asks. He is openly studying the bed.
"You were concerned about a hangover," I supply, tugging my shirt on, buttoning it.
He shakes his head. "Oh, I never get a hangover. How did we end up in bed?"
"You don't remember?" I ask, tucking the shirt into my slacks carelessly.
"No." He looks at the bed, looks at me, as I reach for my suit coat. "I never sleep in here."
"Well, I made you sleep in here last night," I explain.
"And...?"
"And what?" I stuff my tie into my pocket.
"Who made you sleep in here?"
"You were...uh...having nightmares." There, I knew there had to be a reasonable explanation. I came back in to comfort him, that's all.
"Well, I'm having one now," he agrees, and stumbles toward the door. He pauses there, looking at me as I sit to pull on shoes and socks. "Do you think we...?"
"No. Of course not."
"Of course not." He disappears.
I can hear him in the bathroom. The usual morning sounds. He's not retching, he's not slitting his wrists. Good. I move on to the kitchen. Shit again! I left the coffee pot on all night. It stinks. I reach for it, dumping the tar-like mixture from the pot, and proceed to clean it. He comes into the kitchen behind me. His hair is combed, and his face is washed. He still needs a shave. He's watching me. "Do you need something, Agent Mulder?" I ask, refilling the reservoir. No answer. I scoop coffee grounds, slide things into place, push buttons. "Agent Mulder?" I turn.
He's leaning one hip against the doorframe, his arms folded over his chest, his head cocked to one side. "Are you sure we didn't?"
"Absolutely." I sound so damn confident.
He looks anything but. "How do you know?"
"I just know," I answer flatly, as if that is the end of the discussion. It was an answer that always worked for my father.
"That's no answer," he scoffs.
"All right." I face him, pin him to the wall with my eyes. "Have you ever done anything like this before?"
He looks faintly horrified at the suggestion. "No."
I gesture with finality. "Neither have I. Why should we suddenly decide to do it last night?"
"Because we were both drunk?" he suggests.
"You've been drunk before, I'm sure," I tell him. "And so have I." But never together, I want to point out. I press my lips together before that fact comes bubbling out.
He's thinking it, anyway. His eyes move to the coffee pot. "How do we know for sure?" he asks in a quiet voice.
I sigh impatiently. I want this conversation to be over, forgotten, never to be referred to again. "I think there would be certain...indications," I say carefully. Then I explode. "Look, Mulder, are you going to be disappointed if nothing happened?"
His eyes come back to me, abnormally bright. He shakes his head.
"Very well. There's nothing to worry about." That wasn't enough, evidently. Those hazel eyes are still boring into me. "Do you feel as if you have somehow been...violated?" I persist.
He looks at me helplessly. "How would I know?"
"I think you would know," I say grimly, trying to sound like the voice of experience. "Look at it this way, Mulder: Whether it did or it didn't happen, if we can't remember it, what does it matter, right?" I get no response to what I think is a very good argument. I turn away from him. "Now, I'm going to make myself a cup of coffee and go home. Monday morning, you'll be back at the Bureau, we'll work out your transfer papers and we'll never even have to speak to each other again. There's no point in wasting time wondering about something that doesn't matter. Right?"
This time he nods. "Right."
There. It's over. It's done. We both feel better. Right? "Do you want a cup of coffee?"
He nods again, risking a step or two closer, to lean his hip against the refrigerator. "You're very good at this, you know."
"What?" Being a hard-ass? Being an insensitive bastard?
"Crisis management."
"Thank you." I fumble around, find two coffee mugs (one with a flying saucer on it, one with the Bureau's seal). "Did you steal this from the office, Agent Mulder?"
"Yes," he confesses. He reaches past me for the one with flying saucers on it and presses it into my hands. "Take it back for me, will you? The guilt is eating me up."
I have to grin. "Smart-ass." I put the cup down as the coffee pot begins to gurgle, indicating it has completed its mission. I fill cups. "Are you going to be all right?"
"Sure, but if I end up pregnant..."
I send him a look. I never thought about any lasting consequences of a drunken indiscretion.
"Hey," he protests with a jerky laugh. "I was only kidding. I'm not that spooky."
"What about..." I stop. How do you ask one of your former subordinates about sexual health issues?
"Oh, I'm clean," he promises. "It's been so long since I've had sex, anything I might have picked up would have killed me by now." Color steels into his face as he jerks a look at me. "You?"
I shrug. "Of course."
"And besides, nothing happened, right?" His laugh is a little nervous, a sort of a Beavis or Butthead laugh.
"Oh, yes," I say firmly. "Absolutely."
He gives me an odd look. I feel I'm dissected. Or maybe just disemboweled.
Maddening. I scowl at him. "What?"
He cups his hands around his coffee cup, and tips his head to one side. "Did you ever see the English Patient?"
I shake my head.
"Never mind."
- END chapter 01 -