Ignorance is Hell - Chapter 10
by Mik
Mulder is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, in unfastened jeans, a towel draped over his head. His hair is dripping. The scars are vivid on his chest. He's looking at me and breaking my heart.
This has been a difficult and exhausting week. It was easy, during that blinding moment of passion in a California motel room, to promise him the world, to make him believe all he needed to do was get on a plane and come home and everything would be perfect. Of course it wasn't. There was the difficulty of 'resurrecting' him from the ashes of the burnt out warehouse. There was the trouble of trying to establish his place in a Bureau that had publicly mourned him and privately rejoiced that he was gone. There was the personal struggle to find him a place in 'my' house. And there was Agent Scully.
Most of the difficulties had been resolved, either in part or in total. Mulder was officially on medical leave, and when he returned to the Bureau, he would be back in DC, but not in Robbery/Fraud. They hadn't quite admitted that there was a need to reopen the X-Files, but the Powers That Be had strongly hinted that Mulder's superior skills would be more properly utilized than by chasing scams on the internet. After all, it wouldn't do to let it be known that the brains behind bringing a terrorist down before he could strike again had been put 'on the beach'. Not in this political and emotional climate.
My house was another matter. He and I are very solitary creatures and while I pride myself on the size and comforts afforded by my post-marriage condominium, it really wasn't built with two solitary creatures in mind. We talked briefly about buying another unit in the complex for him, but that seemed to negate our plans to be together, to become fixtures in one another's lives. In the end, he appropriated my second bedroom, my once and former study, and moved a new futon (which looked suspiciously like his old one) and his old television in among my books, war memorabilia and family mementos. He does sleep in my bed, when he sleeps, but he spends far more time in 'his' room than I had expected and I am surprised that it bothers me. I don't know that I wanted him joined at the hip, but I think I had envisioned us spending a lot more time in the casual intimacy that I recalled from the early days of my marriage.
And then, there is Agent Scully. At my request...no, make that command, she did not meet us at the airport. She did not come to my - our home. She has neither seen nor spoken to him in the week since his return. But she is due here at any moment, and to my surprise, Mulder is reluctant to face his former partner. He is standing in the doorway, silently pleading with me not to make him meet with her.
I bring a white cotton shirt from the foot of the bed. "It will be fine. She's okay with this, really."
He takes the shirt, looking doubtful.
I rub the towel over his head thoroughly, trying to remain lighthearted. "Didn't she come all the way to California to make sure you were happy?"
He nods under my fingers.
Something other than Scully must be bothering him, and when I realize what it might be, I still my efforts. "Mulder?" I ask in a slightly more choked voice than I hoped. "Are you ashamed of our relationship?"
He doesn't answer.
Stunned, I tip his chin up to search his eyes. "Mulder?"
He licks at his lower lip. "I didn't expect...I mean..." He jerks his chin free and shrugs into his shirt.
I find myself feeling betrayed, pierced through by this denial of denial. "You didn't expect what, Mulder?" I sense a little anger bubble up to brush aside the hurt of his response. "Mulder? Answer me."
My tone irritates him and he flashes me a hot glance before working the buttons of his shirt.
I sigh and drop to the side of the bed, tugging on socks. "I thought this is what you wanted," I said, as if to no one in particular. "After all the things you said to me at Scully's place, I thought you wanted to be my lover."
"I did," he admitted, tucking his shirt into his jeans.
Did. I still my movements.
"I do," he amends.
I look at him. For a moment, all I see is that he is wearing nothing under the jeans and I have a flash of white hot lust. It passes when I meet his eyes. "But?"
He answers with a shrug and hitches himself carefully to work the buttons of his jeans.
I reach for my other sock. "Mulder, I wish you'd tell me what's going on. You've been unhappy since we got home."
"I guess that's it." He steps into loafers, deliberately not meeting my eyes. "I never really got home, did I?"
I open my mouth to get an explanation but the doorbell chimes in the hallway. "She's here," I announce as if he is not capable of divining that fact.
He swallows tightly.
I grab my shoes from the rack and shove them on, willing myself to say no more on the subject, at least until our guest is gone. I'm not listening to myself. "Do you want out?" I demand, exasperated.
"I..." he glances at the bed. "No."
"Sex is not an acceptable reason to stay," I snarl.
He recoils at my tone. "That isn't what I meant," he tells me.
I don't believe. And he knows it. For a moment, we're paralyzed by our stares. The doorbell rings again.
