Ignorance is Hell - Chapter 02

by Mik

As I come into the fifth floor corridor from the stairwell, I see him. I feel a jolt as sharp as physical contact. I have not talked to Agent Mulder in five weeks. I went home that Saturday morning, considered all the evidence in front of me, came to the conclusion that I wanted to reach, and packed all the rest away. With the few exceptions when our paths crossed during OPR hearings, I have deliberately barred Mulder from my thought processes since then.

At least, I have tried to. That Monday morning, the one I promised him would be the end of the only 'us' that ever existed, I managed to be out, left the paperwork to Kim. I've avoided the places I thought he might be, sidestepped his name in conversations. Yet he still comes back to me. I wonder about his well-being. I remember the despair in his eyes as he surveyed his smoldering office. I hope he's doing well in Robbery/Fraud. I remember how he felt curled around me, asleep.

I don't expect Mulder to be on the fifth floor. He's never been one for the fast track, although, it has been said that lately, he has been keeping his nose to the grindstone, obeying orders, performing like a model employee. Kersh smirks at me over boardroom luncheons (he can control Mulder when I never could). There has also been a recent rumor going around that he's talking about transferring to ATF. Is that why he's here? Looking for a recommendation? From me?

He doesn't stop at my door, keeps going, doesn't seem to see me. He stops, chats with Dormer, from ID, has a pat smile, an appreciative chuckle for one of Dormer's lame jokes, a playful punch to the shoulder, and he moves down the corridor, the smile disappearing the minute he's out of Dormer's sight. He looks lifeless.

Then he sees me. He freezes for a moment. It's only a moment, but I know that face well. "Good morning...Sir," he says with a polite bob of his head, and keeps walking.

I nod. "Agent Mulder." I keep going, but I feel a wretched twist to my gut. Why? How? Did we? Could we? I step through my door, nod again, this time to Kim and go on inside, to what should be the sanctuary of my office. I sit down, feeling shaky. All my certainties are gone again. Did we? Could we? The morning is an exercise in looking busy.

"Who was it that said ignorance is bliss?"

I jerk my gaze right. He is standing beside me, mocking my pose; head down, fists shoved into pockets, staring sightlessly. He doesn't look up, meet my gaze even when I acknowledge him. He doesn't look well. Up close he looks haggard, anxious. It's not a good look for him.

"I can't stop wondering..." I feel him sigh. "I thought you were convinced. You almost convinced me." I feel an almost accusing glance from him. "And then I saw you this morning. I saw your expression when you saw me. You're not convinced, are you?"

"Of course I..." I pause, helplessly. I'm not, am I? "I can't give you irrefutable proof, Mulder," I say impatiently. "But I have the strength of my convictions."

"Strength of our convictions..." His laugh is almost bitter. "How strong are they?" he asks, with just a hint of challenge, and perhaps a hint of despair. "Have they ever been tested this much?"

I look at him now, just a glance. "What do you want from me, Mulder? I know what I believe. That's all I know."

He flickers a hot glance my way. I feel it rake my skin. "Is that enough?" he wonders quietly.

"Do you have a suggestion?" I demand tersely. I'm not hungry anymore. I'm not even bothered by the ghosts of long ago arguments. I need to get away from this flesh and blood Mulder, before I drag him into a broom closet and - I stop, because I'm hearing my thoughts repeated to me, in moderation, of course. "Excuse me?"

He flinches a little from the sharpness of my voice, not realizing that it's disbelief not anger that puts the edge there. "I said," he says, gauging each word, "that maybe we ought to try it again, sober, and see what happens. Maybe it will jar a memory, or something," he adds lamely.

"My memory doesn't need jarring," I insist.

"So, you remember something?"

I want to turn around and shake him. I want to do something to him. I keep staring out to the cafeteria. "There's nothing to remember." Nothing except the feel of his head resting on my shoulder.

He tugs a hand free and rubs his chin. I can see his movement from the corner of my eye. "The thing is," he says, clearly reluctant, "I didn't just wake up next to you. I woke up in your arms."

Don't I know that? Haven't I been remembering that for weeks? Haven't I been reliving it? "That, Agent Mulder, is hardly conclusive." I don't mean to sneer, it's just self-defense.