"Let's go." I reach for him.
He nods but evades my touch. "I'll be right down," he promises quickly. "Give me a minute."
With a sigh and a sinking feeling in my stomach, I descend to the foyer and press the button that grants Agent Scully ingress to the complex. I then move to the kitchen to start the coffee.
Dana Scully arrives in a suit. A dark beige suit of slacks and a very tailored jacket. I'm not sure if she's trying to attempt some sort of 'one of the boys' drag, or trying to be 'business as usual', but coupled with the twelve pack of Heineken in her hands, it's a disconcerting look. I know she knows it, because as I open the door, she looks down at the green box she has cradled against her chest and back up at me, ruefully. "I didn't know if a housewarming present would be appropriate," she murmurs.
I have to smile at her, and take the box from her. "This was very thoughtful of you, Agent - er, Dana. Fox will be right down. Would you prefer coffee or a beer?" I am trying so hard to sound natural, and this is all entirely unnatural, for both of us.
"Coffee," she says, and hugs her bag against her, standing in my foyer, uncertain where to go. I see her steal a look up the stairs. "Please," she adds belatedly, catching my knowing expression.
"Go on through," I tell her. I move to the steps. "Fox? Dana's here." I turn and gesture her into the living room. "You caught him in the shower," I explain, still trying to sound natural. But it still doesn't sound natural. 'Fox'. 'Dana'. In my own home. Impossible.
She nods jerkily and moves stiffly into the living room, where she glances around and then perches nervously on the edge of the recliner.
As I cross the threshold into the kitchen, I receive a guilt-ridden epiphany, another one of those pointed blows to the middle of me, forcing me to see who I am and what I have done to someone I profess to love. It's not my home anymore, is it? And I haven't been very good at making sure that Mulder knows that I know that. Somehow I've got to make him see what I see; that bringing him here is what makes this a home. But how?
Well, I decide with conviction, I can start by treating his closest friend like a welcome guest. I bring her a coffee and beers for Mulder and myself. "It's a little strange, isn't it?" I tell her sympathetically.
She nods again, accepts her cup and puts it down on a table. Like him, she has difficulty meeting my eyes. "How...how is he?"
She knows him so well. She would recognize this turmoil within him without even seeing him. When will I know him like that? "He's having a little trouble adjusting," I confess, twisting the cap from my bottle.
She doesn't appear surprised. "Mulder's used to having purpose. It will be better once he's back at the Bureau."
I want to believe her. I tip my bottle at her. "I hope so." Under my breath, I add, "I can't take much more of this."
Still, she heard me. "It's not just about taking...Sir," she reminds me quietly. "It's give and take."
I stare at her as if she has just transcribed the Dead Sea Scrolls for me. But what the hell can I give him?
We both turn at the sound of buffalo descending the stairs. All right, it is really Mulder, combed and shaved and dressed. He abandoned the jeans, white shirt and trainers, and has gone for a pair of dress slacks and a dark grey shirt, sleeves cuffed, collar open. God, he looks hot. He pauses for a moment at the foot of the stairs, hovering shyly for only a moment, before striding into the room. "Scully."
She stands as he approaches and he bends to press his cheek to hers, one hand slipping around her neck in a possessively affectionate gesture, and he pulls away with a quick kiss to complete the caress.
I feel jealousy flare and I thrust a bottle of beer at him. "She brought us a housewarming gift."
He considers the bottle and smiles at her. "Thanks." He somehow moves her backward so that they are both sitting on the sofa, and I am left to take the recliner, or stand awkwardly. I sit, seething. It's a little test of wills. Or maybe he's trying to show me how it feels to be left out. Just for a moment, I have a fantasy of punishing him for this. But it passes. He's smiling at her. They are talking. I'm alone.
*******************************************
The dishwasher is humming loudly, everything has been wiped down, put away and order has been restored to the kitchen where the three of us had shared pizza (not a Mulder special) and ice cream. By the time Agent Scully left, we had achieved a sense of faux normalcy that was almost comfortable.
Well, comfortable until the moment the door closed behind her. He very dutifully helped clear and rinse and stack, and the moment he saw an opening, he escaped the close proximity of the kitchen, as if afraid to risk being caught against a counter and interrogated...in one form or another. Strange, he hasn't shown any reluctance regarding sex. That's the only area where he has demonstrated any enthusiasm. In fact, this afternoon in the shower, he demonstrated so much enthusiasm I feared for the integrity of the shower stall.
Who would think someone as tall as Mulder could be so limber and acrobatic? From the moment I began to penetrate him from behind, my hands at his middle, he put all his weight on my arms, bracing his hands on the wall, and surprised me by drawing his knees up so that his feet rested flat against my straining thighs. This created an almost unbearably tight channel within him, one that seemed to be an expressway to his prostate, for every thrust seemed to brush over the sensitive little gland, causing him to clench and moan.
For six amazing minutes, he hung suspended between my cock and the tiles, while I pounded him with short thrusts upward into his balled up body. It was a miracle I didn't slip and kill us both. But I confess the possibility that it could happen added an unexpected sting of urgency to the sex; a sting so intense that, once I had stopped shaking, and felt him gingerly lower his legs, I had an irrational need to turn him around, slam him against the now cold tiles, under the now cold water and kiss him savagely, and then break away from him, laughing and gasping.
And he was laughing and gasping with me. One hand pressed to his chest, the other on my shoulder, he was shaking his head. "Oh, man, Skinner...you believe in living dangerously, don't you?"
"Me?" I countered indignantly, still barely able to breathe. "You're the one who pulled that...that..." I couldn't even think of the right word, "...stunt."
His eyes were gleaming, and a sly grin stole over his face. "How about installing a trapeze in there?" he had suggested with a chuckle. "At least it would give us something to hang on to next time."
I groped for towels, thinking I must at least apply something nonskid to the floor of the shower so that next time it happened, there wouldn't be quite as much of a thrill. "Oh, shit. Look at the time." I darted out into the bedroom and started tossing clothing onto the bed. "Agent Scully will be here any moment."
When I looked up, there he was, breaking my heart.
And now he lies stretched out on my sofa, pillows bunched under his head, his shoes kicked off, a book propped against a pillow on his belly, looking at home, and yet feeling out of place.
"How long are you going to stand there, boring holes in the back of my head?"
His question breaks me from my reverie. "What makes you think I'm even looking at you?" I counter gruffly.
"Everyone knows the sensation of A.D. Skinner's Care Bear Glare." His hand sweeps over the back of his head. "I'm starting to singe." He returns his hand to his book before adding, "Besides, I can see your reflection in the terrace doors."
My gaze shifts guiltily from the back of his head to the glass doors, where I can see myself clearly, scowl and all. "I was just wondering why you're sitting there," I lie. "That light's no good for reading. You'll strain your eyes."
He snorts and turns a page. "You're channeling my mother."
I decide it's my story so I'd better stick with it. "Come on. Why don't you sit here?" I pat the back of my leather recliner. "I have this chair positioned perfectly under the recessed ceiling lamps to give optimum reading light."
He doesn't even lift his eyes from the page. "Because, that's your chair, Poppa Bear," he answers. "Besides," he shrugs, "I prefer the sofa. It's what I'm used to."
I stand there a moment longer before impulsively giving the recliner a mighty heave, which scuttles it several feet across the carpet.
Mulder jerks halfway upright, watching me warily. He flinches slightly as I move toward the sofa, and well he should since I reach over him and tilt the entire thing forward, tumbling him onto the floor.
"Hey!" he splutters in protest, as he tries to climb upright. "What the hell did you do that for?"
"So you'd get off your ass," I grunt, "and help me move this."
He picks up his book and tosses it on the table before moving to the opposite end. "Okay. Where are we going?"
"That way," I tell him, jerking my head in the direction of where my perfectly aligned recliner used to be. We both execute a clean and jerk, and have the sofa in place, aligned under the lamp, in a moment. I stand back and eye it critically as he retrieves his book. I'm hating it already. Turned this way, parallel to the bottom of the staircase, that eight foot sofa creates an unnatural divider between the living room and dining room, effectively cutting my prized open floor space and traffic flow in half.
He makes a move to flop down in place, but catches my unguarded disapproval. He puts the book down once again and bends to reach for the opposite end of the sofa. "Okay, back it goes," he announces.
"No, no." I put a hand out to stop him. "This will work. It just takes some fine tuning." I glance around the room unhappily. "I'll move that side table over here behind the sofa and that will open up that end of the room."
"Brilliant, Christopher Lowell," he smirks. "Something else for me to trip over in the dark." He picks up his book again. "What about your recliner? You know...the place where you like to read?"
A new problem. Hmm. I scan the ceiling considering the lamps again. "Over there." I point to the corner opposite. One of the lamps was aimed to showcase the crystal ware over the bar. It would serve as adequate reading light.