"I don't cuddle up to people, as a rule," he continues, as if I hadn't spoken. "Particularly other men. Look, you may be perfectly okay with this," he finishes on a sigh. "But I'm not. It's playing hell with my psyche, okay?"

"Tell your psyche to get over it," I suggest.

He sucks in breath, behind me. "You really are a hard-assed son of a bitch, aren't you?" he hisses and starts to move away.

I sigh heavily. "Agent Mulder."

He pauses, several steps away.

I make a faint gesture, indicating that he should return. "Why are you so sure that…this would work?" I ask softly, turning to look at him, allowing myself for one moment to study every nuance of his weary expression, his downcast eyes, his pursed lips, the way that one stubborn lock of hair insists on drifting into his eyes. Guiltily, I look away. Am I obsessed with him, or just the fact that I really don't know what the hell happened that night, and I don't like missing such a significant piece of my life?

"I'm not," he admits. "But it makes sense." He looks up, and his eyes have lost their defeated gloom. Now they are filled with challenge. "It seems to me that if we consciously put ourselves in a place that we might have gone unconsciously, then we'll either get clarity, or a sense of déjà vu."

"That makes no sense, Agent Mulder." But it does. It's really quite brilliant, quite worthy of Spooky Mulder.

"Okay, you come up with something better. Something -" he persists as I start to argue. "Something that will let us sleep nights."

"What are you hoping for, Mulder?" I risk turning to look at him. "Clarity or déjà vu?"

He surprises me with a smile. It isn't his usual arrogant grin, just a wistful little smile. "The truth, Sir. It's all I ever want."

I've already given in. I did that when he first suggested it, and I don't yet know why. "All right."

His eyes widen. "When? Shall I...shall I come to your place, or do you want to come back to the scene of the crime?"

I resume my study of the cafeteria, amazed at the details my brain has hammered out while I was debating my motives. "No. Listen to me very carefully." It would be easier to set a date to work all this out, it would give me time to perfect the details of this little scheme, but since we no longer work together, it would be dangerous to have too many little 'accidental meetings'. "This afternoon, a request will come through to send you out to Seattle. It's a simple bank fraud, a complete waste of your talents. You'll have it resolved in a matter of hours. Before you leave I want you to put in for some of that copious ETO you've accumulated, to start at the completion of this case. When you've settled matters in Seattle, I want you to buy a ticket to Los Angeles."

"I hate Los -"

I cut him off with a look. "I didn't say that you should go there. Only that you should get a ticket to go there. While you're in Seattle, you'll get further instructions."

His brows arch up, his lips purse, amused. "Very mysterious. Were you my secret contact all these years, Sir?"

"Enjoy your lunch, Agent Mulder." I turn away, a spring of purpose in my step. I've got plans to make.

*******************************************

I look around the room. I'm wondering if I went too far. A suite, for Heaven's sake? It has been four days since I allowed myself to tumble through this looking glass, four days of worrying, wondering...wishing and worrying some more. I glance at my watch for the hundredth time. I feel like a kid on a blind date. His plane should have landed an hour ago. He'll be here any minute. What the hell are we doing?

I go back, again and again, to the one aspect of this whole bizarre situation that holds me hostage; the sensation of waking with him in my arms. I've held women as we slept before, hundreds of times. It's a normal, manly thing to do. Men hold women because we instinctively want to possess them and protect them. I've spent four years watching out for, fearing for, inwardly dying for my two rogue agents, always feeling possessive, but never feeling that I could protect them. That night was the first time I felt I could protect Agent Mulder, even if it was only from himself.

I slide my hands through what's left of my hair, nervously, and consider myself in the mirror over the jacuzzi, wondering if I should have worn a suit instead of the jeans and pullover. Why do I care what I look like? Do I really think I'm going to go through with this? If Mulder's theory is right, and this brings back suppressed memories, we're going to stop right there. And if nothing happens, nothing's going to happen.

There's a hesitant knock at the door and my heart starts to race. Rubbing my sweating palms on my jeans, I go to the door and pull it open. Jeans were a good choice. Mulder's in jeans too, and a V-neck black sweater, over a white tee shirt. It's a good look for him, not one I've ever seen. I feel my convictions starting to weaken. He's got a flight bag slung over his shoulder, and a nervous grin on his face. "Here I am," he whispers.