Mulder is shaking his head at this decision. "And then where does the bar go?" he asks.
But I'm ahead of him this time. "There." I point to the other corner, next to the terrace doors.
"Where the entertainment center is," he concludes. "So...my next question would be -"
"Along the wall where the sofa was, smart-ass," I growl. "Come on, help me move everything."
He pauses. "This is ridiculous. You're rearranging your whole room just so I can have a better light."
"No." I turn back and meet his eyes. "We are rearranging our whole room."
He doesn't say anything, but he marches to the mahogany unit that houses my big screen television and the stereo system, and starts unplugging things. There's a faint smile around his lips as he kneels there, preparing it to be moved.
*******************************************
I come downstairs and stall at the tableau laid out before me. He's on the sofa, worked into the corner, one arm across the back, the other across one arm of the sofa. His long legs, left bare by the black running shorts, are stretched out across the cushions, his head tilted back against the back of the sofa, his eyes closed. He's wearing one of my black cotton shirts, which seems to be swallowing him whole. For the first time since I brought him home, he looks languid, at peace.
I make some sort of sound because he lifts his head and turns it slightly, to find me. "Did I wake you?" I ask.
He shakes his head and smiles a little. "Just daydreaming." He sends an assessing gaze over my jeans and flannel work shirt. "Aren't you going to work?"
"Not on a Sunday," I assure him.
"Is it a Sunday?" He cocks a brow thoughtfully. "Oh, in that case, come here." As I reach the sofa, he lifts his legs and makes room for me to sit close. As I settle down beside him he drapes his legs over my lap. "How's that?" He looks pleased with himself.
I let my hands slide up those well-shaped calves, and up rock hard thighs, under his running shorts for something else I hope will be rock hard. He doesn't disappoint. "Fine," I assure him. "That's fine."
"Oh, good." He sighs a little as I stroke him. "Very good."
"Tell me about this daydream," I encourage, moving my hand against him.
He sighs softly. "I think you can guess." I feel him shift under my hand, almost obediently spreading his legs, inviting me to explore further.
Already I can feel heat between my own legs, having him here has been the advent of hormones the likes of which I've not seen since adolescence. All I can think about is getting into his body.
He seems to approve of the situation however, absolutely purring as I let my fingers stroke downward beneath his balls and between firm cheeks. He shifts again, giving me access to a surprisingly taut opening, his head falling back, his breath turning into a short hiss as I wriggle a fingertip just inside.
I probe him a moment, and then stand, leaning over him to slide my tongue over his lips. "I'll be right back," I promise. "Going for lube."
He catches my wrist with one hand and with the other, dips into the pocket of his borrowed shirt. "Here," he whispers, licking his way into my mouth. "Help yourself." He presses a small foil envelope into my fingers.
I take the packet and toss it on the table, moving quickly to unfasten my jeans as he starts to wriggle out of his running shorts. Sending another heated gaze over his body, I can suddenly hear Stephen's voice echoing within me. A soft, almost sympathetic, 'There's nothing like it, when you love someone and trust someone. It's an incredibly giving experience.' Love and trust. That's what this is about. He has to know that I love him and he can trust me. This isn't about he and I. It's about us. "Mulder...Fox?"
He's practically undulating with need, but he stills slightly and opens his eyes. "Yes?"
"How would you like..." No, that's not the way to ask. "I think I'm ready to..." No, that's definitely not the way to ask. I smile helplessly at him and shove my jeans to the floor. "Let's do it a little differently this time, hmm?"
It takes him until I've settled back on the opposite end of the sofa and spread my legs, admittedly with some trepidation, to understand what I'm suggesting. His eyes go very wide in surprise and he pulls up on his knees, looking down at me like a kid who has just been told he can get behind the wheel of his father's new car. "Can I?" he asks in that same, husky voice of disbelief. "Are you sure?"
I am sure. Scared shitless, which may become an unfortunate choice of words, but I am certain that this is a step I need and want to take. "I'm sure." I reach up to stroke his cheek. "Very sure."
He unfolds himself from the sofa and strips off the remaining clothing efficiently, and returns to nestle between my parted thighs. He seems to take a great deal of pleasure in the size, shape and weight of my cock, stroking it, squeezing it, teasing the leaking slit. He cups and weighs my balls, spreading them, rolling them in his hands, watching me struggle to remain still. He strokes, he pets, he tickles. He stretches himself over me to take my mouth possessively, rubbing his body over the length of my own like a cat. And I suddenly understand something...I need him in me...now!
He is unrelenting, sucking, pinching, licking or rubbing every sensitive place he can find, from earlobes to nipples, navel to my own ever more tightly clenched anus. He takes my cock deep into his throat, sucks my balls, licks his way down between my cheeks. He has me so damned hot I'm ready to get my service piece and shoot him if he doesn't get in me and do it double quick.
At last, he urges my knees upward, murmuring something I can't discern, but comprehend as soothing. Kneeling between my legs, his own cock jutting up in a manner both intensely erotic and more than a little frightening, he leans over me to pick up the packet of lube. Tearing it, he looks up at me and that same sly grin I'd seen in the shower yesterday steals over his face. Opening his mouth, he pours a bead of lube down the center of his tongue.
Suddenly, he ducks down between my legs, his hands prying my cheeks apart, and I feel a warm, firm, wet invasion. To my utter amazement, Mulder's lubing my ass with his tongue. The mere idea of it is almost enough to send me over the edge, down the face of the cliff, into the valley and all the way up the other side. His tongue is hot, slick and mobile, probing deeper and deeper with quick, firm flicks in and around my opening.
I'm gritting my teeth to keep from shouting, clenching my fists to keep from wrapping my legs around him and pulling him over me.
Finally, he rises up, kneeling between my upraised legs, his mouth a shiny smear. He's torn between a grin and anxiety. "Are you..." his eyes dip downward. "...sure?"
Am I? "Very."
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shifts on his knees between mine. For a moment, he considers me, from sweaty brow to throbbing cock. Then he maneuvers himself against me. Suddenly, balancing one hand on my knee, the other gropes for one of mine. "Now," he says, seeking my eyes, "if anything hurts or feels too weird, I want you to stop me, understood? We'll either back up or start over, but we won't go forward until you're ready." He gives my hand a small squeeze. "Answer me."
I smile at him. The son of a bitch remembers the very instructions I gave him the very first time we made love. "Understood," I promise.
I can feel him pressing against me. "Shhh, relax," he soothes. "Trust me, it's easier if you just relax."
I laugh a bit helplessly. "It's not that easy."
He laughs with me. "I know. But take a deep breath and...hang on." He watches my chest rise as I follow his instructions, and then he pushes.
For a moment, all I can feel is an unexpected burn, and the fullness of his cock head spreading my sphincter wide, and I grunt a little in surprise. Then he pushes a little deeper. "Oh, shit," I moan.
He stills. "Too much?"
I take several deep breaths. "Not enough."
He takes it slow. Too slow. After the initial shock of penetration, I want to feel him deep inside me. But he pulls out and reinserts himself several times, as if seeking the perfect angle before, without warning, he thrusts all the way in.
I arch up with a string of profanities, and my fingers curl over sofa cushions, trying to keep me from sliding into oblivion.
He answers with a deep chuckle and repeats the action. I used different words, but the idea is the same. In another moment, we've established a rhythm, him thrusting in, me pushing back. The harder he thrusts, the more I find myself fighting a need to push him out, and yet I want him inside me, deeper. He seems to understand my conflict and leans down over me to whisper, "Go ahead. Push."
Biting my lip, shutting my eyes, I push, bearing down, as if to force him out of my body. To my surprise, I feel something give inside me, and I can feel him slip down just a crucial inch deeper inside me. My eyes fly open and I can see the same surprise in his eyes. For a moment, we're both still. And then we begin again.
I am amazed by his endurance. I am already so close that I can feel my cock swelling under my fingers, and my balls drawing up into a tight knot at the base, but he continues for what seems to be an eternity. His eyes are closed, his lips pursed in concentration, his hair, now sticky and damp, is falling into his face. His hips work like a machine, his cock a piston driving in and out. I realize that I've begun to beg him, but he doesn't increase his rhythm, nor change his thrust. He just...keeps...fucking me.
It takes me a few moments of exquisite agony to remember that even in this position, I have the upper hand. I begin to stroke myself harder, faster, pushing myself toward release, because I know how it feels when he comes around my implanted cock.
So I come.
And with a look of amazement and ineffable pleasure, he comes.
And he sags against my chest, laughing.
I wrap my arms around him, holding him tight. "Oh...God," I groan.
"Nope," he snickers. "Not even close."
My fingers slide up to stroke through his spiky hair. "That was...incredible."