I step back. "Come in." I take the bag as he passes. "How was the case in Seattle?"

"Piece of cake." His eyes go around. He takes in the entertainment system, the comfortable oversized chairs near the opened French windows, the bar, that platform jacuzzi that rises out of the middle of the room like an altar to some pagan god of hedonism. "Wow."

"I hope you like it," I stammer, taking his bag to the bedroom door. As I return, I find that stare fixed on me in expectation. I don't know what to say. "I like this hotel. I thought it would be … nice."

He swallows, and returns his stare to the jacuzzi. "It is. It's very nice. It's almost …" He flicks me another look, his face flushing. "Romantic."

I shrug, acknowledging that. I wasn't aware that that had been my intent, but there's no denying that it was. "I wanted it to be. I'm basically a romantic at heart," I confess.

 He reacts with humorous incredulity. "You? Sir?"

I nod. "Me." I can feel him looking at me, waiting for an explanation. "I thought that this should be..." Nervous, awkward, uncomfortable, I explode. "Well, I didn't want it to be clinical, you know, research." I look down at my fingers. "I figured that, either something happened, in which case, we find out and we decide it's never going to happen again, so this would be goodbye, or nothing happened, in which case, this is a first time, and I'm very romantic about first times, especially when they are also going to be last times." I dare to look at him.

He's taking this in, with a slow nod. "Makes sense," is all he says. Dr. Mulder concurs with my diagnosis.

"I'm glad you approve," I drawl.

He turns to face me. "No one's ever been romantic for me," he confesses softly.

I shrug, wanting to be flip, unconcerned. "Well, there's a first time for everything."

He smiles again nervously. Those long fingers are twisting into belt loops, as if trying to escape. "That's what we're here to prove, isn't it?"

I nod. There's something almost...sweet about his shyness. It unsettles me. It would be easier if he was smirking, sneering, spouting theories, being the Mulder guaranteed to raise my blood pressure and certain to cool any ardor.

He watches me for a moment, waiting for direction. I'm leaving it up to him. It was his idea. Finally he capitulates with a jerky motion. "Well, what do you want to do?"

"Are you hungry?"

He actually laughs. At least his chest moves, and he smiles, but I don't hear anything. "Do you really think I'll be able to eat a bite until we've resolved this?" he demands roughly. "I haven't been able to eat since we talked the other day. Sleep either."

My instinct is to insist that he order some room service and get a nap, but I wrestle the A.D. back into my hip pocket and watch him watch me. "What do you want to do?"

He looks at me, looking a little helpless. "I have no idea." His frown is rueful. "You know, this was a great idea in theory, but the practice is something else."

"Do you want to call it off?" I offer. Please, before all my resolutions are nothing but dust.

He shakes his head, deadly earnest. "I don't dare. I've got to know."

"All right." I let myself drink him in while I try to think what I want most. I know. I think I've known for six weeks. I know I am about to step over a very big, dangerous line, a moral and emotional yellow tape that reads Common Sense-Do Not Cross. I look at Mulder, wondering what it is that I think he can give me, what it is I think I must have. His passion? His focus? A tiny bit of his vulnerability, in exchange for a tiny bit of my strength? It doesn't matter, I tell myself. Whatever I want, whatever he has to give, it's only for the weekend. "Come here. Since we're being romantic, I want to kiss you."

He looks at me, completely taken aback. "Kiss me?"

"Sure." I actually smile at him, almost taunting. "Haven't you ever been kissed by a man?"

"Sure," he echoes. "My grandfather." He touches the hollow of his cheek with a forefinger.

I am momentarily distracted from my purpose. "What about your father?" I ask.

He shakes his head again and his lip curls back, jeering. "William Mulder never kissed another male - not even his son."

"Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry," I say, with genuine regret. I kissed my father right up until he died.

He cocks an eye at me. He hates pity, and he's determined to sidestep this. "So, you want a kiss, huh?" Something in his look, his stance changes. He's become very focused. He moves toward me, maintaining eye contact. One hand catches my wrist in a hard grip, the other slides to the back of my neck, holding me still, as if he thinks I might resist. With a deep breath, he closes his eyes, and moves in to make his claim.

I'm suffering from sensory overload. I have the solid heat of his body all along mine, and those lips, those wet, warm, mobile lips invading mine. I never kissed another man, but if this is what it is like, I could kick myself for missing out for so long. Women don't kiss like this. Their lips are soft, and they tend to be too passive. There's nothing passive about Mulder's kiss. It's an e-ticket for the soul. Whatever is left of my convictions is in shards around my feet. I won't settle for anything less than all of him.

He breaks the embrace, and opens his eyes, they're less focused now. "Is that what you wanted?" he whispers.

"Oh, yes," I agree. I free the hand he was holding, and slide both arms around his waist. "What do you think?"

He's torn. I think part of him is delighted to have discovered something, and part of him is disappointed that it wasn't what he was looking for. "Good," he says. His voice is unexpectedly raspy. He pulls away, eyes the jacuzzi and says, in a now or never rush, "Do you want to have a jacuzzi first, or do you want to fuck me first?"

I'm suddenly rock hard. It was literally instantaneous. Suddenly it doesn't matter what might or might not have happened that night. What matters is what is going to happen tonight. And something is going to happen. "Fuck you," I answer, huskily. "Definitely fuck you."

My emphatic response unnerves him a little. "Okay," he agrees. He turns, glances toward the bedroom and then back at me. His eyes are very green now, and wider than I am accustomed to seeing them. "But can we take it in stages?" He bites down on his lower lip, and I feel a tremor of something alien and hot run through me. "I'm not really sure what I'm doing."

I smile at him. "And you think I am?" I reach out, trace his lips with a fingertip. I now know something else I want.

He smiles a little against my finger. "I think I can guess what you want now." He reaches for my jeans. "I can try." In a moment, he has dragged my jeans and briefs away, and has pushed me back into one of the oversized chairs. He kneels between my legs, licking his lips as he considers me. "That's pretty impressive," he tells me, touching my cock tentatively.

I smile at him benevolently. "Thank you." His fingers feel like tiny lightning strikes. I reach down to tuck a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. His hair! It's like silk, softer than any woman's. "Is any of this familiar?" I ask him, belatedly remembering our purpose.

"I'm familiar with one of these," he admits with a shadow of his usual sly grin. "I've had one about thirty eight years, now."

I cuff the back of his head. "Smart-ass."

His shoulders jerk as he leans toward me. He may be laughing again. "We'll see."

If I thought his kiss was amazing … the liquid heat of his tongue slides over me swiftly, up and then down, as if measuring me, and then suddenly, engulfs me. He licks, he sucks, he pumps, he lets his tongue paint wicked designs up and down the length of me. His hands slide to the base of my cock, and his fingers define my balls, my inner thighs. I let my head fall back and I sigh gustily. "You've done this before."

He pauses, looks up at me, his lips still around the head of my cock. "Do you remember something?" he asks carefully.

I lift my head and look down at him. The sight of Agent Mulder, on his knees, his mouth moving almost daintily around my cock is nearly my undoing. "No. You're just very good at this."

He smiles around me and shrugs slightly. "Not so difficult," he says. "I just know what I like."

"There's two ways to take that, Mulder," I observe, even as my breath starts to stall in my chest. "It was either a compliment to at least one other person in your life, or it was a compliment to me."

"Both," he says and his head starts to bob up and down, and the pressure within me is building at a punishing rate.

"Thanks," I gasp.

"You talk too much," he tells me and starts the pumping again, his tongue doing the Dance of the Seven Veils around me, tossing away my pride, my certitude that I would never engage in any sort of sexual activity with another male, my utter need to be in control at all times.

A moment later, I throw my head back with a loud groan. I can feel myself shooting into his mouth, down his throat. I can feel him gag and try to swallow, and I pull away from him gently.

He falls back on his haunches, shuddering.