He's still laughing, that breathless, almost drunken laugh of pleasure and exhaustion. "Oh...I know. I know..."
We lie still for a while...content just to be glued together by sweat and semen and passion. He's sighing against me. My heart ceases to pound, settling into an even rhythm, filled with warmth. "I love you," I murmur without thinking.
"Hmmmmmmm," is his only reply, but he nuzzles against my neck.
Eventually, the throbbing in my ass begins to ebb, and I can feel him slipping from me, leaving an unexpected emptiness. I want to keep him inside me. I also want to get up and take a shower. I make myself lie still and savor the postcoital glow from this new and unique perspective.
After a few more moments, I have to ask. "Where the hell did you learn that?"
"Your former brother-in-law," he explains, rising up on his elbows to look at me.
I know I'm goggling at him. "Stephen?"
He smiles shyly and starts to flush a little. "They shared a few things with me," he confesses. "Do you mind?"
"Oh, hell no," I assure him.
He lies back against me, humming.
"What else did they teach you?" I probe.
He chuckles softly. "Wait and see." He shifts and his stomach grumbles against mine. "Oh...they did teach me to make a sandwich." He lifts his head. "And I could just go for one right now."
I feel a certain amount of dread start to gather in the pit of my stomach. "Not one of those..."
"Peanut butter, mayonnaise, sweet pickles, lettuce, salt and pepper on white bread," he explains eagerly. "Full of protein. Just what we need." He pries himself off of me. "I'll go make some."
"No," I moan. "Not those, I beg you. I thought they were out of my life for good, after Sharon died."
He's ignoring me and easing himself away from my body. "I'll take a quick shower and be right back with a snack."
"I'll take a shower and order Thai!" I call over the back of the sofa. "Chicken in peanut sauce. How's that?"
He's wagging a finger at me as he darts, naked, up the stairs.
I flop back, sore, sweaty and sated. "He's going to kill me," I decide, aloud. "No doubt about it."
The phone is ringing somewhere off in the distance and I drag myself off the sofa, wincing. "Coming, coming," I mutter, limping, and conscious of wetness in places I do not like it to be wet. I grab the phone irritably. Why would anyone call my personal number on a Sunday afternoon? Don't I have the right to be fucked blind without interruption? "Skinner."
I am given some information. I murmur a thank you, and now completely mindless of aching insides, charge up the stairs, into my bedroom and into the bath.
Mulder is splashing around in the shower, singing 'My Way' in a really bad imitation of Frank Sinatra but he stops when I push the door open and look at him. "Walt?" He doesn't even begin one of his inane jokes about how my ass must be feeling. He knows something's wrong. "Skinner?"
"Malcomb escaped from jail," I tell him.
He swallows. "I'll be right out."
Five minutes later, we're over warmed up coffee in the kitchen, waiting for Agent Scully to arrive with updates. The only acknowledgement either of us has made to the momentous events gone before is I've taken a very quick shower, and am not yet ready to attempt sitting. Mulder has sprayed room freshener in the living room.
"I don't understand," Mulder repeats as I hit the button to let Scully in. "How does he just walk out of a maximum security cell?"
"I don't know. All Agent Barrett told me was that he had escaped. They're sending someone to keep you secure."
"Fuck that," Mulder answers, pouring more coffee. He hasn't finished what he has. It's just something to do. "I'm a trained agent, I can -"
"You're a trained agent who might very well be in the crosshairs of a known terrorist," I counter. I know I'm using my 'don't fuck with the A.D.' voice, but I'm not apologetic.
He glares at me. "Still the boss, Walter?"
"In this case, yes."
He sighs. It's a deep, shoulder jerking sigh.
The anxiety I am experiencing over Malcomb's escape overrides any concern I have for my lover's feelings. "What now?" I snap, impatient. "Why the drama queen sigh?"
His face tenses and his cold grey eyes fix on the wall beyond me. "Nothing ever changes," he says through clenched teeth.
"Oh, don't start that now," I warn. "You know how I feel about you, but now is not the time to -"
"Then why did you let me top you?" he asks the wall. "Just to get my hopes up that we were equal partners in this?"
"In this we are equal," I snap, pointing to the floor of the kitchen. "But out there -"
There's an impatient knock at the door. He pushes away from the table. "Scully's here."
He marches out and returns a moment later with Scully in tow. Like us, she's been caught in Sunday casual, and only her briefcase is a jarring juxtaposition to her blue jeans and pale blue sweatshirt. She puts the case on the table and snaps it open before addressing me. "I've gathered preliminary interviews with the officers involved in the incident."