After a moment, I lean forward, catch his shoulders and pull him toward me, to kiss him. The taste of myself on his lips is, at first, an unpleasant shock. And then, it is an amazingly intimate experience. I even lick a little that has trickled from the corner of his mouth. I wait until he opens his eyes, and I force myself inside, trying to read his soul. "Well?"

He shakes his head, and I'm not sure if it is relief or remorse that darkens those green eyes to a stormy gray. "I don't think I would have forgotten that," he says.

"Neither would I," I assure him. "Come on." I bring him to his feet. I have a sudden desire to see him naked again. After all, I tell myself, it's just for this weekend. I can indulge all the fantasies I want, and it doesn't mean anything. I tug the sweater off, and then the tee shirt. Mulder's shoulders are broad for such a slender man, and they are muscular. Hours spent shooting hoops and swimming laps, no doubt. His chest is lightly brushed with curls across his sternum, almost invisible in some lights. I slide my fingers through that hair, and across his nipples. He shudders slightly. "Like that?" I ask.

He nods. "I think I do."

"Good." I do it again. I start toeing myself out of my jeans and briefs, pooled around my ankles after Mulder's ministrations, and at the same time, unzip his jeans. To my amazement, a nearly erect penis springs into my hands. I meet his eyes with a grin. "No underwear, Agent Mulder?"

He flicks his eyes away. "Never when I'm wearing jeans."

"Ah, you like to live dangerously." I rub his cock with the palm of my hand, appreciating its size and shape. It seems almost out of proportion to the rest of him. "Impressive," I tease him, sliding my thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and tugging them down.

"Thanks." He's avoiding my gaze, and while I caress his cock experimentally with one hand, I force his chin back around so that he must look at me. "Now, Agent Mulder, what can I do for you?"

"I …" He seems to be completely without a clue. A first in all of our relationship. I would laugh out loud but for the expression on his face. "I don't know," he confesses. "To tell the truth, Sir, I'm a little s-scared."

I do laugh. "You? Mulder, you've faced down the worst criminal minds in the Western Hemisphere. You've gone up against monsters and goblins of every size, shape and political persuasion. You're afraid because someone's got his hands in your pants?"

He backs away from me. He is visibly trembling. "I'm scared because they're your hands."

I look at him a moment, stunned, maybe even hurt. "You're afraid of me, Mulder?"

He shakes his head once, sharply, and then again slowly. "Not exactly." His voice drops to a chocolate whisper I have to strain to hear. "I'm afraid of how you make me feel."

I'm hard again, and at the same time, something in my middle goes very soft. "How is that, Mulder?" I ask, trying not to sound as urgent as I feel. "How do I make you feel?"

He shakes his head again. "Let's take that jacuzzi," he says as he steps out of his jeans. He bends, collects his jeans and sweater and carries them to the bedroom. He comes out with towels. He stops to look at me. I think I'm grinning like an idiot. "What?" he demands.

"I never thought I'd be saying this, Agent Mulder, but you've got a great ass."

He blushes, it races over his entire body and he tries valiantly not to cover himself with the towels. "You know, Sir," he begins as I sit at the side of the tub to start the water. "I never realized that you...um..."

I look back at him. It's my turn to blush. "I don't. I never have." I want to reach for one of those towels myself. "Look, we don't have to do this. We can stop at any time."

"I didn't mean I wanted to stop," he insists quickly. "Just because nothing seems familiar doesn't mean nothing happened." He brings the towels to me. "In fact, the longer I'm here, the more convinced I become that something did happen."

I frown at him. "Why is that, Mulder?" Because I've felt just the opposite to be true.

He shrugs, with just one shoulder, a cross between insouciance and self-consciousness. "Because even though I never thought I was capable of being attracted to another man, everything here feels very...comfortable." He puts a tentative hand on my shoulder. "Somehow, I don't think it's the situation. I think it's you."

So soft. His touch, his voice. Is this the same man who shouts and rails and accuses whenever we're in the same room? Is this the same arrogant, obnoxious, insubordinate subordinate who has been the sole inhabitant of my nightmares all these years? Standing there, his soul bared, he watches me, waiting for me to strike, to wound, to kill, or to accept and comfort. I look away, to the tub, trailing my fingers in the steaming water. "Come on," I suggest, stepping over the side. "The timer is over there on the wall. Would you start the jets?"

He turns away, and I get another chance to admire him from behind. Now I know why he is the object of every secretary's desire. He looks great walking away. He darts into the bedroom, and comes back a minute later, something in his hand. He smiles softly. "I always like to read in the tub."

He holds out two paperbacks; one is a Star Trek novelization, and the other is Oath of Fealty, a classic, in my opinion. I reach for it. It's old, dog-eared, clearly a favorite of his too. "Me, too." I settle down, my back against the wall of the tub, spread my thighs. "Come on."

He steps in, looks down at me, unsure.

"Turn around," I tell him. When he continues to look at me, I pat my chest. He turns, slowly, folds up those long, coltish legs and settles between my thighs, his back to me. I wrap an arm around him, pulling him against my chest and hold my book to one side, reading it over his shoulder.

He's still rigid and trembling against me. It disturbs me that he cannot relax in my presence without the aid of alcohol. If I was Dana Scully, he'd feel safe. That's what I want from him, I realize. What I've always wanted from him; that he trust me the way he trusts Agent Scully. I've never doubted that their relationship has not broken any Bureau Regulations, but they are so close, bonded, in a way that goes beyond any normal partnership. Those two are so close that if one of them is cut, the other one bleeds.

Of course, seducing him won't gain his trust, I tell myself, trying to focus on the page of the book in my hand. All I can feel is his heart pounding under my other hand. I brush my lips across his ear. "Relax, Mulder. You can trust me not to hurt you," I whisper. It's dumb, it's trite, but it's what I need to tell him. Trust me, I won't hurt you. You can Trust me.

He looks up, catching me in the corner of his eye. "I know that, Sir," he promises.

"Stop calling me Sir," I growl, resisting an urge to squeeze. He feels so good. The hot water is making him sweat, and his hair is getting damp, and it curls up a little against my cheek.

He squirms a little against me. "You didn't like it when I called you Walter," he reminds me.

"You were drunk."

He shifts slightly, so he can look at me. "So, I can call you Walter when I'm sober? What can I call you when I'm drunk?"

He's toying with me. I can see that little glimmer in his eyes. "Do you get drunk often, Agent Mulder?" I ask sternly. I want him to move back against me. I have so little time to enjoy this, before I have to put my suit back on, and remember than I am heterosexual, and he is a subordinate - a male subordinate.

"Are you going to keep calling me Agent Mulder?" he wonders, frowning slightly.

"It was my understanding you don't like to be called Fox," I confess. "I was trying to -"

"Yeah, but Agent Mulder? Couldn't you just call me Mulder? Everyone does."

"Everyone?" I'm amused by this notion. "Even women?"

"Especially women," he says with a chuckle of his own. I can feel it against me. "Actually, a lot of women call me Marty."

"Marty? Where does that come from?" I think I read that his middle name was William.

"I don't know. I picked it up in school, I guess." He settles back against me, lets his head fall against my cheek. "Call me whatever you want. Fox is okay, if you want." He opens his book.

I feel I've been granted a royal dispensation. I brush my lips against his ear again. "We'll see what happens."

We read together in silence for nearly an hour, until the timer goes off and the jets still. We're both hot and sweaty and relaxed. I put the book down on the wide tile edge that surrounds us. "Want a beer?" I offer, trying to ease him upward.

He sprawls against me. "No. Thanks."

"Move," I tell him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Why?" He seems to snuggle against me. "I'm comfortable." He turns another page.

"I'm thirsty. And if we're going to stay in the tub, I need to start the jets again."

He dog-ears his book (he's already in the middle of it). "I'll get it. Where's the beer?"

"There's a fridge in the bar," I tell him, reaching for my towel to mop perspiration from my forehead.

He rises up from the water in a remarkably fluid movement (no pun intended, it just so happens no other word will describe it). He gives himself a little shake and reaches for the towel. A quick pat down, and he pads to the bar, and then to the timer, and returns to the tub, two beers in his hands. "I thought you didn't want a beer?" I remind him as he climbs back in.

"I didn't want to move," he explains, and folds himself back into the water, but this time facing me. He twists the cap away and tips the bottle back for a long draw. Then he fixes me with a stare I know too well. "The truth, Walter. Have you ever been involved or interested in another man?"