"Incident?" Mulder's bringing another cup to the table. "There was an incident? I thought he was just missed at bed check."
"No, Mulder," Scully says, pulling a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. "Evidently, he was being moved to another, more secure facility when he managed to break free and escape." She's looking thoroughly humiliated that a colleague might have failed so spectacularly in the performance of his or her duty.
"Moved?" I demand, my attention yanked away from Mulder's almost sulky expression. "Who ordered him moved?"
She consults the report. "It doesn't say. I've requested all documentation forwarded to your office, Sir."
"So, he escaped in transit? Where? At what point? Did he have a weapon?" I'm firing questions at her as if I expect her to have actually witnessed the entire event.
"He didn't escape," Mulder said suddenly.
The tone of his voice is significant, and demands my attention. The lights are on in his attic, the machinery whirring into life, our argument is now history.
"Mulder, of course he did," Scully begins. "He managed to -"
"How?" Mulder broke in. "How did he happen to 'manage' anything? He was in restraints, wasn't he? He was surrounded, wasn't he? He was transferred downstairs in the garage, in a secure vehicle, wasn't he? So how did he 'manage' anything?"
Scully's staring at him. "Mulder, what are you suggesting?"
In point of fact, I'm staring at him. "Explain, Agent."
He misses my faux pas, but Scully doesn't, and she flicks me a disapproving glance.
"He didn't escape," Mulder says. "He was let go."
"So, you're suggesting one of our agents let him go?" Scully's brows are arching at a phenomenal angle.
"You know he made a break from the consortium. You know they want to mend that little break, permanently." Mulder pauses dramatically. "Well, they can't do that inside. So they have to get him..." he makes a gesture with both hands as if to pick something up and move it. "...outside."
"You're suggesting a dirty agent," Scully says as if he's suggesting Catholics eat children.
"As if there aren't any," Mulder says, shooting me a glance. "Scully, you know as much as I do, so you know it's not inconceivable for one agent to 'accidentally' lose sight of restraint keys, or something like that."
As much as I hate to admit it, he's making sense. "I want every one of the agents involved debriefed by you, Agent Scully," I order.
She nods. "Yes, Sir." She looks back to Mulder. "So...where do we start looking for Malcomb?"
"I'm not sure, yet." Mulder admits. "He's a cockroach, he's scuttled back under the refrigerator. But it will be dark again soon enough. He'll come back out. I just have to figure out where."
"No, you don't," I argue. "You've been cockroach bait once too often. You're off duty. Consider this the Roach Motel."
He wrinkles his nose at me. "No offense, Walter, but you suck at analogies."
Scully titters, and ducks her head, covering her mouth with the sheaf of papers in her hand.
I reach for his shoulder, uncaring that Agent Scully will witness a very personal moment between us. "Fox, I know you think I'm too controlling, but try to see it from my point of view. I've damn near lost you so many times. I'm not prepared..." I feel emotion welling up in me, and I feel Agent Scully trying to look anywhere but at either of us. I draw a deep breath and continue. "...I am not prepared to lose you now. Please? Please accept that anything I do...I'm doing for both of us?"
Mulder's eyes slide toward Scully, whose face is going slightly pink, and then back to me. "I trust you'll at least consult me before walling me up in some tower for my own protection?"
"Yes," I agree, dropping my hand from his shoulder and reaching for my coffee. "I'll give you at least five minute's notice."
Scully titters again.
*******************************************
When I return from lunch, I find a courier's envelope on my desk. I look out to the anteroom but Kim is not at her desk.
I give it another look. Curious. It has been given a clearance stamp from the security desk downstairs which means someone had to show identification to deliver it. But there is no return address. I slit the envelope open, and a carefully torn half of a color eight by ten photograph flutters to my desktop. I don't even have to pick it up to study it. I can see it is a surveillance photo. The subject is Mulder and although he appears to be in agony, I blush hotly, knowing he was in anything but agony. This picture was obviously taken through my bedroom window. For a moment, I am stunned, then furious, then afraid.
As I stand there, alternating between fury and fear my personal mobile rings and I flip it open and snap, "Yeah?"
"Did you get it?"
My eyes dart back to the photo. In horror, I grasp that I was actually expecting this call. "What do you want?"
The voice is not imposing, but it is cold and precise. "There is an address on the back. Come alone. Or else."
"Or else what?" I demand. Why do I know this voice?
There is a deep chuckle. "I don't think you really want to know, Mr. Skinner."
"Who is this?" I reach for the photo and flip it over. There is an address...Maryland. But not far.
Another chuckle. "Don't dawdle, Mr. Skinner. I don't think you could live with this blood on your hands." The call is terminated.
Mulder. The sonofabitch has got Mulder. Mulder is supposed to be secured at all times, with one or more agents present at the condo. No one should be able to simply waltz in and remove him, and I've been given no word of any attempts to break into my house this morning. Knowing my lover as I do, I know it is more likely that Mulder managed to get out from under their eyes and left himself vulnerable to a kidnapper. I shove the photo back into its envelope and shove the envelope into my hip pocket as I reach for my suit jacket. I check my weapon, and march to the door. "I'll be out for a while," I announce to Kim as she hovers at her desk, caught in the act of putting her handbag in a drawer. If that bastard harms him...
Of course I know who it is. Malcomb. Can't be anyone else. Even though Mulder wasn't present at his arrest and got virtually no press credit for the collar, Malcomb knows who is responsible for foiling his attempts at glory. And he wants me to watch him destroy Mulder. I'm shaking by the time I reach my car.
I'm not sure who I'm angriest at; the fool of an agent who let Malcomb get to Mulder, Mulder, if he managed to slip the lead and let himself be caught, or Malcomb for invading our bedroom and taunting me with the most intimate moments of my life. But I do know that I'm angry, angry enough to kill, if necessary.
It's funny. I don't even think about bringing anyone else on this. This is so personal it doesn't even occur to me to think like a cop. This is John Wayne riding into hostile territory to rescue Maureen O'Hara. All right, this is John Wayne riding into hostile territory to rescue Ward Bond. Or maybe Gary Cooper. Jimmy Stewart. Mulder would definitely be Jimmy Stewart. I know none of this matters or even makes sense but it keeps me from driving like a maniac, and panicking myself into a heart attack.
When I focus on addresses again, my heart sinks a little. This isn't warehouses along the river, this isn't the convention center. This is a nice, residential area. The address in particular is what appears to be a recently vacated estate agent's office across the street from an elementary school. There's a library on the corner. And a little convenience mart where, no doubt, the children all stop for snacks on the way home. There are flowers and trees and I could probably hear birds chirping if the blood wasn't pounding in my ears. It is a scene of serenity and normalcy, the kind of place that makes evil all the more terrifying when it strikes.
The huge window at the front of the office is tinted. I can't see in, but I'm pretty certain he can see me as I sit there surveying the situation.
My mobile chirps again.
"Come on in," the bastard says with one of those risen from hell chuckles. "Don't be shy."
"Have you hurt him?" I ask tightly.
"Hurt whom?" He's teasing, and enjoying himself. I'm going to go in there and blow that grin off his face.
"If you've hurt him -"
"Come in and see for yourself."
I push my car door open and step out into the sunlight. From across the street I can hear the laughter of children on the playground. Somewhere, someone is listening to an old Beatles song. There are birds singing. This is not the place where killers lurk, waiting to destroy everything that matters to me, and to many, many other people. For a moment I think I might vomit on the curb. Instead, I straighten, hand on my weapon and move for the door, ready to shoot, ready to kill, if necessary.
I burst into an empty room. Nothing but a madman, a table, some leaflets scattered carelessly over the floor, and photographs scattered carelessly over the table. An empty chair. And...a device.
I send my eyes around, bewildered, looking for what I had expected to find, and feeling cheated that I don't find it. "Where is he?" I rasp, leveling my gun at him.
He smiles. He has an unnervingly pleasant smile. "He'll be along presently." He glances at his watch. "Have a seat, Mr. Skinner," he says, indicating the empty chair. He produces a roll of duct tape.
I stare at him. "You think I'm going to just sit down and let you tape me to that chair?"
His eyes drift thoughtfully, to the device on the table, and then toward the window. "I think you will."
Against my will, my eyes follow his to the window, and the street, and the school beyond. The implication is so clear it is petrifying.
"Mr. Skinner," he prompts with what could only be called a polite little smile. In some twisted way, this maniac reminds me of someone who ought to be working across the street at the library.
I move reluctantly. This is not the way it's supposed to work, when you're the hero. My mind isn't whirling in a million different directions, it isn't spinning plots or plans. I just want to keep his hands away from that device, and buy some time for Mulder.
- END chapter 10 -