"Involved? No." I open my beer. "Interested?" I think about it, honestly. "No."

 "Then why are you here?"

"Because you thought -"

"No, no." He shakes his head. "Why are you here? Why didn't we just go back to my apartment? Why didn't we just meet in Los Angeles, in a Motel 6? Why did you get a suite in a five star hotel in Charleston?" His voice softened. "Why are you being so...good to me?"

He smiles around the mouth of his beer bottle. "It's okay, Walter. That's exactly what I did, isn't it?"

Suddenly I'm angry for him, since he refuses to be angry for himself. "We'll find out who did it, Mulder."

"We don't have to find out. We know." He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

I sigh deeply. Of course it matters, Mulder. Someone attempted to destroy you, may well have succeeded. I can see it in his eyes. He doesn't want to hear my protests, my imprecations. "What about you? Have you ever been interested or involved?"

He shakes his head slowly. Lifts his eyes. There's a sparkle of ironic amusement there. "A lot of people assume it, you know. That I'm gay." The sparkle fades slightly, and his mouth downturns slightly. "I thought maybe you did."

"No," I tell him, surprised. The way women are always ogling him? The way Agent Scully has stayed glued to his hip all these years? The way she looks at him? "I never heard anything like that. Why should people make that assumption?"

He shrugs that one-shouldered shrug again. "I'm thirty eight and single. I went to school in England. I don't date much. You know …" He grins suddenly. "Because I like Armani suits."

"Why is that?" I've always wondered why a G-12 would spend all his money on Italian suits, especially with his ability to get beat up, run over or thrown out of places and off things. The life expectancy of his clothing is very short. Why spend the money?

He shrugs again. "Chicks dig a well dressed man?"

I nearly choke on my beer, laughing at him. "But, Mulder, there are no chicks."

"I know." He considers the label of his beer. "No time. No focus." His face twists a little in pain. "I've spent my whole life chasing phantoms and shadows and I have nothing to show for it."

"Your life's not over, Mulder."

His shoulders jerk. It isn't a shrug, it's a spasm. He risks a glance at me. "This is nice."

I raise a brow. "What? The beer?"

"The beer." He nods. "The jacuzzi. Us. You and me. Talking. I don't … uh … bond well."

I have to smile. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself." I let my gaze dip downward. His erection had flagged before he ever brought the books to the tub, and there hasn't been any sign of life since. I wonder if he really wants us to continue.

"I am." He notices where I'm looking, and he gives me another surprisingly shy smile. "I expect I'll enjoy it more, later."

"I hope so," I promise.

He considers the beer again. "So, what's going on here, Walter?" He tries to sound casual and unconcerned. His voice quavers only slightly to reveal his insecurity. "This is …" He lifts his eyes, for a fraction of a second, and lowers them again. Another blush creeps over him. "This isn't about finding what happened that night, is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"No. Not anymore. I mean..." His tongue darts out, slides over his lower lip, and I literally catch my breath. "...not for me. From the moment you agreed to try this, it's been something else." He lowers his head, as if to hide his expression. "I'm sorry. You don't need this -"

I catch him as he starts to pull himself upward. "Finish it," I tell him, sounding like his A.D. "Are you in love with me?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I don't think so. It's just that..." He pauses, licks that lower lip and my breath stalls in my chest again. "… we've always had such an emotionally-charged relationship. We've always been held together with piano wire, and suddenly the wire's been loosened and I feel like I have to hold onto you, or fall." He glances away. "Why?"

I know that feeling. Dear God, I know it. "You're the psychologist, Mulder. You explain it to me."

"Latent homosexuality -"

"Huh uh," I tell him, shifting closer. "You were talking about being single at thirty-eight. I'm forty-eight. I've been married, divorced. A Marine, the whole macho thing. I think that's a little too latent."

"Maybe that's why you were a Marine," Mulder suggests. "You know, to hide it from yourself?"

"No." I can say this with conviction. "I can honestly say that I never even looked at another man until..."

He looks at me, that expectant look back in his eyes. "Until?" he coaches.

"Until you."

- END chapter 02 -

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